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God was a sight Mikami did not feel worthy enough to lay gaze upon, eyes greedy but shameful as they scoured the view in front of him.
Light is 23 now. He’d won six years ago when he’d managed to manipulate a Shinigami and kill L. Mikami could salivate every time he remembered; it was impressive. He was a genius, he was beautiful, he was brilliant. Mikami wanted to bask in his light—his Light—as long as he was allowed.
And he had been allowed many things lately.
“God?” He’d not masked the worried edge to his voice in the slightest, but Light would know even if he had. The rain, weather Light had always (at least, as long as Mikami had been in his presence) seemed to love standing in, poured loudly around them on the balcony. Weirdly, the air was not heavy with water like it should be when it rains.
Light looked over his shoulder with a faint smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was breathtaking. Everything about him was breathtaking. The way his hair, longer now, clung wetly to his forehead. The translucency the rain has given his white button-down, top three buttons left undone. The obvious lack of tension, so often there, in his posture. “How many times must I assure you that just ‘Light’ is okay?”
A sheepish blush lit across his features. “Right, yes, sorry,” he muttered, mentally scolding himself.
“What did you need, love?” Light’s gentle smile never faded, though he did turn to face him. He didn’t step closer.
‘Love’. Every time he heard Light say it, his knees got a little weak. “You’ve… just… been out here awhile,” he pushed out, hands twisting nervously behind his back. Good Heavens above.
Mikami had been careful not to get into the rain himself—his immune system was rather fragile—but he was still freezing. He couldn’t imagine how cold Light must be, and the thought only strengthened his worry. The brunette turned back to the skyline, rain bouncing off his shoulders. “Alright,” he said quietly. As quietly as he could without making himself inaudible, at least.
When Light made his way back in, his hands, oddly warm despite being in the rain and bigger than Mikami had recalled, settled on his shoulders as they walked downstairs. Had his hands always been so rough, fingers thick rather than slender? It was peculiar, though, that when he glanced down, Light’s hands looked just as slim and smooth as ever.
He shook his head, fumbling slightly as he opened the door into the main part of the house for them both. The home they shared was always cozy, cast in homey warm lights and feeling just warm enough to make someone drowsy. Except, today, it seemed? Mikami’s brows furrowed slightly when a chill danced up over his nape, even though he was being guided by Light into the kitchen.
“Tea?” Light asked, already pulling two mugs from the cabinet. He knew what Mikami’s answer would be—the question was merely a courtesy.
“Oh! Yes, please,” he nodded, hands twisting nervously behind his back.
Mikami took a seat at the counter, getting the odd sensation that he was being guided and pushed gently to sit. A shudder ran down his spine. Why did things feel slightly off today? For a man as obsessive about routine and familiarity as Mikami was, these out-of-place feelings were beginning to make his peaceful mood fray at the edges.
“You’re doing it again,” Light chimed. His voice seemed softer than usual, more melodic.
A mug (that was fast, wasn’t it? He didn’t even hear the kettle, but it was there on the stove) was placed in front of him, Light carefully pulling his hands to curl around the ceramic rather than twist in his lap. It didn’t feel warm. It smelled delightful, chamomile, and it was steaming, but the mug felt cold.
And when brought to his lips, it tasted like water. It— just— he shook his head, setting it down abruptly. The marble counter gave a metallic clang in response. It’s just an off day, he justified. He was up late working in the DeathNote. Right, right, yes, he nodded, gnawing on his lip.
Light’s hands still lingered over his wrists, head tilted slightly as he watched Mikami’s inner thoughts manifest on his face. “Mikami?”
Something is wrong. He could— he could confide in his God about it though, right? He cared. He knew Light cared, that’s why he began writing with the DeathNote. God would care. God would help. That’s what he did. The hands on him were reminders of that; reminders that even if it wasn’t the same way (as much as Mikami pretended it was, because Light pretended too), Light loved him. Needed him? Found him useful, at the very least.
He was okay with simply being useful.
Being useful meant Light let him look, let him touch. It meant Light made him tea, let him fret over him, and ran his fingers through Mikami’s hair when they sat together on the couch with Mikami’s head in his lap. It meant when Light’s name slipped from Mikami’s lips like a prayer in a room that smelled of sin, Light whispered Mikami’s back like a benevolent god.
And it meant moments like now, where Light was still damp from the rain (but now that he looks at him, he’s dry?), his cup of steaming tea off to the side while he held Mikami’s hands around his own cup. A cup that was still so oddly cold. He squeezed his eyes shut, words bubbling up and moments from spilling over—
“Come back, Mikami.”
It was Light. It had to be Light, because he was with Light right now. He was sitting at a barstool, in their house in the city, with Light’s hands on his, with a mug of tea in front of him, wearing pajamas.
What he was not doing, on the other hand, was sitting in a cold, metal chair, in prison, with his therapist’s hands on his, with a stupid plastic cup of water, decked in apricots.
“Teru,” she said softly, stroking his palm with ringed fingers. It felt wrong. Light doesn’t wear rings. Why is he here? Why can’t he be there? Back in his mind where everything seemed just as warm as his home used to be?
Where is Light? “Where’s—“
The woman sighed. She was not a pretty sight, at least not to Mikami. She looked nothing like Light. He couldn’t blame her for that, however. Nobody could compare to his God’s beauty. “Gone, Teru. Remember? I thought we made progress,” she urged gently.
“Don’t call me by my first name,” he scowled, trying to pull his hands away. She let him. “Only he can say it.”
“He’s dead. You have to remember.” As much as she tried, Mikami could hear the mocking behind her fake care. Light cared so much more. Right? He cared, Right?
“I do remember!” He spat, frustrated tears building behind his eyes. He wouldn’t let them fall. God would think it was weakness, and he did not want to be weak in Light’s eyes.
The therapist’s brows furrowed, hands now folded neatly in front of her on the table. “So what caused your backslide today?”
“I don’t—“ he huffed. “I don’t know.”
“I see,” she nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the guards. “Maybe you’ll do good with some time to figure it out, and we’ll discuss tomorrow.”
Back to his cell, then. Back to his tiny, thin mattress with scratchy covers that were only long enough to reach his ankles.
The COs were not gentle as they yanked him from his chair, receiving no help from Mikami, who’d rag-dolled.
Back to the chilled dark the dingy lighting offered, the constant chattering of the open area beyond his cell, and the screeching of other inmates around him filling his ears.
They were not gentle as they undid the handcuffs that had been used as restraint during therapy.
Back to isolation—he’d been deemed too dangerous to receive a cellmate—where his thoughts could run without limitation.
They were not gentle as they pushed him into the claustrophobic space.
And when the door clanged closed, he was back.
Back to that warm city home, where the bed was memory foam (holding the indents of Light and Mikami’s bodies) and the blankets were soft. Where the house was always lit in flickering candlelight, the soft pressure of perfect warmth surrounding Mikami like a coat. Where it was quiet, the only sounds being the gentle way he addressed Light and the smile God shone down on him in response.
Back to heaven, to the altar, to an apartment deemed church where the only thing restraining him was Light’s arms in their bed. His lips swallowing words from Mikami’s mouth. His eyes holding his wandering, anxious gaze like it’d stumbled into quicksand.
Back to worship. To God.
Light, made only more divine in death as Mikami’s memory honeyed him—draped him in his eager worship and feverish love.
As Mikami wandered back over to the counter, where the seat finally felt cushioned and the mug finally felt warm, he gave a small smile and apologized for the interruption. Light raised his eyebrows over the edge of his own mug, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. ”It’s alright,” he said.
His partially undone button-down, hair finally drenched in the rain he’d stood in earlier, made him seem to glow in the kitchen’s warm lighting. It was a sight Mikami did not feel worthy enough to lay gaze upon, eyes greedy but shameful as they scoured the view in front of him.
But God understood. He always understood. And Mikami was content in his delusions when he felt the soft press of Light’s lips to his knuckles.