Suspirare
He's going again, like a demon, going going, his mind moving too damn fast for Matt to keep up. His long pale fingers flash like percussive lightning bolts over his laptop keyboard. It sounds like a heartbeat, tmp tmp tmp; Mello does everything with intent.
If Mello's brain came with sound effects, he'd sound like a racecar, one long circuitous vroooooooom, the song of power, power, and speed. That's what this is, a race, a game, one ends in fire and death and the other ends in victory and death (just a little bit later, that's all) so what's the point, really, in even racing at all?
He'd earn five things for that statement: Mello's fingers twitch and Matt can already feel the red stain begin to prickle beneath his skin. Shut up, he barks, like a bitter old dog, sharp black pointed ears and fangs worn down to stumps. He says, Who are you to lecture me about futility? He says, I have to do this. He says, I didn't mean it.
The truth is, Matt only earns one thing for his smart mouth: the inch between Mello's first knuckle of his right hand and the second, and Matt doesn't feel the bruises anymore. The truth is, Mello doesn't say anything. But Matt hears him anyway.
Don't tell me what to do.
He going again, more like a demon every day, less like the kid Matt used to know, this airbrushed vision of lamplight and mania in cerulean blue and blood-red blonde, vicious and wonderful underneath the naked light. When he struck him then, it was like holding a bundle of tiny lightning, a frisky dog with strength behind its paws and intelligent eyes, brilliant, new.
That kid is gone now, gone, gone in the wake of the demon's dust, like shadow plays and long lost friends.
All Matt has is his one thing. The same way Mello has his.
(Kira probably has one too, now that he thinks about it.)
Matt flicks open his lighter, a metal, click, whisper of a flame. Closes it, clink, and lets the ghost of the light flash and play before his eyes.
Beep, boop. Beeeeeeeeeeeep.
One thing.
It's better than nothing.