DN -- Firsthand
Title: Firsthand
Fandom: Death Note
Pairings: Light/Mikami
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Warnings: sketchy, sketchy implications
Summary: He hasn't earned this.
Author's Note: For happy_mystic, and really, really late... Personally, I don't think Light would show his face, because he's too much of a power-tripper, but I decided to ignore that for the sake of the fic. After having written most of it, I realized that that would have given me an excuse to bust out the blindfolds. DAMN IT, TOO SLOW.
FIRSTHAND
He almost doesn’t answer the door.
It’s late, after all, and he has a tall pile of paperwork on his desk, lying uneasily in the square of space where sheets of a much more significant nature tend to rest. But something twinges deep in his core, at a level so basic that it dwells outside the bounds of reason, and, setting his shoulders and his jaw, he goes.
He knows the moment he opens the door. He knows before he hears the rich voice he recognizes from the phone call to their single intermediary.
It’s the eyes. It’s their intelligence.
He wants to bow, to genuflect, to drop to the floor and protest his unworthiness-surely God can’t be here, on his doorstep, on the threshold, stepping into the foyer, casting the focus of those omniscient eyes over every inch. It’s impossible. He hasn’t earned this. It has to be another dream…
God shuts the door behind him, turns, and smiles. “Teru, are you all right?”
He’s not all right; his heart beats fit to burst; he’s so terrified of his own error-prone humanity that he doesn’t want to move. Even breathing seems a gamble.
All he can think is Light. He’s Light.
“I’m honored,” he says, “Kira-sama.”
Tonight Teru Mikami, lawyer, executor of justice, stands before the world’s greatest judge.
But Light satisfies the promise of his name-he fills the room, warms it, opens the dim future to progress and possibility.
Teru believes.
He believes even more strongly, more fully, more truly than he ever has before, because he has accepted the effects, but now he sees the glory of the cause.
Teru’s world is manifest in this smooth, bright paradigm of a man, and Teru just wants to be nearer to that light-to reach it, to touch it, to find it, to know it; he doesn’t care what he has to do-
He wants to hold it and feel it and become a part of it, because he believes.
The truth is his now: the truth is in his home, in his living room, in his kitchen, and Teru is too overwhelmed by the revelation for nerves-some part of him has gone terrifyingly steady and calm, and it reminds him that his house is spotless, faultless, and right. Not even God will find stains of corruption here.
The truth is his now-firsthand.
So he raises the first of his hands, and then its brother, and he closes the distance. Kira-sama turns, momentarily startled, but then he smiles.
Teru is not surprised that they don’t need any words. Kira-sama owns the words-transcends them. Truth does not need to be articulated. Language is fallible.
Kira-sama is not.
Kira-sama is gentle and radiant, and it’s wet and hot and horrible, and Teru buries his face in Kira-sama’s neck to keep from laughing aloud.
Getting exactly what he wanted is every bit as good as he had hoped.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairings: Light/Mikami
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 500
Warnings: sketchy, sketchy implications
Summary: He hasn't earned this.
Author's Note: For happy_mystic, and really, really late... Personally, I don't think Light would show his face, because he's too much of a power-tripper, but I decided to ignore that for the sake of the fic. After having written most of it, I realized that that would have given me an excuse to bust out the blindfolds. DAMN IT, TOO SLOW.
FIRSTHAND
He almost doesn’t answer the door.
It’s late, after all, and he has a tall pile of paperwork on his desk, lying uneasily in the square of space where sheets of a much more significant nature tend to rest. But something twinges deep in his core, at a level so basic that it dwells outside the bounds of reason, and, setting his shoulders and his jaw, he goes.
He knows the moment he opens the door. He knows before he hears the rich voice he recognizes from the phone call to their single intermediary.
It’s the eyes. It’s their intelligence.
He wants to bow, to genuflect, to drop to the floor and protest his unworthiness-surely God can’t be here, on his doorstep, on the threshold, stepping into the foyer, casting the focus of those omniscient eyes over every inch. It’s impossible. He hasn’t earned this. It has to be another dream…
God shuts the door behind him, turns, and smiles. “Teru, are you all right?”
He’s not all right; his heart beats fit to burst; he’s so terrified of his own error-prone humanity that he doesn’t want to move. Even breathing seems a gamble.
All he can think is Light. He’s Light.
“I’m honored,” he says, “Kira-sama.”
Tonight Teru Mikami, lawyer, executor of justice, stands before the world’s greatest judge.
But Light satisfies the promise of his name-he fills the room, warms it, opens the dim future to progress and possibility.
Teru believes.
He believes even more strongly, more fully, more truly than he ever has before, because he has accepted the effects, but now he sees the glory of the cause.
Teru’s world is manifest in this smooth, bright paradigm of a man, and Teru just wants to be nearer to that light-to reach it, to touch it, to find it, to know it; he doesn’t care what he has to do-
He wants to hold it and feel it and become a part of it, because he believes.
The truth is his now: the truth is in his home, in his living room, in his kitchen, and Teru is too overwhelmed by the revelation for nerves-some part of him has gone terrifyingly steady and calm, and it reminds him that his house is spotless, faultless, and right. Not even God will find stains of corruption here.
The truth is his now-firsthand.
So he raises the first of his hands, and then its brother, and he closes the distance. Kira-sama turns, momentarily startled, but then he smiles.
Teru is not surprised that they don’t need any words. Kira-sama owns the words-transcends them. Truth does not need to be articulated. Language is fallible.
Kira-sama is not.
Kira-sama is gentle and radiant, and it’s wet and hot and horrible, and Teru buries his face in Kira-sama’s neck to keep from laughing aloud.
Getting exactly what he wanted is every bit as good as he had hoped.