A/N: Requested by cataclysmatic on LiveJournal, drabble post 9/28/09.
Prompt: ebb
Disclaimer: I don't own the original work this is derived from. This work is complete, and its brevity is intentional.
Enjoy!
x.x.x
insomnia
x.x.x
There is a space in the middle hours of the night, after the exhale and before the inhale, a stretch of time in which the world is completely still.
The tide of the day has gone out and the beach is empty. Mello is still awake. He will be awake for a long time.
From the living room, a muted electrical glow is ghosting through his door. In this unreal space, it is acceptable to wish for company, and so he pulls his pajama bottoms up and saunters out into the light.
Matt doesn't say a word when Mello sits down next to him on the tattered green couch, and Mello doesn't see a reason to talk either.
For a while he watches the flickering patterns on the TV screen, watches Matt systematically destroy the game without the slightest sign of difficulty; watches the way, draped carelessly across the upholstery with a sort of casual grace, he lights up one cigarette after another and burns them right down to the filter.
He wonders how Matt can stand it. The existence of someone better than him at what he is best at is like an infuriating matador's cape in front of him, always just a little out of reach. His driving rage and envy are what keep him going even when he's exhausted and too aware of the fact that there is no real end to aim for, only a direction to run in.
Matt doesn't have that. Nor does he have Near's total detachment. He feels enough to hurt, and yet doesn't care enough to fight, and the gap between those holds him fast and slowly crushes him.
Of the three of them, Mello thinks, Matt suffers the most and says the least.
Not that he cares. Caring is foolish, the worst possible move one can make when dealing with others. It ties your hands and then your feet and even if you escape you bear the scars of the wounds you received at its hands for the rest of your life.
No, Mello isn't that stupid. But when Matt, without taking his eyes off the screen, reaches over and tips Mello's head into his lap, he doesn't bitch or moan or get up and go back to bed.
Instead, he turns over, pulling his legs up against the back of the couch, and presses his face into Matt's midriff.
There is a heartbeat, measured and even like a steady drumbeat, and the gentle ebb and flow of breath.
Mello has no friends. He has Matt, but he doesn't know a word to describe what Matt is. All he knows is that here, he can finally rest, and let his guard down enough to sleep.
Trusting is not the same as caring.
X.x.X