Matt likes to tap. A rapping against the concrete floor with his foot, drumming on his thigh with his hand, creating a comforting beat against the steering wheel of his cherry red mustang…
That's what the games are about, unleashing that steady rhythm of a tap tap tap as he presses the A and B buttons with ferocity to beat the boss of level 21. The background music, a repetitive trumpet-like beat, is always on mute. The flashing colors that cascade across his face as he conducts a healing spell are a nice addition, but he prefers them dulled from behind his goggles.
It has nothing to do with triumph over the competition, the majority of his life he had been thrust into a contest without agreement.
No, this is about tapping.
When Matt is in the absence of his handheld-usually because Mello has gotten annoyed with his lack of attention and hid it from him again-he taps.
Maybe it's a nervous habit, maybe a compulsion; but Whammy's gave everyone their quirks. Matt doesn't care. He does it because, in the absence of that sound and movement in his fingers, he feels itchy with foreboding. Crawling with a premonition. If he stops, something bad is going to happen. The mafia will finally stop Mello's hand and force them out, A hack will go wrong and the FBI will be on his tail, Kira could win, Mello could- Matt could be… they could be killed.
Matt's driving requires attention, both hands on the wheel as he whips around the corner and comes face to face with the rows of black suits and cars. Time seems to stand still, the air feels heavy as he gets out of the mustang.
"Put those down," he begins to speak, before unconsciously reaching to tap nervously on his side. "We both know you won't-" A fingertip in contact with the outside of his pocket,
"He's got a gun!"
Fuck. He thinks as the pain washes over him like a veil.
I fucking knew it, I knew… His fingers twitch, but only uselessly into air.
Mello… I couldn't save us… He feels himself fading, his mind glazed over with a thick syrup akin to sleep.
I'm sorry…