A/N: Just a kind of one-shot drabble, the idea of this wouldn't leave me alone. I wasn't planning on posting this here, but I was banned for putting it up on another website and this is my way of saying "suck it." And I haven't posted anything new or updated in a while, so I figured, 'why not?'
Slightly AU in that Mello (and Matt if you choose to interpret it that way) survived.
He smelled it before it even entered his mouth. Dark, overpowering, and slightly bitter. Chocolate.
He had never had much of an opinion on chocolate, or on any other sweet food, really. Lacked an oral fixation.
But now it was the only thing he was allowed to eat and sometimes, he even enjoyed the taste. Though, that was likely because any food would be pleasing after being deprived for days at a time.
He didn't even want to eat. Not because of his pride or a desire to rebel. No, he'd been drained dry of any semblance of self-confidence long ago. If he refused to eat, he would die, and death would be a welcome respite to this way of life. That's what he tried to tell himself, anyway.
In the presence of food, however, the most basic of instincts trumped his willpower and he downed the chocolate with aberrant ardor. It was human nature, he reminded himself. And it was repulsive.
That's when Mello would laugh at him, when he ate like that. A dry and derisive sound, all bitterness and no joy. As bitter as the chocolate he fed him. And when he begged for death? Mello laughed at that, too. It was the first and last time he made that request.
Sometimes Mello would throw in a taunt, an insult. What's this, now? Your impeccable control is slipping. It was unrewarding. He didn't get what he wanted – a response, any response – by doing that. Mello knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He never could.
He knew he was dissatisfactory, both as pet and prisoner. Blank eyes, two dead suns, would stare grey, dull, and vacant out at Mello. He often wished he'd never have removed the blindfold. Being forced to look at his captor, all flaxen hair and thin wiry muscles lurking beneath skin that was smooth save the burn scar that wound its way down the left side of his face, was perhaps even more torturous than being denied food or being beaten. Being forced to stare at the demon in angel's clothing.
He wondered if Matt was still alive as well. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume so. After all, Mello had survived despite the overwhelming odds that said otherwise. But Mello never spoke of his closest and only friend, never even revealed how he had managed to stay alive after having his name written in the notebook, through that second fire. Then again, he couldn't really expect him to want to relive something like that, particularly after emerging from the first explosion with that grotesque and blistering scar. But it wasn't as if he'd ever asked. Why ask knowing full well you won't receive an answer?
Mello would sometimes, for lack of a better word, fuck him. It was too violent, frenzied, needy to be labeled sex, and it sure as hell wasn't love making. He was the picture of dirty depravity, pale cheeks flushed and body crumpled on the floor, an arm curled around Mello's laced leather boot. Humiliating, but what about then? Mello wasn't laughing then.
What was even worse was when Mello kissed him, smoothed curls, damp with sweat and tears, away from his reddened cheeks. They were given with such tenderness, those kisses, that when they first began, he would think, this can't be real, and wonder what the flaxen-haired demon was planning for him. After all, the only purpose the rosary slung around Mello's neck served was to mock him.
Sometimes, they would sit together and talk. No sex, no food depravation, no violence. No games. Mello would look at him with blue eyes and they'd talk about days past, when they were at the orphanage together. Their relationship had been plagued with abhorrence and rivalry even all those years ago and things hadn't been simple then, but compared to how things were now, nothing was complex.
He would look gaze steadily back as Mello spoke of what things would be like when he 'got over this' and let him go. Maybe they'd lie together in bed and share Eskimo kisses, soft and hesitant. He couldn't picture it, almost didn't want to get his hopes up. He didn't want to admit I think I'd like that, didn't want to show any more weakness than he already had to. Because who knew which Mello would step into his room the next day, or the day after that?
He wanted to cry, sometimes. He knew Mello did too, he could see it in those blue eyes of his. But neither of them did. Just looked at each other with sad eyes.