A/N: This is the first fanfic I've actually completed, (I usually start writing, then never finish the story) so creative criticism will be very much appreciated. I hope you enjoy.
Matt stares, unseeing, at the screen in front of him. Frantically pressing buttons to make little virtual people run around is something he does every day, so, naturally, this is where he seeks comfort. Even if his mind is anything but focused on the game, even if his thoughts consist of nothing but distress and vexation, his daily customs remain. If you stick to a typical routine, you can block out the irregular, disturbing factors, and everything will stay normal… right?
The screen goes black.
"Shit."
And then those words appear. Those horrid, vile, dreaded words.
GAME OVER.
Matt tosses the console inattentively onto the sofa, irritated, and runs a pale hand through knotted, crimson-tinged tresses. He gets to his feet, slinking into the untidy bathroom and, due to the numbness in his toes, almost trips, grabbing blindly at the door-frame to steady himself. He makes his way to the sink and splashes cool water against his face, yet this does nothing to change his fatigued appearance - bitten, chapped lips, deathly white skin, purple, bruise-like shadows under the thickly lash-fringed eyes - but he doesn't acknowledge this.
He stands on the bathroom threshold for a second, staring out into the maddeningly silent apartment. It's the kind of silent where, after a while, it isn't silent at all. The kind where you begin to hear low, droning voices that aren't even there. They reverberate through your skull, steadily increasing until you feel your very insides rattle. They progress to the point where they aren't low drones any more. They are chilling, heart-wrenching, high-pitched screeches, and you grip handfuls of your own hair, you curl your whole being into a cramped ball in an attempt to escape the silent wailing.
Not even the rise and fall of soft breathing is audible.
Maybe I should check on him.
A hesitant step towards the bedroom.
No, what if I wake him? He's fine, he's fine…
Slumping back onto the sofa instead, Matt gazes, unblinking, up at the ceiling, picking out little routes in the cracks as if it's a map. He is exhausted.
Of course, he doesn't realise this. Or rather - he refuses to realise, and his eyes remain wide in a state of compulsory awareness.
A shuffling sound, and a quiet creak.
"M… M-Matt?"
A series of small whimpers.
Matt is on his feet in less than a second, tearing through the bedroom doorway.
"M-Matt…" The word is torn by a weak sob.
"It's okay," the younger boy whispers, snaking his arms around a pair of skeletal shoulders. "It's okay, Mels."
Pearly golden locks tickle Matt's face, and slender porcelain fingers clutch desperately at his baggy shirt, searching for comfort. He forces himself to pull away from the frail figure for a moment, reaching for a small vial on the bedside table. Dripping some of the clear liquid onto a piece of cotton, he flinches as the harsh, acrid tang of the ointment stings his weary eyes.
"No, p-please Matt…" The fragile form on the bed begins to back away, trembling. "It hurts too much…"
"I know, I know," Matt leans forward, pushing back the sweat-soaked fringe from Mello's forehead and placing a delicate kiss there. "But this stuff will make it better."
He hears the doubt in his own tone as the latter statement leaves his lips, and mentally slaps himself. A feeble attempt at assurance.
Yet, what else can he do? Mello should be in a hospital, not a cheap apartment. Under professional care, not under that of his desperate roommate following the instructions of a backstreet doctor. But of course, that isn't a possibility. Mello has been involved in too many crooked incidents. A blatant outlaw. And Matt - although he remains unknown - is behind the hackings of several official government systems. His caution and expert skills have left him anonymous, but he's pretty damn sure that if he were to walk into a hospital with Mello, they'd both be locked up before he could blink.
So, consequently, all he can do is take care of Mello himself. Cleaning the burns, the charred flesh. Holding him when he cries - delusional from untrustworthy medication.
The blond recoils as ointment-soaked cotton is dabbed against the marred skin of his left shoulder, his face, his chest. Matt's (somewhat shaking) free hand steadies the disfigured body, comforting words leaving quivering lips. Then thin arms are thrown around Matt's neck, and Mello's body is suddenly quaking once more with violent, helpless sobs. Matt's face is crushed into the other's exposed neck, and he inhales deeply. Despite the mingled odours of scorched skin and harsh ointments, past his own reek of cigarette smoke, Mello's essence is prominent, and Matt relishes in it. This familiar, comforting scent. Memories come crashing through his mind - drowning all coherent thoughts of the present.
Memories of simple times. Times which, ironically, resemble the current situation. At Wammy's House, Mello and Matt were roommates. Mello and Matt were best friends. Mello and Matt were in their own distant world - utterly oblivious to anyone else.
Mello got into trouble more than often, and Matt would usually end up tangled in the situation one way or another, despite the desperate objections of "Mello… I don't think this is such a good idea…" and "Mels, you're gonna get us into trouble again…"
One particular incident had concluded with Mello being locked in the dormitory as punishment - all his chocolate bars confiscated. Matt had crept downstairs - retrieving the precious chocolate, and returned to a sulking Mello sitting cross-legged on the top bunk, facing the wall. He had only turned around when he heard the rustle of the treasured chocolate bars after his best friend had climbed up to join him on the bed. Matt had received a none-too-quiet thank you, then Mello had grabbed a handful of the younger's over-sized shirt - pulling him forward to plant a clumsy kiss on his unsuspecting lips. Matt had just sat there, blushing, failing to conceal his nervous little smile.
He is ripped harshly from the reverie: suddenly aware of the feeble person in his arms pleading for him to "make it stop", and reaches for a small plastic container, spilling a single white capsule into his palm. Mello knows the cue - he parts his lips slightly, allowing Matt to place the sedative on his tongue, and swallows it down with the water from the glass being pressed to his lips.
Matt watches as slumber slowly takes over each of Mello's features. His long lashes flutter as his eyes begin to drop shut, the creases at his brow steadily melting away from his milky skin. Matt leans in to steal a kiss from the pale lips, then sits up to gaze at Mello's now sleeping face. He is oblivious to the raw scarring - drawn in by the beauty of the peaceful features in all their flawless tranquillity.
Then, the crude sting of solitude kicks in. The glaring, bitter wave of detachment; and Matt starts to panic. Not even Mello's mere beauty can destroy the desperate, hopeless anxiety making its swift return. Wide, frightened eyes scan the room frantically… finally coming to rest on the small container, still clasped between shuddering fingers.
A heavy sigh escapes the chapped lips as a small white pill is pushed around a pallid palm: scrutiny beating down upon it.
The tablet is brought to the lips in a quick motion, drowsy eyes are squeezed shut, and the capsule is swallowed weakly.
Matt sighs once again, head drooping forward to rest against Mello's collar bone.
Waiting; begging, to be engulfed by blissful numbness.