-Light's senses tell him that the door is chilly beneath his palm as he pushes at the bar and, with a familiar ratch, thunk, and creak, it swings inward. He moves to tuck his hand into the pocket of his jacket, and only then remembers he's not wearing one. A strange knot of expression crosses his face, a sour inward twist - it annoys (maybe even torments him) him that even now, he still falls to such little human slips. It's not like it's difficult to remember what clothes are on his body, but his hand moved of its own accord, out of habit.
Habit. A mortal failing, surely, isn't it? Something he should be above. Something he should...
Today, his clothes are the most casual they've been probably throughout his entire (sentence) stay at the mansion: a thin cream turtleneck, not ratty by any stretch of the imagination, but obviously familiarly-worn; plain black slacks; and tennis shoes. As he crosses the rooftop, gazed fixed on his double, he doesn't deflect the rain from his body. It soaks through the fabric of his shirt and
( ... )
[Quiet footsteps squelching towards him. Turning, he sees - you, but not quite: there's something determined in your attitude, and something unfamiliar - neglectful: uncaring. Is he ill?
Not that Light would care if you were.
He's almost entirely given up on it - it's nothing but a child's cry against the dark - but he drops the numbers around himself, again. Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine...]
Art's all interpretation, Light. You look at it and see only yourself.
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Habit. A mortal failing, surely, isn't it? Something he should be above. Something he should...
Today, his clothes are the most casual they've been probably throughout his entire (sentence) stay at the mansion: a thin cream turtleneck, not ratty by any stretch of the imagination, but obviously familiarly-worn; plain black slacks; and tennis shoes. As he crosses the rooftop, gazed fixed on his double, he doesn't deflect the rain from his body. It soaks through the fabric of his shirt and ( ... )
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Not that Light would care if you were.
He's almost entirely given up on it - it's nothing but a child's cry against the dark - but he drops the numbers around himself, again. Three point one four one five nine two six five three five eight nine...]
Art's all interpretation, Light. You look at it and see only yourself.
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