Title: The Perils and Pros of Cosplay
Spoilers: Up to chapter 99 / episode 35.
Warnings: Language, boys kissing boys and one bout of jealous violence
Status: Complete
Summary: A story of Matt, Mello, an eye-patch and mallet combo, fangirls, Pocky, too much manga, and one pretty-boy who exists to confuse.
This oneshot is dedicated to the amazing ElenAtalantie, who put the idea of Matt at a convention into my head, and is genuinely wonderful in every way.
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THE PERILS AND PROS OF COSPLAY
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All things considered, Matt knows it could be much, much worse. Slightly chilly silences and clipped answers to any direct questions posed are approximately a minus eleven on Mello's Rage Scale, so he is perfectly happy to endure and be grateful for the leniency.
He did, in fairness, just drag Mello through the London Underground whilst wearing a bandana, eye patch and crazy bondage boots. Wielding a mallet that looks like it belongs in Zelda. Even considering the slightly, uhh, provocative way that Mello usually dresses, Matt is out-doing him today. Factor in their destination as well and Matt feels distinctly lucky that all his internal organs have remained internal.
Thus far.
He has a funny feeling that when he (inevitably) has a complete fanboy moment over the newest volume of ROBOT, Mello's currently merciful nature will morph very rapidly into something more on the psychotic and murderous side of life.
However. Matt has agreed to go along with the other young man's lunatic and suicidal Plan FUBAR, and deserves a treat. Just because Mello was an utter imbecile and failed to ask precisely what he meant when he asked for a "day trip," Matt isn't going to hold back. Besides, he makes a fucking awesome Lavi. He even has the almost-Bookman attitude down. He's consistently torn between cold indifference and fierce caring for other people anyway, so all he's had to do is modify his sense of humour a little – still wry and sarcastic, but with a distinctly more cheerful and flirty edge.
And he is very much of the belief that Mello should wipe the pout off his face regarding that last bit. He's always saying that Matt should be less of a pessimist (hypocritical twat) – the picky git shouldn't go all po-faced when he tries it. Even if it is coming as part of the circus of horrors that is cosplay.
Fusspot.
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Mello's pained moan as they entered the hall was, in Matt's humble opinion, uncalled for. It's a little… Bright perhaps, but it's warm and friendly and welcoming.
And loud. Just a teensy bit loud.
Stalls upon stalls of sales teams, Asian Kung-Fu Generation pounding through the speakers with no care for noise pollution regulations, screaming fangirls and panting fanboys (and their unfortunate, dragged-along-with-nought-but-fear-in-their-hearts companions), cosplayers delivering and laughing maniacally at lines… It should terrify Matt more than a short-barrel to the temple. Mostly he's always stuck to the smaller, more elite conventions precisely to avoid the crowds that inspire both his distaste and his fear. But fuck it; he wants to go to one of the huge ones, just in case. Crowds don't hold too much fear for him right now, anyway – something about signing up for a violent (and, shit, extremely painful) death of your own free will, he's sure. It really does make your most severe phobias seem almost embarrassingly trivial.
Matt's pretty certain Mello hasn't figured it out yet – actually he knows he hasn't, because no way in hell would he have asked it of him otherwise; in fact he'd probably break the redhead's legs himself in a desperate attempt to ensure that the younger man stayed the fuck out of it. But Mello is (as unbelievable as it seems, even to Matt) being uncharacteristically and almost dangerously optimistic. Mello blatantly doesn't know that Matt sees this as his "last hurrah" in his geekery, and the image of the redhead being awkward just to piss him off suits the younger man just fine, thanks.
He grabs the blonde's hand, flashes his best smirk back at his strangely beautiful grimace, and wades into the fray.
ooo
Really Matt supposes that this was always inevitable. Unfamiliar surroundings, heaving crowds and his gorgeous but headstrong flatmate who hates PDAs with the same vehemence he usually reserves for pyjamas? They were always going to get separated, and, most likely, very lost.
It doesn't help that Mello had become steadily more irritable, ending with a threat to break one of Matt's arms if he asked to go to one more stall in the opposite direction. Or looked at one more scantily clad cosplayer, let one more fangirl take a photograph, or accidentally brushed his hip against Mello's hand one more time. Or, indeed, bought another manga to haul back to Japan with them.
Matt had finally snapped and tugged Mello close to snarl in his ear, "Remember me sitting through that plane ride to Bruges last week? Selling my home for you? Working my stupid arse off for you? I haven't asked a single fucking thing – not even for you to hold my sodding hand for a change. Stop bitching and let me have my goddamn day."
It was probably divine intervention that kept Mello silent long enough for Matt to get those few sentences. But then the cosmos had to go and try to balance itself back out; that Lenalee-clad witch had to bloody leap on him and tug him around to be photographed right when the fierce look in his flatmate's eyes began to soften. It took him just three seconds (a record when dealing with insane goddamn fangirls, truly) to extricate himself and turn back towards the pillar his favourite blonde had been leaning against. He hadn't really expected Mello to still be there – the man didn't surprise him.
And Matt feels bad for losing his temper and awful that Mello's not enjoying himself even a little, but he still knows he was right. He is right. He should have said it differently, but he's right.
Especially about the handholding.
Matt's not some girl. He doesn't need constant reassurances and contact (although he admits that most girls could be quite normal and sensible, and he could just have bloody awful taste in them – or terrible luck, depending on how you look at it). However, the level of affection Mello shows is right down at absolute zero unless they're post-coital, and Matt has to admit that it's starting to get to him.
Before, he'd had forever to wait for Mello to acknowledge just what they were. He'd had years to use patiently waiting for the cliché kiss in the rain and the mundane grocery shopping with fingers intertwined. Now he has just nine more days until he's pretty damned certain he'll bite the dust, and it doesn't half hurt like a bitch.
He's checked everything over and over, choosing the fastest, most effective route with the best chance of survival. He knows that if he does by some miracle keep his life, then he will almost certainly still be damaged. Disabled. And Matt, to his shame, is a bloody prideful bastard at the most damning of times. If that's how things go down he'll be as good as dead. He'll never let himself see Mello again, because he wants to be perfect in the blonde's eyes and although he doubts he's ever quite managed it, he still refuses to become less than his best in the ex-Mafioso's eyes (memory).
Which is why, rather than allowing him to stew and eventually cool down, Matt is desperately searching the crowds for the older boy.
ooo
He finds him quickly, of course. Mello wouldn't want to risk either of them being attacked with the other out of reach – because although this is London, thousands of miles from their main suspects, they aren't idiots. There were methods of murder before the crazy notebooks and shinigami landed, and believe it or not they're still just as effective.
So Matt finds him out on the patio overlooking the Thames, nursing what is probably a hot chocolate. With some stunning, just-stepped-off-the-screen Kanda toying with the ends of his hair as he gazes out across the water.
Fucking ouch, man.
It isn't just that Mello's allowing it despite destroying Matt's composure twice this morning (and Matt will never again be able to enter a Debenham's without feeling filthy), or even the fact that the git is just so much prettier than Matt feels – because Matt will forever be "geek chic" no matter what James (and Mel, at times) tells him. It's that it's Kanda.
Kanda.
Just… What?
Matt has been enjoying his time as Lavi immensely; he has always considered the junior Bookman to be the most badass -Man character out there – partially for solidarity between redheads, and partially because he is, god damn it. He fights with a giant mallet. 'Nuff said. To have Mello snub his Lavi and then go for a Kanda…
Kanda looks far too girly. He also has an angry and self-righteous streak a mile wide, which he shows off on an hourly basis. Basically, he's nothing like Matt. And really, that's the crux of the point, and the real reason for the (shall we simply go with "unsavoury"?) feelings clawing their way up his windpipe.
He wishes he didn't give a fuck. He wishes his investment in this… Whatever the hell it is with Mello could be equal to the blonde's. Being the only one holding his heart out is simply not worth it; the realisation doesn't do anything to help the situation though – he can't claim it back now. Knowing the power Mello has over him is terrifying. Until this moment he'd managed to tell himself that, sure, he was crushing on the beautiful young man, maybe even loved him a little, scars, bad temper and all, but "a little" was evidently an underestimation. Perhaps "besotted" or "hopelessly devoted" (preferably without the traumatic Grease flashbacks there) would have been more accurate estimations. Because right now he's kind of hoping Kira just gets the fuck on with it and kills him. Now please, bastard.
Screw it.
Sod Mello. He's happy out here. Matt, however, saw a Revoltech Eva five minutes ago, and before that he spotted the first three volumes of Ghost Talker's Daydream. He had been intent on restraining himself, but what the fuck. He can read about a clairvoyant albino dominatrix on the flight home. That'll piss blondie off. There were Mortal Kombat phone charms too, just three stalls along if memory serves. A Dante plushie. Half a ton of Pocky stationed at the end of every row of over-laden tables. He can spend every last penny of his savings, and Mello's too busy with his pretty-boy distraction to stop him.
The last thought is an unintended knife to his own stomach, and he glances back involuntarily.
Bad move.
Kanda is staring straight at him. Straight at him. With wide eyes and a delighted smile that really does screw up the whole 'in-character' deal. And why in the holy name of Capcom is he gawking like that anyway? They're dressed for the same series, so fucking what? It's not like Matt has any inclination to bond over it – and if the long haired git was really channelling Kanda he's want nothing to do with any of the redheads in the building. He hates Lavi. Only the fangi–
Shit.
Kanda hates Lavi in the series. Fandom takes a different view. Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck. Of course. No wonder the fangirls have turned down the volume and ceased shoving him.
Yeah. This is yet another example of why Matt's fear of crowds should not be ignored. There really isn't any way to retain his dignity and escape this without playing tonsil hockey with a stranger. Better yet, a stranger Mello is obviously more than just 'vaguely interested' in – he'd have told him to bugger off as soon as he got within three meters of his person otherwise.
Ha. If Mel wants the bastard, that's fine. At least now he'll be thinking of Matt whilst he's indulging in his little distraction.
The redhead takes a deep breath, before turning fully towards his counterpart and yelling delightedly, "YUU!"
The taller man storms forwards, giving Kanda's usual furious lines and insults, but Matt isn't paying too much attention. His eye is on Mello, and Mello's gorgeous, scarred and currently puce face – he only looks back at Kanda when they're close enough to touch. His fingers slide over the deep navy coat before him, and he vaguely marvels at the craftsmanship of the outfit as the cameras start flashing and the fangirls hold their collective breath.
He can feel Mello's eyes on them as he tilts his head up just slightly (the guy's wonderfully tall, just a couple of inches more than his favourite genius; Matt doesn't bother suppressing the blush at the reminder) and whispers, "Yuu."
"Lavi." His mouth is soft and his lips just a little moist. The fangirls are screaming, the cameras are flashing and the hands at the back of his neck and groping his arse are warm, and, fuck, Mello had better be getting an eyeful of this because even Matt has to admit that this bastard is good so if he ever wants the blonde back he has to make Mel think of him when he swans off with the gi–
Someone's leather-clad arm is around his waist, and the mouth that had been quite firmly attached to Matt's is expelling multiple curses per second. 'Kanda' is sprawled on the floor, lip bleeding and jaw bruised, gawking at the blonde currently pressed to Matt's left side. "What the fuck, man! Why – ?"
"Keep your damn mouth off my boyfriend, fucktard," Mello snarls, and Matt thinks this must be what a heart attack feels like. Not that he's complaining, but he doesn't remember being consulted about this. He's Mello's bed-warmer and best friend; nothing further has even been alluded to, never mind discussed.
"Since whe–?" He starts, only to be cut off by the sort of glare that, only a few months ago, was used to regularly cause hardened Mafioso to lose their ironclad bladder control. The gamer is proud to say he clings to his. Just.
"Since I gave you one of my waffles the next morning, you complete moron." The scream is deafening, and Matt abruptly remembers their audience. Shit, damn and motherfuck… Except he's been in agony for months, thinking Mello didn't feel as much for him as he did for the idiot blondie, and his temper is finally being roused from its usual state of unconsciousness.
"Don't go fucking insulting me, Florence, you never said anything."
"I thought it was obvious."
"Verbal confirmation would have been good," Matt snarls back.
Mello's expression is as unimpressed as his tone. "Like you provided?"
Shit. "Shit."
"Yeah."
"So you, umm…?"
Mello's eye-rolling skills are enviable, Matt distantly muses. "I what, twassock?"
"You, uhh, like me? Like like me?"
"Are you twelve?"
"Shut the fuck up! I'm not good at this shit, okay? Do you fucking like me?" The tears sting the backs of his eyes and he's pretty sure his face matches his hair, but he levels his best glare at Mello all the same. The effect, however, is probably hampered by the eye-patch.
"I like like you, Mattie."
"Really?" Matt queries in a small voice, trying to drown out the delighted squeals surrounding them. "Because you, uhh, he, I mean," he gestures helplessly at the now-standing victim of their mutual stupidity, and finishes on an almost-whisper, "You were letting him play with your hair, Mel."
The taller man shrugs. "Wasn't really paying attention, to be honest."
"Oh."
"You're the one who kissed him, wanker."
"Yeah. I guess. But it didn't count. Cameras."
"YOU KISS HIM, BLONDIE!" Everyone freezes, and Matt turns in horror towards the tiny brunette wearing half a ton of plum lace and wielding a digi-cam. "KISS!" she howls again, and the others start a damn chant in the wake of it. Crowds are officially the bane of Matt's existence.
The, "I can vouch for his skill, bastard," from the abused pretty-boy isn't quite a shout, but carries enough that the closest girls hear it over their own insanity, and the screams make Matt flinch into Mello's side, their hair mixing a little. He wants to run. He needs to get away from the bodies fencing him in, the eyes cataloguing him, the excessive body heat, and that terrible wall of sound. His feet shift, getting him ready to bolt, before Mello's right hand roughly shifts his eye-patch and fists in his hair, tugging him close and kissing him in front of at least thirty cameras and what seems like a hundred screaming yaoi fans.
Hard kiss, wet kiss, with tongue and teeth and a loving peck on the cheek at the end. The lunatics surrounding them are cheering, the poor bugger Matt accidentally got assaulted is smirking (or could just be smiling and half his face is too sore to move – Matt isn't quite certain), and as they shove their way out of the limelight Mello leans across and whispers, "I like like you, Annabel."
Laughter bubbles in his throat as they pass the first mountain of Pocky without pause. "Git." Mello raises an eyebrow. "I like like you too. Now hold my goddamn hand."
ooo
Matt sniggers again, and Mello leans across to see Misaki-chan wailing something about missing panties. "You worry me, Matt."
Matt can't help but feel delighted by the thought that the blonde cares enough for that. He's always known it, they're besties for crying out loud, but now a worried Mello means an excuse for a reassuring kiss, and Matt didn't know he could feel this happy. "She has a demon rope! That's cool, Mel!"
"Can't you just play with your toy robot instead?"
"Nope. And it's not a toy robot, twassock. It's a high-spec model of an Evangelion. Don't insult it."
Mello lots out a long suffering sigh. "Fine, whatever. I'm tired. Just… Please? We're seriously going to get charged with something if you keep reading porn with a thirteen year old kid right behind you."
"It's not porn."
"It's close e-fucking-nough, Annabel."
"Cease."
"You called me Florence, douche. Reap what you fucking sow."
Matt reaches back into his nest of plastic bags, tugging out an already crumpled box. "Have some Pocky and cheer up. I had a lot of fun."
"Fu– Why the shit did you buy Pocky, you moron? We live in fucking Japan!"
"Rations for the journey. It's the chocolate ones."
"Gimme. And I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, geeklet. My fingers are bruised."
"The macho display of ownership was very sweet."
"I'll bruise the rest on you."
"No you won't. You like like me."
"That I do." Mello's lips brush his cheek – the flight attendants look scandalised and delighted all at once – and Matt puts the almost-porn away in favour of tangling their hands together on the armrest.
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Thank you so much for taking the time to read this – I really hope you enjoyed it. If you have the time and inclination, feedback would be very much appreciated. No flames please, but constructive criticism is loved as much as praise.