A/N: Something I wrote on a whim, also my second attempt at something in present-tense. Based on the though of what it was like the first time Mello killed a man, and then Matt appeared there as the narrator. Could be seen as a slight AU for Matt being with Mello in the Mafia, depending on how you view canon.

Anyway, hope you enjoy

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Matt wishes he could say it was cold out, freezing, it should be cold like that, in a place like this. His breath should be visible like the smoke he blends it with, emanating from a cigarette he should be trying hard not to let slip from numbed fingers, thats how it should be, but things are never that way.

Its hot, sweltering, the heavy air is pressing down on him and crushing into his lungs, weighing him down as he licks his dry lips and tastes another drag from the fag between his fingers. His shirt is sticking to him like a second skin and its stifling, all Matt wants to do is get up and move. Walk away, find a bar and order the coldest beer there is and drain it down so the chill hits his stomach like a swift kick to the gut.

But he's not allowed, because this is important, and sharp eyes remind him of that, make him sit up that straighter in front of the stone and at least look like he's taking it seriously. Very fucking seriously.

A toss that makes golden hair catch in the sunlight and Mello's gaze is gone, the daggers torn away and Matt's free to slide back down his tombstone, (his, hah!), no longer held by steel. The cigarette is dying, becoming ashes, its reached the filter so Matt throws it away somewhere, behind him where some poor unlucky sod might get hit by it. He hopes, he wishes, because he'd like something to break the silence, even if its a cry of pain.

"Mel-"

"Shut up you idiot."

And thats that, Matt lets out a muted sigh and retrieves another cigarette, starting up the rythm again and watching Mello, a slim figure in black odd and unfitting in the lazy afternoon sun. Like a reverse ghost, black in light where white should be in darkness, Mello comes to life better in the night he thinks. Their life is in the night now, all its dangers and its mysteries, all its drugs and whores and criminals waiting with sharp talons to rend apart the weak and careless. Its this world Mello chose and the one Matt followed him into and so now they're stuck, two scrawny little sixteen-year olds playing criminal, waiting to grow up and join the big leagues.

Thats what today was about really, its what the gun pressed in Mello's gloved palm is about, nice little pistol complete with silencer that had been handed over with a salesman's dazzling white smile. But without the friendly accent or joking laugh, this smile accompanied a 'Get the job done or you're dead' sentiment. Their big chance, the big leap, live or die, win or lose and die anyway. Matt's nerves are wracked and thats why he's sucking cancer down quicker than usual, in the lazy afternoon light.

Graveyard, a damn graveyard, perfect place to dish out death really, when you thought about it, less of a journey to take the body on at least. not that it matters, because when it comes down to it the carefully paid off officers will come and cart it to autopsy and back again. So their convenient choice of location for the hit amounts to nothing really except the poor guy destined for the bullet is known to be coming here today, its why they've been waiting for three hours now here, in a graveyard that doesn't even have the common courtesy to be cold or foggy. Matt's games have lied to him, and he feels cheated.

But he'd still kill for them now, the familiar music and characters, calming him down and distracting him from the task at hand, but at least he wasn't holding the gun, Mello had commandeered that right away. Matt wasn't overly surprised by it, Mello always had to be the first in everything, even killing. But Matt was still here, the ever willing accomplice, ready to help the age old business of murder to live another day. There to catch Mello when he fell...

He already knew what would happen after this, there'd be running and slow steady driving, (Why no officer we were just passing by), and then there'd be showers to clean the dirt off and finally the night. They'd strike out into it, a world of drinks and warm bodies and they'd try to forget everything they were about to do so it could sink in later, a little bit at a time. Try the poison in parts, again and again until it isn't poison anymore, its a part of you, its who you are.

Its who they would be, them, Mello and Matt, there was no backing out now, there was no running home. There could be, if Mello could ever swallow his pride and accept L's, Near's, protection from a mobster's gun, but that would only be when hell froze over, and right now it felt pretty damn warm.

He saw it then, that little twitch and tense in that slender, black clad form, knew the target was here and he closed his eyes and focused, heard the soft crunching of steps through dry grass as a man approached his death unknowingly. Step, step, step, the reaper awaits.

Eric Horton, thirty-four, gunrunner, paid and held in the gangs hand for ten years until he decided to switch loyalties and then his time was up. Either the man was stupid or overestimating the protection his new employers would give him, Matt knew the man well, having been the one to score the information that led to this choice of venue. Lost his wife two years ago in a car crash, visits her grave every third week of every month without fail. Perfect, Mello said, and slid the clip into place, handling the gun like it was already a part of him.

The footsteps have stopped, right now Mr Horton is stood in front of his wife's grave, looking mournfully at the stone perhaps, maybe praying, not expecting it... Matt's eyes stay closed, he hears the slight sounds as Mello moves, the safety on the gun being clicked off, Mello's slipping silently around the corner of the mausoleum, taking aim... Matt wonders if he's actually going to do it, woners if he should let him, tries to imagine himself diving forward and stopping the shot, hanging onto the last shred of childhood innocence that they have left...

But the muffled shot sounds, accompanied by a not so distant thud. The guys down and not screaming or yelling so Mello must've gotten the headshot alright. A choked breath he didn't know he was holding is let out and he opens his eyes to see gold and black intermingling, surrounding a ghost-pale face as Mello's hand grabs him by the scruff of the neck and yanks him up, up and away, a driving force he can't disobey. Mello's so pale already, how many bottles will it take tonight?

As they scramble across the hard packed earth Matt turns his head just enough, free now of the obstruction the giant stone tomb had wrought and catches just enough of a glimpse. The body sprawled backwards, limbs in the wrong places, vacant eyes staring upwards never to blink again on blood-soaked grass and he wants to throw up but Mello would kill him if he did that, leaving behind a big pile of DNA evidence, that would go down real well.

"Matt come on!" Not so firmly, Mello's voice in his ear, but he obeys anyway and doesn't stop moving, not until they're in the car, breathing hard. It takes a hoarse yell for Matt to remember he's the driver here and to start up the engine, taking them out of there and safely away, away from the crime they'd committed.

Ten minutes later and he comes to a stop in a layby, slumping across the steering wheel and gazing ahead, hearing the still thudding beat of his heart working away in his chest. It takes another five before he dares look at Mello, who is looking at nothing, eyes vacant and already Matt can see the change, the flicker that is carried by all those men with the white predator smiles. No longer a child.

"Mello..."

Silence follows and Matt dares again, louder this time, "Mello..." Are you alright? Are we alright? Is that it now, is this us?

"Shut up Matt..." Not such a command anymore, Mello turns his head and Matt see's something in those eyes that is still his best friend and for that he is more than grateful, "Stop being a damned sissy and drive us home." From there he turns his head away again and back to staring at the gun in his lap and Matt knows they'll be no more talk, not until tonight at least.

The sky is darkening rapidly as he pulls away from the curve, ahead of them the bright lights of the city are flickering to life, the underworld awakes. At his side Mello is gazing out the window like the power-hungry vulture that he is, sated from his desires by the familiar crack of chocolate, but only for now. Behind them they leave a dead man, a dead life, a dead childhood.

Gone are the Matt and Mello of old, gone are the laughing children chasing each other around the gounds of Wammy's, no more pranks, no more glorious dreams.

There's only cold reality left for them now, and a future that will be paved in blood and death.

Here's to the nightlife.