Death Note Fic: Neverland is a Warm Gun
Title: Neverland is a Warm Gun
Author: Sensei
Fandom: Death Note
Characters: Mello and a mischievous night visitor
Words: 585
Rating: MA
Prompt: citrus_taste #26, Lime Table, "There's wicked thoughts behind your eyes"
Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note and who the hell would pay for this craziness?
Author's Note: A promise/threat for nastygakusei. Be thankful for it. ^_^
Mello lay awake, staring blindly at the curtain as it stirred in the night breeze through his open window. He was not rising to close it any more than he was tossing and turning in his bed. He refused to do so, refused to give in to weakness, to yield to his emotions. L was dead. There it was. The one he'd aimed his future to emulate-no, not to emulate but to please-was dead. The few small expressions of affection he'd gotten from L as an early teen were all he would now ever get. Gifts of chocolate, a hasty ruffling of his hair, a casual word of praise for a test passed, an embrace that was far more Mello's desperate clinging than L's warmth: this comprised Mello's tiny, precious collection of evidence that he mattered to L. All told, a pitiful excuse for the tears that flowed down his face as he continued to fight the urge to writhe in his sheets, to pound his pillow, to slit his throat. Without thinking, he reached beside him for the gun he slept with. Cool to the touch, always; reassuringly familiar, fitted to his hand as if made for him. Another absurd thought, that. He stroked it then, slipped the end of the muzzle into his mouth like the cock he'd always wanted there but never tasted. He withdrew it after a moment and chuckled at his absurdity. Even as empty as a world without L seemed, he could not convince himself to end his life any more than that cold steel was anything like dick. He held the spit-tipped weapon aloft and watched the moonlight glint off the barrel.
From self-absorbed musing to deadly alertness, Mello sat up and aimed the gun at the small, glowing eyes of a boy who had somehow appeared on his windowsill. The impossibility of the situation-that it must be a dream-did not penetrate. Mello's instincts were too well-honed. This was no fantasy. A small, slender boy most certainly crouched inside his open window. "Another Lost Boy if ever I've seen one," the figure chirruped in a singsong voice, hopping inside, entirely ignoring the weapon trained on him.
Mello froze without knowing why. He should shoot this crazy asshole who could leap into second-story windows, dressed in some weird rustic little tunic thing and what appeared to be but absolutely shouldn't be felt boots, and who spoke like something out of a Dickens novel.
"A bit of fairy dust is all we'll need," said the boy with a lilt and a wide smile eerie enough to make Mello shudder.
"Who the fuck are you and where the hell did you come from?" he stammered, waving the gun with uncharacteristic incompetence.
The boy winked. "Second star to the right and straight on until morning." He held out a hand. "Come along now. You know you don't want to grow up, Mihael. Come to Neverland."
Mello's teeth chattered at the use of his name. This was insane. "Get the hell out of here," he stammered, hesitating despite having the gun loaded and firmly in his grip.
The boy stepped lightly over to sit on the edge of Mello's bed. "L thought you'd prefer this," he said, more softly, but still with a bright glimmer in his green eyes. "Why go on in this crazy world when you can come away and be happier than you've ever been, young and carefree forever?"
Mello blinked. And pulled the trigger.
~
Author: Sensei
Fandom: Death Note
Characters: Mello and a mischievous night visitor
Words: 585
Rating: MA
Prompt: citrus_taste #26, Lime Table, "There's wicked thoughts behind your eyes"
Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note and who the hell would pay for this craziness?
Author's Note: A promise/threat for nastygakusei. Be thankful for it. ^_^
Mello lay awake, staring blindly at the curtain as it stirred in the night breeze through his open window. He was not rising to close it any more than he was tossing and turning in his bed. He refused to do so, refused to give in to weakness, to yield to his emotions. L was dead. There it was. The one he'd aimed his future to emulate-no, not to emulate but to please-was dead. The few small expressions of affection he'd gotten from L as an early teen were all he would now ever get. Gifts of chocolate, a hasty ruffling of his hair, a casual word of praise for a test passed, an embrace that was far more Mello's desperate clinging than L's warmth: this comprised Mello's tiny, precious collection of evidence that he mattered to L. All told, a pitiful excuse for the tears that flowed down his face as he continued to fight the urge to writhe in his sheets, to pound his pillow, to slit his throat. Without thinking, he reached beside him for the gun he slept with. Cool to the touch, always; reassuringly familiar, fitted to his hand as if made for him. Another absurd thought, that. He stroked it then, slipped the end of the muzzle into his mouth like the cock he'd always wanted there but never tasted. He withdrew it after a moment and chuckled at his absurdity. Even as empty as a world without L seemed, he could not convince himself to end his life any more than that cold steel was anything like dick. He held the spit-tipped weapon aloft and watched the moonlight glint off the barrel.
From self-absorbed musing to deadly alertness, Mello sat up and aimed the gun at the small, glowing eyes of a boy who had somehow appeared on his windowsill. The impossibility of the situation-that it must be a dream-did not penetrate. Mello's instincts were too well-honed. This was no fantasy. A small, slender boy most certainly crouched inside his open window. "Another Lost Boy if ever I've seen one," the figure chirruped in a singsong voice, hopping inside, entirely ignoring the weapon trained on him.
Mello froze without knowing why. He should shoot this crazy asshole who could leap into second-story windows, dressed in some weird rustic little tunic thing and what appeared to be but absolutely shouldn't be felt boots, and who spoke like something out of a Dickens novel.
"A bit of fairy dust is all we'll need," said the boy with a lilt and a wide smile eerie enough to make Mello shudder.
"Who the fuck are you and where the hell did you come from?" he stammered, waving the gun with uncharacteristic incompetence.
The boy winked. "Second star to the right and straight on until morning." He held out a hand. "Come along now. You know you don't want to grow up, Mihael. Come to Neverland."
Mello's teeth chattered at the use of his name. This was insane. "Get the hell out of here," he stammered, hesitating despite having the gun loaded and firmly in his grip.
The boy stepped lightly over to sit on the edge of Mello's bed. "L thought you'd prefer this," he said, more softly, but still with a bright glimmer in his green eyes. "Why go on in this crazy world when you can come away and be happier than you've ever been, young and carefree forever?"
Mello blinked. And pulled the trigger.
~