Believe it or not, Mello leaves his hard exterior at the door with his coat.
It cracks open like a shell when he pulls down the long zipper, and he sheds it, like a layer of skin. Those scowls, the gun threats, the cursing (alright, maybe not the cursing). Suddenly, he's real, he's softer, and he's mine.
From the door, he takes said gun, unloading it as he makes his way to the kitchen. He places the cartridge in a drawer by the refrigerator, the only one without a knob, and leaves the pistol on the counter. (He thinks I don't know that he hides them under the dish towels, since he does all the cooking, but I'm the one who's home all day.) When he reappears, he gives me a look. I click my computer into hibernate, and meet him halfway.
Chests touching, noses touching, fingers interlaced, and our arms stretched out on either side of us like wings. It's almost criminal how soft our touches are. I press butterfly kisses to his cheeks, and down his jaw, and he lets out a desperate sigh when I leave one in the delicate hollow underneath his ear where his jaw meets his neck.
Usually, by the time he arrives home, he's killed someone. I can feel the guilt radiating off his skin, and when my lips reach the dip of his collar bone, my neck bent and straining, he whispers some kind of curious plea: "Why hasn't he killed me yet?"
We're at the bed, my response being: "Never… never lose you." He's nearly a puddle in my arms, barely helping remove his clothes, first his vest, then his boots and his pants. I'm next, and then we're both just us.
We make love quietly, rocking against each other until we climax, him with a gasp of my name, my real name, and me silently, biting my lip, just soaking up every bit of him. I slide out, and roll us over, and we relax, him on top of me with our fingers interlaced, our arms stretched out on either side of us like wings, and his lips on my shoulder, a silent thank you for everything I've done for him.
We both know it's because I love him that he's taken care of like this, and we both know it's because he loves me that he hasn't committed suicide yet. Beating Near isn't worth shit compared to me when it comes down to it. I know the guilt of the things he does is killing him. There isn't as much Mello left than there was at Wammy's. It's eroding him away, and I don't know whether he'll end himself with a bullet through his head or some kind of suicide mission as a final chance to help catch Kira. All I know is that I'm going down with him.
Who knows, maybe if Kira wasn't such a bastard, or maybe if Mello hadn't hated Near as much… maybe then we could have been happy.
Author's Note: Wow, I haven't updated in forever. My family and I got back from visiting cousins for the day, and my muse says, "Hey, Megan's dead tired and already half asleep, let's assault her with an idea for a fanfic." Basically, every word up there was already in my head by the time I whipped out my laptop, and it took me about thirty minutes to write. Personally, I really like it. Tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note, it's characters, plot, or any related anything.
I do own a copy of Another Note, though. : )