[[Hokay so, I wrote this in October and thought it was the most epic-ful thing ever. Yes, I thought it would be perfect for this day… and this day you all should know (or those of you MxM fans out there who are obsessed as me) that today; this very, very depressing day… (January 26, 2010 for the record) is the very date to the day, that Matt and Mello breathed their last breathes! Hahaa. Okay, so maybe I'm coming off as a bit dramatic? Well, I cried because of this! Am I the only one out there!? The only one!?
………
Ahem, anyway; the time of October 2009, this seemed like a beautiful piece to put out there for these guys' deaths. Now, when I typed it up, I was cringing! I really hate my writing… I admit, I do like parts in here, so it's not a complete waste of time and space. Give it a read and tell me what you think anyway?
But, I am warning you all (in this very annoyingly long author's note) that this story is very hideous (I tried to fix it up a bit, but… it's still… bad, to say the least) so if you flame me to the fiery pits of Hell I understand. (Have you ever seen so many parenthesis in three short paragraphs? Thought not.)
PS. Please listen to "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot" by Brand New before or after reading this. You'll see more of me at the end of this story. I have lots to say, apparently.
Don't-own-eet! If I did this day (January 26, 2010, for the record) wouldn't be so depressing because, of course, nobody would be dying. Except Takada. Because we all know Takada's a bitch. (: K thx, bai!]]
If it makes you less sad, I will die by your hand,
Hope you find out what you want, already know what I am;
Every time. Every time I would even mention one of my anxiously and slapdash thought out plans to prevent our dying, his head would lower in such a pathetic way. He'd whisper to me that he was sorry, but I'd never want to hear it. I'd just huff out an exhausted breath of air and turn up the static television or unpause my game console. He said that I hid behind my goggles but he always hid behind the bangs of that cornsilk hair of his. I was upset but I would never say I would die because of him; but die for him. There's such a big difference in the change of a few words.
For as long as I've known him, Mello was searching for salvation. It always seemed pointless to me. I never believe anything that I can't see with my own two eyes. Although I had a lack of religion in my history it didn't stop me from wanting him to find what he was looking for. If there was such a thing as God and all that, I already knew where I stood-- on the border of Heaven and Hell. I didn't believe, but it still didn't stop me from praying to empty space after he left Wammy's. Begging the empty air-- nothingness-- to bring him back to me.
And if it makes you less sad, we'll start talking again,
You can tell me how vile, I already know that I am;
We hardly speak anymore. I never realized how much a simple pass of words between us meant to me until it stopped happening. Now… now it was either yes or no questions about the Kira case or screaming matches, sometimes that included fists, about whatever idiotic subject that we disagreed on. God, Kira, what system to use, the television station that was on-- if we could talk about it, we'd fight about it. He'd always throw out the "useless" card on me. I'd been labeled that my entire life but it never hurt as much as it did when he said it and actually meant it.
I don't want things to stay like that. I want our pointless conversations back.
I'll grow old, start acting my age,
Be a brand new day in a life that you hate;
Mello always called me babyish. Whether playing my games "like a twelve year old" or biting my nails "like a fucking toddler" or anything else he could nag me about; it was much to immature in his eyes. Does he not understand how young we still were? I acted far beyond my years; not only in my mind. We both did. Working for far too many hours and knowing that we'd soon die. We've always been mature-- we're geniuses, but that's just ridiculous.
In the midst of all this, selfishly, I want him to open those ice blue eyes in the morning and see only me. Smile a childish smile and kiss me breathless. As selfish as it is I want to be the breath of fresh air in his hellish life. To be the weekend to his awful week, the sunrise to his terrifying night. I was sick of his attention being on something else all the time. Sick of Kira, Near, everything, except for Mello.
A crown of gold, a heart that's harder than stone,
And it hurts to hold on, but it's missed when it's gone;
I remember when I first saw him, at only seven years old. He was laying underneath a weeping willow, the leaves and branches so low even someone as short as me could touch them if I went up on tiptoe. A thick book held above his head, flipping pages occasionally at a lazy pace. He was gorgeous. Hair that could hardly be described as yellow (it's far too dull of a word for him) sprawled out in the emerald grass, peachy skin flushed just enough to tell he had been out in the sun too long, lashes casting spidery shadows across his cheeks, and those eyes. The aqua, ice, teal, slate, cerulean orbs that were like snowy cold fire-- or like ice that was burning, I could decide which description was more accurate. I thought he was an angel. I was sure he'd be the kindest in the universe. His looks made people assume he was innocent, gentle even. But as soon as you got a closer look at those irises that were freezing fire, no-- burning ice, you could see the frozen-over soul that hid within such a beautiful creature. A dark angel, a demon in disguise.
And I still remember every tiny detail of my life with the demon angel dressed head to toe in black cotton. I hold onto that kind of stuff because right now my life is a time bomb. Every ticking second gets me closer to the finish line. Days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. The anxiety of each day alone is enough to put me out. It hurts to think and it's depressing to be awake. Even though life is Hell, for some reason thinking about it being over hurts even worse.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not;
I'm glad that you can forgive, only knowing as time goes,
You can forget;
People seem to easily think they can count on me for things they need to do, jobs they need to get done. They trust me, of all people, to do their dirty work. I find it ironic because they all label me useless while they need to use me. Confusing, huh? My "puppy dog" loyalty got me into all sorts of trouble. It got me into trouble and it will literally be the death of me. Sure, you can count on me to be loyal if I actually like you, but if not I'll probably screw you over without a second glance back in your direction. It's just how I am. Always have been, always will be. I can't even count how many lives I've probably ruined with my mediocre hacking alone. I can't even imagine how many people have fallen at my hand with the high-class shit I do.
I can't find reason to care.
I sometimes wonder if this is a low-class version of what Kira does. Am I no better than a mass murderer? We both ruin lives without consequence. Sure, I don't take a person's life but when you loose everything you might as well be dead. Nobody wants to live life like that.
If it makes you less sad, I'll move out of this state,
You can keep to yourself, I'll keep out of your way;
When he figured out it was the end with one-hundred percent certainty, he wanted me gone. Well, he called it "safe". Safe isn't by myself though and we both knew I'd be better off dead than without him. I've always been codependent-- clingy. We had screamed and hit over that too; for once, I won. Even he couldn't push me away from him.
I once promised that if we could just leave-- just get out of the States, I'd give him everything he'd ever want. I'd give up smoking, maybe even gaming if he'd just come be safe with me. I'd stay out of his hair when he gave me that "I'm-annoyed-at-you" look. We could go sightseeing and window-shopping like a fru-fru, small dogs in purses type of couple. He'd laughed at me for even suggesting it. And I knew than he wouldn't give up the Kira case for anything-- not even for me. I guess nothing with me is what he wanted. He wanted Kira's head and the title of "number one" and no matter how I willed it, I could never give those things to him.
And if it makes you less sad, I'll take you pictures all down,
Every picture you've hanged, I will paint myself out;
When Mello had returned from retrieving his photo from Near, he was dripping wet from driving through the outside's sprinkling rain on a motorcycle. I was sitting on our old sofa, drinking hot coffee (the cheap, bitter kind) and trying to play the DS with one hand when he entered. I could smell the rainwater dripping from his hair as he walked past me to sit promptly on the old recliner in the corner. He flipped the small rectangle of photo over and over and over again, brows pushed together; although, I could never tell what he was thinking about, I could tell he was thinking about something. The flames that licked away the smirk on the childish face were mesmerizing, destroying the last reminiscence of our past.
It's cold as a tomb, and it's dark in your room,
When I sneak to your bed, to pour salt in your wounds;
Our dilapidated apartment was cheap. Always hot in the summer. Freezing in the winter, making fingers and toes like ice, allowing body warmth to be acceptable and sought out. I'd never been able to sleep when I was alone in the cold ever since I was a child. Laying in my bed, under layers of blankets and quilts, I wouldn't be able to turn my brain off. Pitch black, icy, I'd slip from the covers and onto the wooden floor. The pitter pat of the pads of my feet against the floor seemed ear-piercing after sitting so long in the quiet hum of the night.
In all my tee-shirt and sweat pants glory I'd wander to the closed door of Mello's room. For minutes at a time I'd stand outside of his door, dangerous subjects like "God" and the afterlife planting in my mind. Eventually, my antsy mood would lead me to open the door and tip toe to the edge of his bed.
"We're going to Hell, aren't we?" It was the grand question at that time of our lives-- the beginning of the end. It seemed to be my favorite to ask, seeing as how many times I'd asked it before. Mello would grumble a few incoherent hums before sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, a permanent scowl on his face.
Always, his reply would be, "Not this again, Matt." Even the very first time I'd asked him it was, "Not again Matt." I would pause, sit on the silk-covered mattress, and gather my thoughts before speaking. Mello was strangely patient when I got like that. He'd just sit and wait, ready to answer whatever question was thrown at him to the best of his religious ability. Even during those guilt-ridden, awkward-moment nights I would never seem to talk about myself. I'd cruelly throw around how he'd killed, slept with, stolen-- it equaled Hell, right? That poor angels face would wear a very depressed expression as I'd rant and rave. Which, in turn, made me feel guilty for even waking him up in the first place.
"Maybe me Matt, but never you. You're not damned like me." Opening and closing my mouth; ashamed, he'd kiss me on the forehead or hair or neck. And always, without fail, I would crawl in the open spot next to him, smooch him straight on the mouth, and snuggle in for a night of guilt filled empty hours.
So call it quits, or get a grip,
Say you wanted a solution, you just wanted to be missed;
It was one or the other. No grey area. Either give up and leave before the day of impending doom or get a hold of yourself… wait t out. See how everything happens. Die.
He was much nobler than I. Sure, he was in a craze to beat "number one" but, at the same time, deep down he did want to do all the "sacrificing" stuff for the common good. Give the guy some credit. Mello wanted to show the world of Kira worshippers that they were under the command of an idealistic, fake, very mortal person who claimed himself God. I was just going along with it. Taking it in one stride, because that's what he was doing. Mello. I'd follow him to the ends of the Earth. I know that when most people think of funerals, they think of the person's loved ones nearly more than the person who actually died. Family, friends, lovers. All of that for me was in one person. So mine's not going to be like most funerals. Mine'll be the type where the preacher or pastor or whatever "holy vessel" decides to say a few words to peace my restless spirit will be feeling awfully uncomfortable with a dead gut for company. I can see the poor guy now. Wringing and twisting the fabric of whatever holy robe he wears thinking about how awful of a person I must have been for nobody at all to show up to say goodbye. It's just the sad fact of my life. I knew I didn't have very many social skills but that's just a bit ridiculous. Was I really that bad?
Maybe Roger or Linda will decide to drop in. Grace me with their presence and shit. They'll hear about our deaths, if they can even identify the bodies. They'll come down to L.A. or wherever my sad little grave would be and stand just as awkwardly as the preacher who didn't even know me. Roger, I can guess, will be thinking about what a doofus I was for
That's why. He had such a grand purpose, while I was the worthless laggy. My only reason was puppy dog loyalty and the fear of losing him. The world better remember him. Remember what he did for them. Scum better appreciate him for putting out his fire for the likes of them. I don't care if they don't remember me. I don't give a damn if they know me or miss me. I've known since I was young that I wasn't worth remembering; I always knew that I'd be the shadow in someone else's illuminating light. He'll be missed. Whether people want to or not, I swear on it. I'll haunt every one of them until their asses are grateful.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not;
I'm glad that you can forgive,
Only hoping as time goes you can forget;
In the grand scheme of things, I'm pretty useless. Less than a pawn in a child's game of chess. Useless; funny that word should come back to haunt me. I hope he'll forgive me for being so worthless to him. I know I've forgiven him for all the stupid ass things he's done. From breaking my pencil box when I was seven; to snapping my goggles in my face countless times; to laughing at me when I begged for a kiss; to abandoning me at the Wammy's House… for leading me into the End. I don't care. I had the slightest bit of anger towards him for the first few moments in realizing that this plan would lead us straight into Death's hands. I'm over it. I am forgetting and forgiving before we move on. I just hope he can do the same for me.
So you can forget;
The last night we had together all I can remember was that I didn't leave his bed. We just sat there. Matt and Mello became nothing. We became nothing at all. We had no names, no life, no past. It was just us on a silky mattress. Not speaking, not touching, not moving, trying not to think. I couldn't pull my eyes away from the silvery-blue moonlight pouring from the cracks in the blinds and onto the wooden floors; casting it's lustrous rays onto our skin in stripes.
You can forget;
I can't recall how long we had been sitting there when I finally got the nerve and emotion to cast my goggle hidden eyes over to Mello's face. The moonlight made it seem like there were tears pooling in the corners of his eyes but I knew it had to be a trick of the light. Brining my fingertips to his cheek in such a gentle way-- as if he would break if I pressed any harder. It was a feathery brush that could hardly be called a caress. Slowly, ever so slowly, I traced the pads of my fingertips from his cheek to those peach-pink lips of his; they were now a cool gray in the lighting. His wavering eyes locked onto mine, through the goggles and all. Calculating. Always calculating.
You are calm and reposed,
Let you beauty unfold;
I knew that when his leather vest was on the floor and he clutched the cross on his rosary until his knuckles were white, that sex was going to be a very bitter goodbye. Every movement was excruciatingly precise. Be slow, be gentle, or our entire world would fall to bits.
How I like the skin stretched over your bones;
When the last goodbyes were whispered without even being spoken and Mello fell fast asleep on the sheets next to my bare body, I was the one calculating. I examined every breath, every heartbeat through his chest with intense fascination. Like a child in the wake of any living creature. I wanted to memorize it all. Every tiny movement and sleepy moan he made didn't go unnoticed and accounted for. Sweaty skin and tense muscle pulling as he stretched out. This is how I wanted him forever. Alive. Not laying stone cold and dead in a casket, fire extinguished.
Spring keeps you ever close, you are secondhand smoke;
He was always there, from the moment I was reborn into "Matt". Like the smell of tobacco that lingers in the air when you move into an old smokers house. His presence had to be known. I walked out of Roger's office feeling like a whole new person, trying to forget my past, whispering the new name I had been given, hearing it out loud. It felt good, strong. It matched what I wanted people to see me as.
I found my room and was surprised to see the dark angel that I had walked past just earlier that morning sitting on one of the beds, munching on a bar of chocolate like it wasn't only ten o'clock in the morning.
"What'd they stick you with?" he said behind that book of his, not even sparing me a glance. I knew he was asking for my new name. My name. My new name. My new identity. My new life.
"Matt." I wanted it to sound as promising as it did in my head but my voice and persona deceived me. The word came out as a choked and nervous sob. I felt my stomach sink; this was the exact opposite of what I wanted.
"Matt." the blonde boy repeated. But when he said it, it felt right. He made it sound strong and promising, like the start of something new.
"Yes." I nodded, "I'm Matt."
We had breaks from school in the springtime; just like in any normal public school. I relished in these short escapes from (Mello's) constant working. It wasn't because I liked the weather or the love or the "spring fever" but because Mello seemed to get spring fever. Unlike any other school break, he would actually stop studying for a while. He was able to take a vacation from the land of textbooks, from the stupid pressure of ranks and numbering people. At least twice during every spring break he'd pluck the game I was playing out of my tinkering hands with a deadly serious look on his face. He would proceed to explain to me how "unnaturally pale" I was and how much I was "a vampire and an albino" and all these facts about how I'd die without getting sun. It annoyed me to no end at first that my precious game was out from under my nose but when he dragged me outside and we sat under the very willow that I saw him laying under when I first saw him, I felt somewhat cared for. Like somebody in my life actually cared.
When he handed me a book and I groaned in annoyance I felt my heart swell up when I thought that now, finally, I had a reason. I was important to somebody. I rested my head against the rough bark of the tree and made sure the pages of the book hid my tears.
You are so fragile and thin, standing trial for your sins
Holding onto yourself the best you can;
I've heard that you're judged when you die and are trying to get into heaven. God judges every person and decides whether it's heaven or hell. A test to decide if your soul is worthy enough to bask in His presence everyday for the rest of eternity. I can just imagine; Mello, so scared, getting judged by his God. I know he's scared I've walked in on him before to see him kneeling by his bed, whispering all sorts of prayers that I'll never know in a crazed, frantic sort of way. As if time were running out. His rosary was clutched with both hands, eyes shut so tightly it almost looked painful to pray.
I've also heard that people in heaven can change places with people in hell. Like some sick bargain between God and the devil. No matter though; if, by some miracle, I go to heaven and Mello doesn't I'd switch with him in a heartbeat. He deserves so much more. He's sacrificed enough of himself, I need to be more like him. I'd sacrifice my "salvation" for him, I don't care. I wish I can guarantee him we'll be all right. Maybe than I'd stop seeing him praying for forgiveness in a frenzy, hugging around his torso as tight as his fingers can hold, in obvious fear of falling apart.
You are the smell before rain,
You are the blood in my veins;
Simple things made the big differences. Everything. That's what he was to me. Someone who gave you your first kiss; someone who was there from the beginning; the person who was your first friend; the first you felt love for; who takes your virginity. He was all of those things. He was my "special first" for everything because he was all I had. It was always him.
A brother, best friend, caretaker, crush, lover. How could there be anyone else when he took up all the room in my heart? He had every part of me. And when I think of him I don't know where to start. Flashes of memories come swirling into my head like a typhoon.
Mello, standing in the rain outside the Wammy's House; head thrown back, eyes closed, getting soaked to the bone. His blue umbrella down by his ankles, purposefully thrown to the side. Mello, his blonde hair pulled into a hurriedly thrown together ponytail, strands sticking out every which way, trying to cook a decent meal. He pulled off the crazy housewife look and when I told him this he'd thrown the first object he could reach in my direction: a frying pan.
Reading a book or studying nonstop. With dark rings under his pretty eyes and the annoying click, click, click of the pen as he tapped it against his desk. Something he always did when he was in deep thought. The familiar and somewhat comforting snap of chocolate being broken off by teeth. Licking the melted parts off of his pale fingers with that sinful, darting pink tongue. He smelt of cocoa, cigarette smoke, leather, and fancy cologne. It was just so him. Him looking over at me suggestively when he noticed me staring at his chocolate-tasting mouth.
Mello, rubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Sore from sitting in front of screens all day and night. He stretched out with bone-cracking effects. Mello standing with his hands on his hips, the signature scowl on his face, cheeks and ears heating up in frustration as he demanded that the brute who had broken my damn Nintendo DS to step forward now or forever be beaten into the next decade. Mello silently watching waking me up at five thirty in the morning with a finger to his lips as if he were to say "shhh". Leading me down the stairs before anyone else in the House had stirred to point excitedly at the eight-foot tall pine tree standing perfectly decorated in the middle of the elegant room; presents of every sort placed preciously underneath.
Mello reaching over the passengers seat of my car to turn up the radio to hear a song we had heard a million and one times growling up. Singing along together, even though I'm not the best singer in the world, I liked to listen to his voice. Mello was good at everything. Even singing. Mello blowing out the candles on his chocolate birthday cake with chocolate fillings and chocolate frosting. With a side of chocolate ice cream and chocolate syrup on top. Oh, and a nice cup of chocolate milk to wash it all down. All the kids at Wammy's felt sick for days after Mello's chocolate feast. Even I felt queasy after all that cocoa intake.
There's never going to be anymore of that. They'll be no more birthdays. I'm going to die just days before mine.
God help Mello. Please.
Mello, Mello, Mello. Help him, please God, please, please.
Call me a safe bet, I'm betting I'm not;
I promised myself that I wouldn't fall apart in the end, but it's hard to keep yourself together when you know you're just getting dressed in the morning and leave just to never come back home. And when you walk out the door in the evening that you're walking towards your own demise.
Please God, I pray for the first time since the explosion, please save us.
[[So, here's the quick question I have. Why does everybody hate song fics so much? I know this question is just begging for flamers. Bring it on, mother nature! . Not all song fics are as disgusting as this one (I'm a disgrace to Matt and Mello! TT^TT) So, tell me, why the song fic hate? Is it just like the Mary-Sue thing? I like-- no, love song fics. I like being able to add songs to my MxM play list (Yes, I have one of those.)
Oh, and I know. I wrote a dreaded song fic. I had to do something for today! I know how everyone hates them; slap my wrist. I did it… for the heck of it.
I apologize before anyone flames. Sorry fir these retardedly long a/n. I've never had so much to say…]]