Pathogens Part II
I am sick. Again.
My father wins the bronze medal in the 100 meter Hurdle to the Worst Conclusions, disregarding my sniffling sojourn in the rain on Friday and wants me to be antibioticized by the lovely Sharon Ryan M.D., as soon as possible.
(Meanwhile I am hot-knife-buttering my way through chapters of Reborn! and television premieres of V for Vendetta, hardly waylaid by deep coughs and still relatively buoyant.)
I doth protest because a) I am fine and b) the office of the aforementioned dottore closes at 4:30, which simply will not do, as I have been cast as Iago's second and must therefore be there for rehearsal until 5.
Sigh.
In any case.
Inspired by KHR! fic (the entire fandom has blown my mind all over my face. Gokudera/Yamamoto is now tied for second place among my OTP rankings).
Title: Lost In Translation
Characters/Pairings:Near, Matt (L and Mello if you have Legilimency)
Rating: Do not need to request a different toy (G)
Summary: Some absent thing.
Word Count: 280 (I can't believe it either)
A/N: KHR! fandom compels me to write. I take it out on Death Note. It has no point or idea. I am unwell; let us blame the swift adept mutation of bacteria and Shop-Wrong brand cough remedy.
It occurs to him three weeks, five days, seven hours, and eighteen minutes afterwards, that death is an ordinary thing.
Delayed reactions-they can’t technically be explained, but they exist nonetheless, and what exists nonetheless is the same as truth. The interpretation was where everything-
So he walks over to the other boy, bent over scrolled corner into his DS, knees trapped inside the legs of his stool, a plant curling vines toward the ground (he always did defy expectations), and tells him so.
The other boy looks up, irises windshielded orange, reflecting his own small figure back at him twofold, a pale tangerine dash of uncertainty with a finger coiled up in his hair.
He tells him that death and life are only differentiated by select chemical imbalances. A few heartbeats, a few inhales, a few twists of a few DNA strands. And in everything else, they are the same.
The other boy tilts his head some obscure way, human, with a whiplash of brittle cynicism, tiny barbs of familiarity like blue eyes. The tresses of his hair are lank, a deep, mossy green (last week, it was electric blue. The week before, violently violet. Next week, midnight black. And so on.)
A smile corkscrews between the anger and the chapped skin, and Matt says, “Near, Mello’s not dead.”
He stays quiet, neither here nor there but always near, a hanging mist or a shadow’s inkwell footstep, until the orange un-eyes turned away (back into their un-world, and Near shouldn’t begrudge anyone their escapes from reality, but for him, he makes an exception. He hasn’t yet figured out why).
The interpretation was where everything falls apart.
Always falls apart.
My father wins the bronze medal in the 100 meter Hurdle to the Worst Conclusions, disregarding my sniffling sojourn in the rain on Friday and wants me to be antibioticized by the lovely Sharon Ryan M.D., as soon as possible.
(Meanwhile I am hot-knife-buttering my way through chapters of Reborn! and television premieres of V for Vendetta, hardly waylaid by deep coughs and still relatively buoyant.)
I doth protest because a) I am fine and b) the office of the aforementioned dottore closes at 4:30, which simply will not do, as I have been cast as Iago's second and must therefore be there for rehearsal until 5.
Sigh.
In any case.
Inspired by KHR! fic (the entire fandom has blown my mind all over my face. Gokudera/Yamamoto is now tied for second place among my OTP rankings).
Title: Lost In Translation
Characters/Pairings:Near, Matt (L and Mello if you have Legilimency)
Rating: Do not need to request a different toy (G)
Summary: Some absent thing.
Word Count: 280 (I can't believe it either)
A/N: KHR! fandom compels me to write. I take it out on Death Note. It has no point or idea. I am unwell; let us blame the swift adept mutation of bacteria and Shop-Wrong brand cough remedy.
It occurs to him three weeks, five days, seven hours, and eighteen minutes afterwards, that death is an ordinary thing.
Delayed reactions-they can’t technically be explained, but they exist nonetheless, and what exists nonetheless is the same as truth. The interpretation was where everything-
So he walks over to the other boy, bent over scrolled corner into his DS, knees trapped inside the legs of his stool, a plant curling vines toward the ground (he always did defy expectations), and tells him so.
The other boy looks up, irises windshielded orange, reflecting his own small figure back at him twofold, a pale tangerine dash of uncertainty with a finger coiled up in his hair.
He tells him that death and life are only differentiated by select chemical imbalances. A few heartbeats, a few inhales, a few twists of a few DNA strands. And in everything else, they are the same.
The other boy tilts his head some obscure way, human, with a whiplash of brittle cynicism, tiny barbs of familiarity like blue eyes. The tresses of his hair are lank, a deep, mossy green (last week, it was electric blue. The week before, violently violet. Next week, midnight black. And so on.)
A smile corkscrews between the anger and the chapped skin, and Matt says, “Near, Mello’s not dead.”
He stays quiet, neither here nor there but always near, a hanging mist or a shadow’s inkwell footstep, until the orange un-eyes turned away (back into their un-world, and Near shouldn’t begrudge anyone their escapes from reality, but for him, he makes an exception. He hasn’t yet figured out why).
The interpretation was where everything falls apart.
Always falls apart.