#this is the only prompt i've written for sorry everyone. just felt like tossing something in there

[sugurushimura]

but at the end of it all (DeathNoteTober)

Day 30: Friend Kamoda isn’t going to see Light again. Dramaverse. Kamoda-centric, hints of Light/Kamoda. @deathnotetober

The last time Kamoda saw Yagami Light, he told himself he’d be happy if he never saw him again. After all, when you spend years of a friendship gushing over a particular idol, the idea of your friend going and dating that idol anyways—isn’t that a betrayal? Isn’t it a crime, that Light would take away his Misa-Misa?

(Because it’s not like Amane Misa is a person. It’s not like Amane Misa is anything more than a pretty, brightly-clad thing for him to want for himself. Maybe it isn’t even about Amane Misa, at the heart of the matter, and isn’t that the greatest irony of all?)

He couldn’t remember what he’d screamed at Light, that last time he’d seen him; he just remembered that he’d been crushingly, overwhelmingly angry. He had been angry for days after that, and even after that anger had faded, he refused to really give it up. He felt obligated to drag it out. Their friends had reprimanded him, told him he was being silly, told him to apologize, but that only made it worse, and he ignored the embarrassment needling at the back of his mind. Regret was out of the picture. If anyone deserved an apology, it was him. No matter what, he would not reach out first.

As if.

Yagami Light is dead now, anyways, so there’s no point worrying about that anymore. That’s what he tries to tell himself—there’s no point worrying about it. But what he’s feeling isn’t worry, not really.

The entire argument—tantrum, really, he concedes—seems so silly now, because no matter how many Ichigo Berry songs he puts on, how many recordings he watches, how many pieces of merchandise he orders, he doesn’t feel anything. He can’t enjoy it anymore. He looks at Misa-Misa’s face, lighting up his room from his computer monitor, and he still feels miserable. It’s like biting into a piece of cake and finding your mouth full of dust.

He remembers screaming at him, something silly, something—something he can’t even remember. Nothing. He wishes he could go back and say something. He wishes he could have told Light, back when it mattered, something, anything: “I really appreciate you” or “I’ve never had a friend quite like you” or “Your smile makes going to class worth it” or “Please don’t go anywhere, please take care of yourself, because you are loved, you are loved by me, I love you, in some way or another.” He wishes he remembered what he had said. 

But he can’t remember. It’s gone. The words are gone. Yagami Light is gone.

Yagami Light is dead, and when Kamoda first visits his grave, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t say anything. He stands there, with wet eyes and a mouth full of dust, and he aches in the silence.