(no subject)
(Higuchi)
No one is evil, the sunlight said. But they can be false.
- Geoff Ryman, “PolPot’s Beautiful Daughter”
When the sheaf of paper slides between his fingers, all Light knows for a moment is a rush of memory - an onslaught of power and triumph too-long suppressed. Knowledge rises within him, swift and forceful - knowledge of his own genius, his instincts, his mastery over himself. It wells up inside of him, and for a moment he is sure it overflows, pouring like light from his eyes, the crown of his head, his fingertips. But no. When he looks over at L, for the first time since regaining his full awareness - at L, bold and afraid, a white streak of doubt against the skyline (his skyline, his cityscape, his planet) - all he sees is concern and surprise.
L is watching him, eyes wide, lips twisted in worry, but in the chaos of the moment Light has betrayed nothing. He turns away to hide his smile, and feels a last shudder of resistance as the part of him who has lived in innocence for the past few months tries to make itself felt in the middle of his swell of delight - the naïve, unenlightened horror of a schoolboy who knew nothing.
But he is no boy. He is Kira. He is God. He is Light.
Nothing can stand against such might - not L, and certainly not the weakest parts of Light himself.
The terror on Higuchi’s face is familiar, heady. Light drinks in the look of death from which he has been parted for too long - the contortions of pain, the bulging eyes that remind him of L’s, the garbled choking sounds, the clawing at the throat for breath. So foolish, these humans who fight death until the very last second instead of admitting their defeat and dying with dignity. They deserve to die, disgraced, in their stupidity.
He stores it up for later, all that raw hysteria, to relish in a moment when he is alone. He stores L’s stricken look away too, and can barely contain himself. The weeks without the Death Note have given him time to imprint L’s face on his mind - he can see it, the gaze of friendship, the eyes that are by now too comfortable watching him, too warm, even as they widen in suspicion.
Now, locking out the part of him that gained L’s trust to begin with, he joins the image with the shock and horror on L’s face in the present moment - and he knows.
He knows how L will look when he dies.
It is too powerful a vision to put away for later: he needs it, he wants it right now - he needs to watch L’s face paling, pupils dilating, the flash of recognition when he knows who has administered his defeat at last - and God, Light needs to have it now, he needs to be alone with it, to savor it, if only in his imagination.
But there are people present, and he forces his mind steady, wills the flush to fade from his cheeks. He is Yagami Light now, and he is appalled by the death in front of him. Only appalled.
Later, though.
Later.
At the very least, he thinks, smirking before he turns back to respond to L’s tremulous concern, he will have excellent dreams tonight.
(Day 1.)