avril 14th. (feast) wrote in __kirisaite,
avril 14th.
feast
__kirisaite

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_fanfiction_: DN // Curtain Call

Because Death Note has totally stolen my heart. *_*

Title: Curtain Call
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: R
Genre: Angst, gen
Word Count: 631
Pairings: None, Light-centric, maybe some hints at Light/L if you look extremely hard.
Warnings: CHAPTER 58 SPOILERS LIKE WOAH. Bad language. Apathy.
Notes: Chapter 58-centric, Light's POV. Because I, well, totally didn't see that coming. First Death Note fic.



It’s funny, but all along, Light’s been expecting L’s death to be so much more dramatic. All along, he’s been expecting a spectacular display of gasping and clutching and crying out, but everything is just so mausoleum-silent. This death is so garden-variety. L’s performance, well, it’s not very exciting, so it’ll really make Light’s stand out.

L’s falling, and it’s like, one-two-three.

Curtain call.

Light’s trying not to laugh as he shoots his arms out, palms outstretched and open, catching the falling body in his arms right as he settles into his dual roles as Hero and Concerned and Caring Best Friend.

L, eyes wide, body shaking, he’s not dead yet, but he’s close. And this is all positively wonderful.

Kira has rehearsed this so very many times. He’s practiced anguish in the mirror. Wild-eyed looks of desperation. Wide-mouthed gapes of utter terror.

Yeah, he’s had it down for a while, now; he’s just been waiting for the right time to show it off.

The older man’s black-rimmed eyes close, long ebony eyelashes dusting his concave sallow cheeks, and he goes stone-rigid, body arching off of our Hero’s/Worried Companion’s forearms, before going limp as a rag doll. His head lulls back, bangs covering all of his primate-like facial features, and with one shuddering gasp that’s a step away from pathetic, he’s dead.

What this is, is the amazing miracle of death, the split-second transition from sentient, thriving being to decomposing object, and Light has a front-row seat.

L looks so beautifully calm, his eyes closed, those cracked and purple lips curled into a faint, vaguely animalistic smile, that he could be the poster boy for post-mortem complacency.

And this is Light’s golden opportunity. His moment to shine.

“R-Ryuzaki? Ryuzaki-kun?!”

His voice is shaking with faux primal fear. Mortal terror. His performance is so fucking wonderful, that, as he pulls L’s flaccid body closer to him, shaking and whimpering, he considers attempting sloppy and desperate mouth-to-mouth. Or pressing his ear to that bony chest, as if listening for a heartbeat. Just for, you know, added effect. Upping the sincerity factor. If he panics enough, this could be the most convincing performance of his life.

But Light doesn’t do any of those things. No, what Light does, is paste a practiced look of heart-piercing, suicide-inducing sorrow on his face, and scream at the top of his lungs.
He screams and screams, despite his father’s efforts to comfort him, and clings to that corpse like he actually gives a damn whether L is living or dead.

All this acting, all these roles he’s played: college-student, God, model teenager, perfect son, affectionate older brother, they’re all paying off.

He screams until he’s hoarse, until his throat burns raw, salt on fresh wounds, until tears are leaving warm, wet trails down his agony-red cheeks.

‘Light Yagami, always so composed. Look at how he’s breaking down; he’s obviously not Kira. There’s no way on Earth’ is basically the point of this gross, over-dramatization.

Light feels nothing but smug happiness and revenge as L’s body cools and begins to stiffen, right beside him.

Livor mortis, rigor mortis . . . possibly the best things that could ever happen to L. Ryuzaki. Ryuga. Whatever the hell his name was.

The young man stands, and it’s like, one-two-three.

Pull the curtains down. Fade-to-fucking-black.

Kira, as he walks away, grinning, the past few minutes playing out like an accident in his head, slow-motion, can think of no other words but, “I’d like to thank the Academy”, and they repeat over and over above the Gattling-gun fire sound of sprockets punching holes in this memory-film, in the little internal movie projector in his head.

Yeah, he’ll thank the Academy and accept the award. This is his best performance yet.

Playing God, that is.

end.
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