"It's a dead end."
For the first time in hours, Mello directed his attention outward, his vision narrowed down to what the headlights and the hatred allowed. They were, indeed, lost. The road ahead tapered off into gravel, overgrown grass, and finally forest. "What the fuck, Matt? Where are we?"
"We're exactly where you told me to go," Matt responded conversationally, easing the car into park, leaning on the steering wheel, and looking at Mello with an expectant expression.
"Then keep driving," he ordered with an emphatic kick at the dashboard.
Matt snorted. "Don't be stubborn, Mello. This is the deadest dead end I've ever seen. If I keep driving, we'll end up in China."
Mello's canines dug into dark chocolate, his words snapping alongside the substance: "You must've missed a turn. I can't trust you with the simplest task, can I? All it takes is some whore's ass to distract you."
"That's not fair."
"That's being generous."
Matt sighed, mumbled something about a cigarette, and got out of the car.
"Yeah, well, don't expect me to be here when you're done!" Mello shouted after him, but by then the darkness had shrouded Matt and made the distance between them indiscernible. A bitter aftertaste settled on his tongue as the last of his chocolate bar dissolved, and though a minute at most passed alone, Mello decided his friend's presence was overdue. Scowling, he crawled out the open driver's side door and called, "Matt, get your ass back here! Matt!"
No response, but his instincts guided him just as well, straight to where Matt was crouched.
"Hey, Mello, look what I found."
"Look what I found, Mel."
Unlike Mello, Matt wasn't the type to dwell on things, and he was hard-pressed to give a damn about anything, memory or ideal or material. He hated "trinkets", as he once made the mistake of referring to Mello's rosary and religion. He liked things that changed the way one looked at the world, even shortly: goggles with colored lenses, dizzying graphics, drugs and booze, orgasms and adrenaline, faster and higher and harder.
Most of all, Matt liked Mello.
So, when the dog dragged something in, however dangerous and illegal and odd, he had his master in mind. Mello, being a fourteen-year-old boy and a bit off-kilter himself, was more often than not delighted with Matt's finds, from cocaine to car keys, and thought these offerings from dog to master (or worshiper to god) were one of Matt's more endearing qualities.
That day, perhaps more than any other day, Mello loved Matt.
"A gun?" Mello practically purred the word as he commandeered the sleek, silver pistol from Matt's slack grip and aimed it playfully at his friend's head. Matt grinned, and Mello smirked, lowering the weapon and inspecting it more closely, almost devotedly, with the same devouring gaze he reserved for chocolate.
It was… beautiful, like nothing in this world should be: reckless and messy and so volatile.
"You like it that much?"
Uncharacteristically sluggishly, Mello looked up and nodded his response.
"Why don't you try it out?" Matt suggested, literally the devil at Mello's shoulder, his breaths pooling hot, hotter, hottest (hellfire) in the curve of Mello's collarbone.
Against overwhelming temptation, Mello reasoned, "Nobody worth shooting… besides Near, I mean, but everybody would know it was me…"
"You could shoot me." Matt was serious.
"Why would I shoot you? You're my… friend."
Smiling mysteriously, Matt murmured into his ear, "I just think, being shot… wouldn't that be a rush? I want to be shot, at least once, before I die. I'd rather you shoot me, but if not, I could always do the job myself."
Mello shook his head, brushing up against Matt slightly, and said: "You're more twisted than I thought. I'm confiscating this gun, and if you want it, you'll have to…" An idea occurred to Mello, and his lips upturned in a manner most perverse. "You'll have to get in my pants."
Tucking the gun into the front of his black jeans, Mello returned his attention to the textbook on his desk, considering the battle won; but the next moment, Matt's hand was on his stomach. The silence dared them to speak, to do anything but simply breathe.
Matt dipped his hand into the darkness, ignoring Death; and he touched Mello.
Matt's hand looked like it was grasping something, at first, his fingers absorbing the dead end darkness at odd angles. It was only when Matt shifted his cigarette between his lips, sending sparks of light like fireflies into the night, that the tripwire glinted and caught Mello's attention.
"Careful, Matt. That's most likely connected to a landmine."
"I know, I know, one of those explode-y thingies. Don't you want matching scars?" Matt joked; Mello was unamused. He grabbed the collar of Matt's vest, as one would the scruff of the neck of a disobedient pet, forcing his friend to stand up and back a few feet away from the wire.
"You just don't get it, do you?" His hand slid to Matt's shoulder and gripped it, heavily, furiously, (desperately) connecting them where eye contact wasn't possible. "Death is real, and we're chasing him. This isn't a game, or a joyride, and we… aren't children anymore, with the luxury of thinking ourselves invincible." Then they parted, as only two who were used to it could. Matt's chin drooped and disappeared behind his vest, reverent or just resigned, as Mello turned away. "Matt, I… don't want you to die. I already have enough on my conscience. Let's get back to the car, and let's get out of this alive, alright?"
A succession of sharp sounds, and by the time Mello realized, it was too late. Matt took a running jump and landed on the other side.
"Matt… I never thought you'd be killed… forgive me…"
Matt, I'm so sorry…
I never…
Forgive me…
Never.
Finally, Matt replied, "I'd forgive you, but it wasn't your fault in the first place. Besides, it was fun. At least once, I wanted to die."
"But I didn't want you to die. I didn't want to die. It's too dark, too endless, and I feel so… dead-ended, by comparison. Matt, I feel so dead. Do you have a light? Are you looking for me, are you listening? Where are you?"
"I'm right here."
"'Here'?"
"I'm your seeing-eyes. I'm your right hand. I'm your legs, running there and back again. I'm here, Mello. I'm your heart."
Mello and Matt never separated for long.
Leather scrunching alongside every muscle in his body, his scar especially pinching up to the point of pain, Mello followed his friend over the tripwire. His feet and punch landed simultaneously, Matt's jawbone grinding as gravelly as the road. Matt didn't defend himself.
"Irresponsible." Smack. "Inconsiderate." Slap. "You're so worrisome, Matt." Tap.
Mello's hand settled so softly upon Matt's bloodied face, and it stayed there, half-cradling, half-smothering the words: "This is invincible, Mello."
A/N: ...I try. Detailed feedback, or any feedback at all, is so appreciated.