Delusions of Martydom

Light Yagami was too much.

He was just too much.

Too pristine and too perfect for L to believe and accept when his eyes and his games belied and opposed his words and facades.

The best facades have an element of truth and the contradication crackled through the air.

(it is, my lord, i know not seems)

L didn't like it. It was too much, just too much.

Idealism is naivety is faith is death.

Kira might appear to have ideals, but Light Yagami was Kira's eviler-than-thou alter ego and, when it came to ideals he had absolutely none.

Kira was an idealistic god on his own personal crusade, childish and determined and no-one could (would) stand in his way, Light, well he was sadistic and mercurial, malicious, malignant, bored and malcontent and in his own way, diving deeper through darkness than Kira ever would. (ever is, as always, entirely temporary here.)

Too much, too much. Just to too perfect and L couldn't stand it, wouldn't stand for it, wouldn't see the arguments through Light Yagami's eyes, bathed in a wash of redbloodred light.

They were all ants crawling helplessly in the dirt, beetles swarming futilely across cracked ground, they were maggots ingesting and devouring something that was turning through cycles, half-ingested, semi-devoured.

Carcasses, you realise, are the happy meal of the animal world, because it's so easy, sososo easy, you don't need to work, no, not at all, someone else has caught and killed and you just snatch up the leftovers of the hunters and the dead.

(one may smile and smile and be a villain)

L knew facades as well as anyone and he knew his own best, the ones that portray him as eccentric or saccharine or unkempt or amphbious or human (maybe).

They were all humans idling their lives away in composed, compound, soon-to-be-composted cities and cynicism was the lesson, the emblem and the mantra of the day, but humans are silly, silly people and if someone tells them there are ideals to be found out there there'll come running, pre-packaged and pre-printed with symbols and slogals and self-fulfilling purpose, dehumanised and devoted to the righteous cause.

Give them a reason to fight, and they'll fight for it, fight for their figureheads.

No matter what those figureheads do in their free time.

(sir, will you walk out of the air?)

"Do you believe, Light, in an ultimate purpose for the human race?"

L's voice as it always is.

It's flat and flippant (and just a little flirtatious) and it's dripping with undertones and nuances that maybe aren't quite decent, but L's not quite human anyway and maybe Light loves him for it.

"If by that you mean, that by being alive we are serving some sort of higher, perhaps divine, purpose, definitely not. I assume you don't either."

(into my grave?)

Light and L promise each other death with stone cold stares suffused with amiablility that's surprisingly real, and Light halffully denies the urge to kiss L on the mouth and slip his hands under his shirt in a confirmation of what is true and true and obvious:

He's mine, definitely.

I'm his, maybe.

Either way, dying at your hand is the only way for me to die.

(there's a certain sort of providence in the fall of a sparrow)

On odd days it's fate.

On those days he was meant to change the world this way, and it was fate, was destiny, the only way, the light at the end of the tunnel and finally, finally, he's given eveyone a way out.

Put them all out of my misery.

On some days he admits he's spent his entire life, all his life, waiting, waiting, waiting, for something to happen, anything to happen and make eveything bright (incandescent) and complicated, and, hell, fun!
Just fun.

(i could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space)

L stalks across the room towards Light again, and they throw theories at each other overhead and underarm, verbal sparring that they think is so subtle it's hardly even sparring at all, they're brilliant and they know they are, revel in their elevation from the rest of the world.

They can catch their own prey.

The world are their prey.

Their minds are sharp and their wits are ready and they loathe each other so much it might destroy them, they loathe in a vague, nondescript, obligatory way that none of them really take seriously.

It's still going to destroy them.

They are the fallen intellectuals, self-righteous martyrs to nebulous causes, they're both going to die and they know they are, and revel in the glory of righteous self-sacrifice.

It won't stop them having a little fun first.

L asks Light to stay behind and talk (yes, talk, what else?) while the rest of the taskforce leave to off-the-rack lives and concerned families, meagre paychecks and sub-par sex.

(what is it you're reading, my lord?)

Light Yagami's mind is an up is down and wrong is right and half is whole and day is night kind of place and he knows it is.

It's a place where friends are enemies and enemies are lovers and nothing is everything, but nothing exists, so eveything does, except at the times when it doesn't.

It's a place where justice is justice is euphoria is murder and, earnestly, earnestly who would have guessed?

In the end, Light and L have ridiculous IQs and melodramatic cynicism and you know what, you know what, that's pretty much it.

They dance ever so slowly with their hearts clutched in one hand and their minds held in the other.

(words. words. words)