Disclaimer: Death Note isn't mine! (But I'll take Near, if someone is selling him. 3)

Author's Note: Yet another drabble for my Drabble Writing Meme. This one features some NearxMello action for my beloved Knuxlover-san! I hope it meets with her approval! :D

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Grayscale

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He was raised in a world of black and white.

It was a simple world— clean cut and straightforward. Work hard. Act smart. Rise above. There was no middle ground; only two colors in the rainbow. And of the two, he was the white. The truth. The fact. The chosen successor. And everyone else was the black: lies, deceit, danger, evil. Second place. Like night. The night that follows day. Never mixing, never blending; there was no dawn or dusk in his world. No color at all.

Just white.

White.

And then—then, without warning; like a solar eclipse on a summer day—everything he knew was enveloped with ebony. The sky, the air, his very soul changed its shade: the pale, pallid pastels with which he'd painted the canvas of his mind were suddenly drenched in the color of midnight, the sun swallowed with no more warning than the sensual slide of a leather-gloved palm over his eyes… and oh, it was true what others had said about the dark—for a moment, for the sweetest of moments— he forgot about his mission, his intellect, his goals. He forgot about everything in a swirl and rush of color and passion that turned his vision black and coated the carpet with white.

An eclipse. Of the brain, of the heart. Over just as quickly as an eclipse of the heavens. In the hazy aftermath, he found himself recalling mythology: the Norse wolf Skol regurgitating the sun, returning to the chase; he and Hati spending eternity circling the world, round and round and round, pursuing the celestial bodies that they could never truly hold, never truly touch. Dooming themselves to never meet again.

Never again.

But the world has changed in the wake of their paw prints.

He has changed.

He was white—so much white, endless white, nothing but white, white, white and then there was black, and he is forevermore stained. He can't get rid of the black. He has tried to forget it, tried to paint over it, tried to flood his mind and body with the only color he's ever understood, but it's no use. The black is too powerful.

Too permanent.

Too painful.

He stands before a black marble grave, dressed in a white rain jacket and holding a bouquet of white Easter lilies in a small, white hand.

There is black and white no longer.

Only gray.

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