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Title: Not a Novel
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some swearing, spoilers for Volumes 11 and 12 and Death Note: Another Note.
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or Death Note: Another Note and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Mello takes a break from writing.
Notes: This was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
melloxchocolate for my Private Fic Yuletide. She asked for Mello-centric GenFic, and this is what happened. I unabashedly got inspiration from reading Another Note this morning. Oh well. Passages from the book are used.
I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller. For anyone else except those two, my identity may be of no interest, but I am the old world’s runner up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago.
Good memories and nightmares.
The prologue finished, Mello lowered his pen and proceeded to crack his knuckles, taking the time to think over his words. It wasn’t that long ago that he had referred to himself as Mello. He still did. But that didn’t change the fact that he was living on borrowed time – at Kira’s leisure, that bastard – and that what cover he had was well and truly blown.
He frowned to himself and leaned back in his chair, tipping it so that it was balanced on two legs. He had promised to make this a factual account, and to write the case as it had happened to the best of his abilities. He hadn’t been there personally, but L had been a highly skilled storyteller when he put his mind to it. And Mello…
Mello was far better at writing than Near. Maybe not technically, but at least he had the creativity to put behind his words and make them come alive. He was a better liar, and better at writing fiction. Not that, to his knowledge, Near had ever actually tried to write a work of fiction.
But what he was writing wasn’t supposed to be fictional. It was supposed to be a record of one of L’s greatest achievements, and a testimony to three of Kira’s victims: L, Naomi Misora, and Beyond Birthday – a criminal he could sympathise with more than he liked. They had both grown up in L’s shadow; both had strived to be better; both had turned to the wrong side of the law.
But, fictional or not, Mello supposed that it didn’t matter what he wrote about himself as long as he got L’s, Misora’s and B’s actions right. After all, he would probably be dead and gone soon enough thanks to Kira, and it wasn’t as if Near would bother contradicting anything if he even found the notes Mello was making.
Notes. Not a report, not a novel; that’s what he’d written. He wondered if anyone would bother – if the notes were found – to do anything with them. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, not when he wouldn’t be around to see the results.
Mello swore loudly to the silent room, and wondered if all writers were this fucking melancholy.
He looked back at the sheaves of paper he had covered with his tiny, spiky, italic scrawl. He snorted. Near would probably have to hire a cryptographer to decipher his writing – and people wondered why Mello had always typed things – before realising that it was actually written in plain English. It looked as if a drunken spider had gone skating through ink rather than actual writing.
He picked up his pen again, and unscrewed the tip to check that he still had plenty of ink left in that cartridge. Not that it really mattered of course; he just didn’t want to have to break his flow just to get more ink. He hated it when that happened.
With a thunk, the front two legs of his chair hit the floor once more. He’d had his break; it was time to keep going.
And a few years after his arrest, on January 21, 2004, serving a life sentence in a California prison, Beyond Birthday died of a mysterious heart attack.
Exactly twenty one hours, fifteen minutes and thirty one seconds (and two further breaks) later, Mello lowered his pen for the last time. Two days later, he and Matt would kidnap Takada, and Mello’s borrowed time would finally run out.
He just hoped he’d done them all justice.
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Death Note
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some swearing, spoilers for Volumes 11 and 12 and Death Note: Another Note.
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or Death Note: Another Note and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Mello takes a break from writing.
Notes: This was written for
melloxchocolate for my Private Fic Yuletide. She asked for Mello-centric GenFic, and this is what happened. I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller. For anyone else except those two, my identity may be of no interest, but I am the old world’s runner up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago.
Good memories and nightmares.
The prologue finished, Mello lowered his pen and proceeded to crack his knuckles, taking the time to think over his words. It wasn’t that long ago that he had referred to himself as Mello. He still did. But that didn’t change the fact that he was living on borrowed time – at Kira’s leisure, that bastard – and that what cover he had was well and truly blown.
He frowned to himself and leaned back in his chair, tipping it so that it was balanced on two legs. He had promised to make this a factual account, and to write the case as it had happened to the best of his abilities. He hadn’t been there personally, but L had been a highly skilled storyteller when he put his mind to it. And Mello…
Mello was far better at writing than Near. Maybe not technically, but at least he had the creativity to put behind his words and make them come alive. He was a better liar, and better at writing fiction. Not that, to his knowledge, Near had ever actually tried to write a work of fiction.
But what he was writing wasn’t supposed to be fictional. It was supposed to be a record of one of L’s greatest achievements, and a testimony to three of Kira’s victims: L, Naomi Misora, and Beyond Birthday – a criminal he could sympathise with more than he liked. They had both grown up in L’s shadow; both had strived to be better; both had turned to the wrong side of the law.
But, fictional or not, Mello supposed that it didn’t matter what he wrote about himself as long as he got L’s, Misora’s and B’s actions right. After all, he would probably be dead and gone soon enough thanks to Kira, and it wasn’t as if Near would bother contradicting anything if he even found the notes Mello was making.
Notes. Not a report, not a novel; that’s what he’d written. He wondered if anyone would bother – if the notes were found – to do anything with them. It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter, not when he wouldn’t be around to see the results.
Mello swore loudly to the silent room, and wondered if all writers were this fucking melancholy.
He looked back at the sheaves of paper he had covered with his tiny, spiky, italic scrawl. He snorted. Near would probably have to hire a cryptographer to decipher his writing – and people wondered why Mello had always typed things – before realising that it was actually written in plain English. It looked as if a drunken spider had gone skating through ink rather than actual writing.
He picked up his pen again, and unscrewed the tip to check that he still had plenty of ink left in that cartridge. Not that it really mattered of course; he just didn’t want to have to break his flow just to get more ink. He hated it when that happened.
With a thunk, the front two legs of his chair hit the floor once more. He’d had his break; it was time to keep going.
And a few years after his arrest, on January 21, 2004, serving a life sentence in a California prison, Beyond Birthday died of a mysterious heart attack.
Exactly twenty one hours, fifteen minutes and thirty one seconds (and two further breaks) later, Mello lowered his pen for the last time. Two days later, he and Matt would kidnap Takada, and Mello’s borrowed time would finally run out.
He just hoped he’d done them all justice.
