DN -- White
Title: White
Collection: The Margins
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Mello/Near
Rating: PG
Word Count: 213
Warnings: morbidity?
Summary: Maybe that's why.
Author's Note: For jenwryn, who does magnificent things with this pairing.
WHITE
Near is always-always-dressed in white, like something out of a Renaissance painting, all cherubs and clouds. Mello would bet the whole damn stash of chocolate on the top shelf of his closet that Near wore white to his parents’ funerals. He’d bet it that Near would wear white to his own-lie there in a white-satin-lined casket with his indecipherable face still, his features eraser smudges on a blank sheet. He’s like a painting with no color, like a bandage soaked in chloroform, like a curtain ghosting in the wind, and Mello is sick and goddamn tired of it. Tired of the ice, tired of the indifference, and tired of the implication of purity that he knows belies a devil’s mind behind those dead gray eyes.
And maybe that’s why, when the playroom clears, he grabs Near’s white lapels in both hands, shoves him heedlessly up against the wall, and lays bites instead of kisses down the pallid sweep of the boy’s neck, not stopping when Near whimpers, not stopping when he writhes-because he wants to darken him, wants to sully him, wants to ruin him, wants to hurt him, wants to make him real.
Maybe it’s because he just wants to see if Near bleeds red like everybody else.
Collection: The Margins
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Mello/Near
Rating: PG
Word Count: 213
Warnings: morbidity?
Summary: Maybe that's why.
Author's Note: For jenwryn, who does magnificent things with this pairing.
WHITE
Near is always-always-dressed in white, like something out of a Renaissance painting, all cherubs and clouds. Mello would bet the whole damn stash of chocolate on the top shelf of his closet that Near wore white to his parents’ funerals. He’d bet it that Near would wear white to his own-lie there in a white-satin-lined casket with his indecipherable face still, his features eraser smudges on a blank sheet. He’s like a painting with no color, like a bandage soaked in chloroform, like a curtain ghosting in the wind, and Mello is sick and goddamn tired of it. Tired of the ice, tired of the indifference, and tired of the implication of purity that he knows belies a devil’s mind behind those dead gray eyes.
And maybe that’s why, when the playroom clears, he grabs Near’s white lapels in both hands, shoves him heedlessly up against the wall, and lays bites instead of kisses down the pallid sweep of the boy’s neck, not stopping when Near whimpers, not stopping when he writhes-because he wants to darken him, wants to sully him, wants to ruin him, wants to hurt him, wants to make him real.
Maybe it’s because he just wants to see if Near bleeds red like everybody else.