Title from Hamlet, Act 4 Sc. 4
How Stand I Then
Matt was bored.
His nintendo had run out of batteries halfway through his shift, Mello was ignoring him because yesterday Matt had stolen his chocolate and melted it, and the only thing standing between Matt and complete brain shutdown from lack of stimulation was Misa Amane.
Things weren't looking good, especially since he had spent the last two hours trailing her through the lingerie department. It was shameful; everytime a store attendant passed him he would stick his blushing face into a rack full of black lace thongs, or black lace bras, or black lace ... well, he didn't know what those things were, but they looked uncomfortable. His current source of entertainment was trying to imagine everyone he knew in whatever his eye happened to fall upon. He had already done L, Near, Roger, Watari, and was now trying to mentally squeeze the behemoth guarding Amane into a purple (though it was really more black with a dark-purple tinge) two-way. He smirked as Misa held up a pink french maid ensemble, trimmed with lace and complete with delicate stilettos and fishnet stockings.
"Motchi, will Light like this Misa if she wears this?" She flounced, spinning cheerfully in front of a mirror. The Japanese man blushed, and Matt rolled his eyes behind his orange-tinted goggles. This was the pride of the Japanese Police Force? No wonder L brought in agents from America and England. Just as Misa twirled out of the dressing room, covered in barely enough cloth to blow your nose on, the transceiver in Matt's ear began to vibrate.
He casually reached two fingers up to brush away his hair, pressing the call button as he did so, and pulling a mobile phone out of his pocket. The phone was just a prop; goggled Americans talking to themselves in lingerie stores tended to be ejected from the premises, without so much as an accented 'thank you, come again'.
"Mello," he said easily, knowing it would be the blonde; anyone else would have called on the mobile.
"Listen," Mello's tinny voice crackled through the small earphone. "You still on Amane?"
Matt's eyes darted to the blonde, who was pursing her lips in the mirror and playing with her hair. "Yeah, but I've only been shopping. Lingerie, you know," he said, and grimaced when he heard Mello ... not laugh, because Mello didn't laugh these days. Matt just heard his amusement in the silence.
"Well stay with her. Something Near said makes me think that Kira's moving in, and Amane is the weak link. If you get a chance, try and manipulate her." Matt winced; it sounded so cruel, especially since Misa was so fragile and shallow.
"Alright," he said slowly, "but Mello?" Matt hesitated; he wanted to say be careful, don't get hurt, come back, please don't go.
"What?" Mello snapped, and Matt closed his eyes briefly. He could picture the exact expression on the blonde's face. Blue eyes darkening with impatience, mouth thin and stretched, forehead furrowed with annoyance.
"Nothing," Matt whispered. "Bye."
The line went dead, and he lowered the phone, looking across at Amane. She had moved on from lace, and into leopard-prints and fur. Her mortified guard dog was trying to avoid looking at anything incriminating, and he jumped when he accidentally bumped into a rack of discarded push-up bras. And Matt realised that he knew exactly how to get Misa alone.
Mogi was trying to avoid looking at Misa, dressed in a series of even naughtier and more scarce outfits, without actually taking his eyes off her. It was testing the limits of his physical endurance, and so when the bright-smiled red-headed sales assitant, dressed in one of the tight shirts from the men's lingerie section (and Mogi thanked every god he knew, and several he didn't, that they hadn't gone there), popped out of another rack he was almost relieved. Maybe they were going to be told to stop pawing the merchandise and either buy or leave.
But Mogi didn't have that kind of luck.
"You are looking to buy, Miss?" The assisstant enquired cheerfully. His hair had been roughly slicked back, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of the shades which dotted the mannequins placed at strategical points around the store.
Misa beamed. "Oh, yes! Misa-Misa loves to look pretty for her Raito!"
Matt paused to match tenses and persons in his head. "And," he continued after shrugging it off, "Do you love to - ahem - entertain your Raito?"
It Mogi a moment to understand what the assisstant meant, and even then he only got it after glancing at the next section of the store. Please say no, he begged silently, but Misa squealed, "Oh, yes!"
Matt held out his arm gallently, squinting at the store through the double fog of his goggles and the sunglasses. "Then follow me, Miss!" The two of them linked arms, and Matt escorted her to the rows of shelves hanging under a huge sign reading Sex Toys. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw misery and horror settle on the policeman's face, and grinned wickedly.
"Is this your Raito, Miss?" He asked politely, gesturing towards Mogi. The blonde girl giggled, and Mogi looked like he was seriously contemplating spontaneous combustion just to escape the situation.
"Oh, no! This is Motchi! My Light is much more handsome!" She said blithely, then patted the big man on the arm reassuringly. "Don't worry, you're cute too, Motchi."
Matt coughed delicately; the non-invasive, insistent cough that Watari always used to get L's attention. "Perhaps it would be better for ... Light ... If Mr. Motchi waited outside. Choosing your pleasure toys is a bit personal, after all." He had to bite his bottom lip to stop himself from smirking as the policeman wavered; he could read the man's thoughts easily on his face. If he waits outside then he had failed as a police officer and as a guard. If he comes with us ... he'll be treated to images of his boss, his charge and fuzzy handcuffs all at once and on the same mental screen.
"Mister - "Misa glanced at him quizzically.
"Hayden," Matt supplied helpfully. There was no point even pretending to be Japanese, not with his red hair and freckles.
"Mister Hayden is right, Motchi," Misa said severely, "You can wait here and I will come get you before we move onto sexy costumes, okay?"
Mogi nodded reluctantly, and sat down on the complementary customer bench provided. "Be careful," he added, and glared at Matt, who would have widened his eyes innocently if anyone could see them. Instead he turned and pulled Misa gently into the whips aisle, out of Mogi's watchful sight.
Matt tuned out Misa's inane chatter as they ambled past bondage ties and handcuffs, occasionally stopping to bullshit his way through some salesmanship. He was here to investigate dammit, not to sell dildos that had been enhanced for sensation!
"Perhaps knowing something about Light might help me to assisst you in choosing the most effective toy," he said at last, drawing Misa's attention away from several long, thing somethings that he had no idea what to do with. Though he could think of a few ideas ...
"Well," Misa hesitated, "My Raito is very busy. I don't see him very often, and normally he's tired. He works very hard, you see," she said worriedly, and Matt nodded in understanding.
"And what does Mr. Raito do?" He asked, bursting with sales assisstantly-concern.
Misa bit her lip, then admitted, "He works with the police."
"Ah," Matt nodded, his face compassionate but internally seething. Short of asking her straight out, 'what is your mass-murdering boyfriend's evil scheme?' He couldn't really get any information out of her without seeming suspicious. And any minute now they were going to finish up with the toys and move on to find Mogi. Seized with desperation, Matt latched onto the only idea he had.
"I ... have a confession to make," he admitted. "I'm not really a sale assisstant in a lingerie store." Misa gaped at him, and he rushed on, "I was just passing by when I saw you ... And I wanted to talk to you, but I was too scared of Motchi! I thought he was your boyfriend. And I know you have Light ... and that's all right. But maybe we could go to a movie, or dinner?"
Misa began to frown, and he hastily added, "Just as friends, of course."
He waited, palms sweaty and heart pounding in his ribs. Just one shout would bring Mogi, and his gun and radio, running.
"Misa-Misa has been very lonely lately," she said reluctanty, and looked up at Matt through blonde bangs. "Mail Jeevas," she whispered, and he felt his heart stutter. How could he have forgotten that she had the eyes? Idiot! He berated himself, but Misa did not seem concerned.
"Okay," she said at last. "Tonight you can pick me up, at eight, from my hotel." She pulled a magic marker out of her bag and scrawled a number and address on his arm in purple, then blushed guiltily. "We probably shouldn't tell Motchi," she murmured, then narrowed her eyes at Matt.
"Just friends?" She demanded, and Matt smiled reassuringly.
"Just friends," he said, and as Misa turned to walk away he called out. "Matt!" She turned to look at him, puzzled, and he added, "My friends call me Matt."
She winked at him, and walked off with her hips swinging.
***
Matt was sitting on the edge of the couch, fingers punching the buttons on two separate controllers when Mello came back to the apartment. He glanced up at the blonde briefly, flicked a cigarette butt onto the floor and ignored Mello's sigh of irritation as it left a charred hole on the carpet.
"Anything from Amane?" He asked, collapsing next to Matt on the couch. Matt paused the game to light another cigarette, the smoke burning as it whistled through his lungs, numbing the confusion and frustration which Mello ignited him, which made his nerves tremble like a trapeze artist looking at the fall and praying for a safety net. He almost told Mello about the date, but ... Matt turned back to Mario Kart.
"Nup," he said casually, avoiding Mello's searching gaze. He always knew when Matt was lying. "Just that she likes handcuffs and cowboy costumes." Matt had no idea whether this was true, but it distracted Mello from his questions.
"Whatever," he grunted, and licked a chocolate bar idly, pink tongue darting out to lap at the cocoa, swirling around the candy until Mello's lips were rimmed in brown and Matt was painfully hard. Fucking Mello and his fucking chocolate, Matt thought (and he was most defiantly not envious of that damn chocolate bar, and not imagining Mello's perfect pink lips pursed around his cock), and threw the controllers to the floor with a clatter as the screen flashed: VICTORY!
"Going out tonight," he grunted, and felt Mello turn his head towards him.
"Oh yeah?"
Matt stared at the bright, flashing letters, refusing to turn and meet that burning gaze. "Got a date," he blurted out, and then ground his teeth together. It had always been this way. Matt had never been able to lie to Mello. Before all this Kira shit, he'd never needed to lie to Mello.
Mello stared at the goggled hacker, and tried to ignore the burning feeling curling around his stomach. He wanted to handcuff Matt to the door ... or even better, the bed. But that was not the kind of thing that mafia bosses did to their underlings, no matter how much they might fantasise about it. His eyes narrowed as his mind raced.
"Amane?" He guessed, and Matt cursed silently. Mello had always been too smart for his own good. Without a word, he stood up and stretched, joints popping. For a moment he thought that Mello was going to reach out, pull him back down onto the couch. But the blonde just sat there and licked his chocolate as he watched Matt walk away, slamming the door behind him.
Matt clattered noisily down the stairs of the grimy apartment block, jumping over a drunk who had collapsed at the bottom of the stairwell. He slipped into his car, (which was pretty damn hardass, red and shiny and gleaming like the day he first stole her) turning on the heater gratefully and thinking that maybe he should have cleaned up all the chip packets and old beer bottles. Matt glanced at his watch as he broke several traffic laws, running through red lights and occasionally driving up onto the sidewalks. It wasn't as though he could be reported; the car had no legal number plate, and any persistent cop could be bought by mafia money. Matt blasted his radio, trying to drown out the sound of Mello's voice saying nonchalantly, Oh yeah?
He pulled up outside the Hotel fifteen minutes early - it was a swank one, with two burly concierges at the revolving doors. They glared at Matt, and he waved jauntily as he began to scoop fragments of shattered glass and squashed aluminium cans into his arms and drump them in the boot.
The shinigami Rem glared at the car which had just parked illegally in front of the hotel, skeletal arms crossed disapprovingly.
"He's here!" She called out, and Misa gasped and peeked out the curtains. Mail - no, Matt, she reminded herself - was throwing rubbish in the trunk. She frowned; that wsn't very stylish behaviour for a first date. Except that this isn't a date, she remembered. Drawing shut the curtains, Misa folded a page of the deathnote and slipped it into her back pocket, grabbed a purse and a phone and ran out of the room without bothering to change; the shinigami Rem flew soundlessly behind her, casting no shadow on the floor.
Misa knew that if Light found out that she had left her rooms without a guard, he would be angry, because he cared so much about her safety that he hated for her to risk herself. Misa knew this, even though Light had never told her; she could see how much he loved her when he looked at her, when he refused to place her in danger, when he embraced her.
But she was so bored!
Matt grinned as Misa came running out the door. She was wearing faded jeans and a casual black singlet top underneath her jacket, and she was already shivering in the cold air. Matt slammed the boot shut and held open the passenger side door. "It's no limo," he said, and grinned apologetically, "But it's warm."
Rem shook her head angrily. "This guy is trashy!" The shinigami's voice sounded like sand hissing through an hourglass, barely audible over the wind and the chaos of the traffic, and Misa ignored her.
Instead she smiled at Matt, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. "Warm is good enough," she replied, and slid into the passenger seat. She ran her fingers over the smooth, worn leather, and then held them in front of the heater as the engine revved to life with a muted roar, glancing at Matt out of the corner of her eye. The ghostly numbers floating below his name reassured and saddened her; he had time. At least fifteen years. It wasn't enough, but it never was. Misa stared at Matt out of the corner of her eye - the loose, striped shirt that hung off his bony frame, the calloused cigarette burns on his lips and the shadows that swept underneath his eyes like storm clouds over the horizon.
Misa couldn't forget the first time she had seen someone's name (Hanako Keiji) and the numbers had been tumbling backwards as though death was playing a macabre game of dominoes, and then the car was screaming as smoke streamed from its wheels with desperate futility ... and the name had vanished as the last number toppled over the edge. The blood had been so red.
Misa was oddly silent, and Matt turned the radio to another, more poppish station. The sweet, harmonised strains of a boy band crackled through the speakers as he pulled into traffic, chafing at the delay and suddenly nervous. He had no idea where to take this girl, a millionaire mass-murdering orphan, who was softly humming along to the Backstreet Boys. Her thin fingers were playing with a beaded necklace that had a silver and black cross dangling from the end, and Matt was reminded uncomfortably of Mello; sagged among the debris of a ruined building, half-buried and half-melted, his ruined lips whispering soft prayers as he turned the worn beads through his fingers ... Matt shook his head, and tried to smile. He was meant to be getting information, not freaking out about something that had happened months ago.
Seven months, and he's already forgotten how he clung to you as you carried him to the car and how he screamed your name in his sleep.
Matt jerked the wheel roughly as they took a corner, and Misa slid into the door.
"Ooomph."
"Sorry," he said, and then, "Do you like Italian?"
Misa smiled sunnily at him, and tucked some hair behind her ears. "Only if it's low-fat," she informed him promptly, and Matt chuckled. There was something about Misa that calmed him down, and made him ignore her cute, ingratiating idiosyncrnies. God only knew, he'd had enough practice with Mello.
"When we leave this place, we'll be so fat that they'll have to lever us into the car."
Misa laughed, the sound washing away the memory of Mello's painful screams.
It had started to drizzle, and Matt held Misa's hand as they ran through the dark parkling lot and arrived panting in the door. Her face was pink from exertion, and a few strands of blonde hair had gotten stuck in the corner of her mouth. Without understanding what he was doing, Matt reached their still intertwined fingers up and gently removed the strands, his thumb brushing across her lower lip. Her breath hitched, wide blue eyes locked on his, and something about the innocence of the blue gaze reminded him of a younger, more naive Mello. He turned away and dropped her hand.
"Sorry," he said thickly, and held the door open for her.
"Um ... A salad," Misa said quietly, to the portly waiter who had come to take their orders. Matt, sitting across from her, laughed and shook his head as though the last few minutes hadn't happened. His wet hair was dripping onto the black-and-white striped shirt, and Misa couldn't tear her eyes away from his gleaming collarbone.
"She'll have pasta cabonara," Matt instructed promtply, "and a regular Supreme-O for me, hold the onions."
"What a douchebag," Rem declared. "Like you couldn't have ordered for yourself. Like a salad is too good for you, or soemthing?" The black slash of her lips was twisted with possessive dislike.
Misa gaped, ignoring the shinigami. "A whole pizza! Matt, you can't eat all that!" Matt winked at her, and she just saw the flutter of movement behind his orange goggle lens.
"You might have to help when we get to the last slice," he admitted. "Perhaps I should have gotten spaghetti, like that dog in Lady and the Tramp," Matt teased, and was rewarded by the mortified blush which pooled across her cheeks and neck.
"See, he even calls himself a tramp. You're too good for this guy," Rem interjected, and Misa ducked her head under the table, pretending to tie a shoelace. "Shut up!" She hissed softly, knowing the shinigami would hear. "And go away!"As the waiter waltzed away and began shouting into the kitchen, Misa quickly re-emerged from underneath the table and asked archly,
"What happened to just friends?"
Matt hesitated. He couldn't say, I'm meant to be manipulating you into betraying your true love to the most kick-ass, shittingly-scary, fucked-up Mafia Boss since Michael Corleone, but I'm feeling strangely attracted to you, and your sweet innocence and your Mello-coloured eyes.
Matt settled on a half-truth; "I can't help it. You're too ..." He waved a hand vaguely. Beautiful wasn't the word for it, because beauty had more grace. "Loveable," he settled on, and Misa bit her lip in delight. Behind her, Rem watched warily.
"Be careful, Misa," she said softly, and turned to walk through the nearest wall.
Their food arrived, and Matt turned to the cheerful waiter. "Any chance of some wine?" He asked
"Red," Misa added, and the two of them glanced at each other guiltily.
***
Matt pulled Misa out the door. Dinner had been a frenzy of subtle flirtings and strict remonstrations ("Just friends!"), which had culminated in Matt sitting in Misa's lap and eating pasta off her fingers, to the amusement of the restaurant staff. They tumbled into the backseat of the old car, Matt straddling Misa and her sweaty skin leaving marks on the dark leather. The car smelled of petrol and cigarettes, and Misa's hair was tangled in Matt's hands as he pulled her up for a kiss, smashing their mouths desperately together.
He moaned into her mouth as she sucked on his bottom lip, probing her mouth with his tongue. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, pulling him down so that the bulge in his jeans was pressing into the smooth expanse of her stomach. Her hands moved down, deftly undoing buttons as Matt began to press butterfly kisses down her neck and swept his tongue across her collarbone, bucking his hips up so that Misa could pull off the jeans. They were discarded on the floor with Misa's jacket, and Matt's agile fingers had soon stripped off the singlet top as well.
Misa ran a hand softly down the curve of Matt's spine, making his skin break out in goosebumps, and he shuddered as her small fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxers and curved around his cock. Her fingers probed his weeping slit, smearing pre-cum all over his hard length, and Matt jerked instinctively into her hand, burying his face in her neck and biting the tender skin, licking the bruises he left until she gasped into his shoulder.
Matt scooped Misa up in one arm, the other fumbling at her bra clasp before the lacy cloth finally fell away, and bent his head over one soft breat, swirling his tongue around the nipple. Misa moaned, arching into his mouth, her hands tangled in his hair and raking across his scalp. Her hands brushed across his stomach before settling on his erection, stroking his hard length and curving around his testicles. They were panting, sweat-slick skin sliding against each other, and Matt abandoned one breast to start fumbling with her jeans, wrenching the buttons apart and pulling the jeand down to her knees, his boxers following.
Heat was pooling in the centre of his stomach, an almost unbearable pain, and Matt looked into Misa's wide, blue eyes as he positioned himself above her. Her legs were wrapped around his hips, her face framed by his arms and a messy halo of blonde hair. Misa twined her arms around Matt's neck, and pulled his face down to her mouth. Her teeth bit the soft shell of his earlobe, her tongue flicking warmly against his jaw. "Mail Jeevas," she whispered, her hot breath gusting gently over his face, "If you don't fuck me now I'm going to be incredibly angry."
Matt smirked, blood thrumming through his veins, and he pushed himself slowly into her entrance. She rocked his hips against his, a moan turning into a strangled curse as he pulled out again, teasingly, and then slowly pushed in again. "Do you need a fucking compass?" She shrieked, almost breathless. She arched her back, trying to push him deeper. Matt groaned as the friction did delightful things to his muscles, sending shivers of anticipation through his stomach. He began to rock in and out of her, his skin burning where Misa touched it, running her small hands over his back and chest and through his hair, cupping his face as she called his name, his real name.
She trembled as she came, her head falling back in ecstasy as she screamed, her nails leaving bloody scratches across his back. The feeling of her muscles convulsing and clenching around him was enough to send the hard ball of heat in his stomach exploding outwards, rocketing through every nerve and sinew, melting his bones. He collapsed on top of Misa, her breasts flush against his chest, elbows digging into the seat so that he didn't crush her.
"Misa," he whispered, and cupped a hand around the smooth curve of her cheek. She pressed her lips to his neck, his pulse thrumming across her mouth. Suddenly, she laughed, and pushed back Matt's hair.
"How old are you?" She asked, and Matt quirked an eyebrow.
"I thought women were meant to get all romantic and mushy after sex, not go into police-wife interrogation mode," Matt replied blithely, but his mind was already stirring from a sex-induced haze, and running haywire.
"I'm twenty-seven," she whispered, bright eyes luminous in the shadows. Matt grinned, and brushed his lips gently across her mouth, teasing her with his tongue.
"Twenty-one," he said softly, "You devious cradle robber." It wasn't a lie, though Matt had been planning to play off as twenty-five in case she wanted to check his stats. He had fabricated an electronic life for Mail Jeevas anyway, and destroyed the original records, making himself several years older and safely hidden in an obscure IT office in Arizona. And Matt realised, with a start, that he was no more able to lie to Misa Amane than he could to Mello.
Fuck.
***
Mello had been lying awake all night waiting for the telltale rumbling of Matt's pimped-up whoremobile as it pulled into the curb, but it was almost morning when he finally heard it. It was freezing inside the small apartment, and Mello was wrapped only in a pair of tight leather pants and a thin cotton sheet, but he was furious enough to welcome the cold against his burning skin.
His muscles tensed as the lock softly clicked open, heard the twin thuds of Matt's awful leather boots hitting the wall, and the muffled falls of his steps as he walked to the kitchen, flicking the light switch. Mello's eyes were wide open, and he saw the shadow Matt cast against the bedroom wall as he leaned against the open doorframe. The shadow put a cigarette to its lips, face turned in profile to the wall, like the head on the back of an old roman coin; Matt had always posessed a certain smooth self-assurance that sent tingles down Mello's spine, and Matt had always known when Mello was really sleeping and when he was just royally pissed and throwing a bitch fit. The shadow-figure exhaled smoke from pursed lips, a barely-visible flicker on the mould-stained walls. "Mello."
Mello could see his name curling up with the smoke, carried on an exhalation of cancerous breath. He sat up, the sheets dropping off his thin shoulders, because he had never been able to ignore Matt. Even when Matt was nuzzling his face into some whore's neck, his hand curved over her skanky ass, Mello would be leaning nonchalantly on some nearby wall, waiting for the moment when Matt slouched in and jerked his head towards the carpark. Just to know, that he had him back. That at the end of the night, Matt was going home with him, even if it didn't have quite the same implications.
Mello turned to face Matt, who was watching him blankly behind orange goggles. "It was a real date?" He asked, biting off his words so that they sounded raw and jagged. Mello bit his tongue. No emotion. Just like Near, and L. "I thought you were seducing her to get information about Kira." He continued, in a soft monotone. Matt wasn't fooled; he could see the rage lighting Mello's eyes and making the muscles in his jaw twitch. He tapped some ash from his cigarette onto the floor, saw Mello's eyes narrow as he ground it underfoot. There was one stain that wasn't coming out.
"She's sweet," Matt admitted, and one corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.
Mello felt his chest tighten as Matt shifted, arching his neck to blow smoke to the ceiling, revealing dark bruises that held the red imprint of a bite mark. "You fucked her!" He burst out, hating himself for showing emotion, for losing control, for even caring. A dark blush pooled across Matt's cheekbones, but he glared defiantly at the blonde, trying not to let his gaze wander over that scarred, pale chest.
"So what? I like her," Matt snapped, his teeth grinding the tobacco out of his cigarette.
"You're emotionally compromised," Mello said, trying to keep his voice under control, trying to avoid the irony of his statement. Hell, if Matt was emotionally compromised then what was he? Emotionally fucking screwed.
Matt glared out the window, at a dirty neighbourhood where if you locked your doors they'd climb in through the chimney, and people grew crack in their windowboxes. Mello was still sitting on the bed, and Matt could feel his gaze pinning him to the wall like two iron bolts. His cigarette hissed softly as it burnt itself out, a charred butt-end that Matt flicked uncaringly onto the floor, just to piss Mello off. The silence was so tense that Matt was desperate to break it, to say Mello's name, to bury his face in those silky clean strands of blonde, like he had done with Amane just hours ago. But Mello would smell different; Amane had been strawberries, and candles and pizza dough and just right. Mello would smell like gunpowder and leather, and taste like bitter chocolate, and feel like sin. Mello was ... fucking undefinable.
Matt was getting a hard-on just thinking about it.
Mello watched as Matt clenched his jaw and gulped, absolutely burning to know what the redhead was thinking about. Not you, the nasty voice which spoke in Near's muffled voice sneered. Not someone with scar tissue thick as a wad of hundred dollar bills wrapped around their face like the tentacles of an octopus; not someone who burns and twists and mauls everything they love; not a cynical bastard who hides his candy from babies in case they take it. Mello drew in a shaky breath and rolled back into his blankets, bunching the sheets around his face and curling his knees into his chest, face to the wall.
Matt, standing in the doorway with Misa's taste still sweet in his mouth and her perfume wafting off his skin, flicked off the light and shut the door. It was entirely too tempting to see Mello curled up alone in such a big bed. And entirely too painful.
***
Misa arched into Matt, her eyes rolled back in her head as his hands settled on the sharp hooks of her hipbones and his tongue slipped across her. He smirked, and Misa growled when she saw it, her hands fisting painfully in Matt's hair and twisting until he yelped.
"You wanna stop?" He asked, pulling away teasingly, but she whimpered and tossed her head, childish pout on her glossy lips.
"You owe me," she hissed, sighing as Matt kissed his way down her stomach, "cause I - ah! - sucked you off, remember?" Misa squirmed, low giggles slipping out of her throat as Matt bit the inside of her thigh and licked soothingly over the reddening flesh. "In the bathroom, and you - you, you -"
Matt bit her somewhere else, and Misa muffled a scream in her hand. "Mail," she panted, and his eyes flicked up to hers, did I hurt you? She shook her head, eyes half-lidded and made soft by the smears of make-up around them.
Misa looked impossibly small, the white sheets twisted behind her and the anemic light of a flickering streetlamp casting her face into fitful shadows. Matt could almost pretend that instead of Misa's soft curves and gentle planes, he was stroking Mello's sharp edges and the twined ribbon of his scar. He could almost pretend that the hand latching onto the back of his neck had a callous on the trigger-finger, and that the tongue ghosting across his lips tasted impossibly sweet. Perhaps pretending that the woman he had been sleeping with for the past month was Mello was slightly twisted. Possibly even obsessive, some people might call it dangerous. But to be entirely fair, Matt knew that Misa pretended he was Light Yagami. So things worked out in the end, and he got to enjoy the room service from Misa's motel room.
Free beer made everything better.
***
Mello had said that Things were Coming Together.
Not in the nice, oh-my-wedding-is-going-to-be-magnificent way. Watching Mello pace the room like a caged tiger with his eyes gleaming more than his leather, and terrible smiles tearing up his face like a gunshot, Matt was reminded bizarrely of a house of cards. A spider's web. A can of cola all shook up. Things were coming together in a way which made Matt's skin itch, like it knew that it didn't want to be here when everything went down. But of course, Matt had to be here. Kira was here, which meant that Mello and Misa were both here - it was slightly weird, the way that the two most important people in Matt's life were both in love with a serial killer. And if Mello's kind of love involved shooting said serial killer through the head, well, that was just Mello and only to be expected.
So Matt was sitting in a room with the shades drawn, because Mello was a paranoid bastard who didn't put it past Light Yagami to hire a sniper to shoot them through the window, swiftly dismantling a gun and putting it back together again. Clean, smooth and mechanical underneath the press of his fingertips, everything sliding so nicely into place. He twitched when the phone rang.
Mello crossed the room in three swift strides and scooped the mobile up to his ear. "Near," he said, and Matt saw the tendons in his neck tighten. "Yes," Mello said, his eyes flickering to Matt and then again to the wall. "Yes, yes. I understand. Yes." He hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Mello's frown tightened the skin between his eyes and carved brackets around his mouth, and Matt wanted to lick them away so bad that the sofa cover split under his grip. He hadn't slept with Misa for two weeks now, because she had been staying with Light Yagami once he arrived with the rest of the Task Force, and Matt was being driven wild by undiluted Mello.
Mello in the morning with his orange juice, Mello all day long while he hacked bank accounts for the Mafia (which he could do blindfolded, by the way, who did these assholes think he was?), Mello in the evening when he brushed his teeth. And always, always the goddamn chocolate. It made Matt's teeth hurt, the amount of chocolate that Mello consumed.
"...warehouse," Mello was saying. Matt slingshotted back into reality.
"Where?"
Mello just gave him a scathing look and stalked off, but at least it was something.
Things had become awkward when Matt kept showing up with bruises in the shape of fingerprints on his back, smelling of expensive perfume and cheap alcohol. Matt wondered if Mello remembered when he had lied, casually, she likes handcuffs and cowboy costumes. He wondered if Mello noticed the bruises taut around his wrists. No, this was Mello - of course he had fucking noticed. But did he care? That is the question, Matt thought mournfully, swinging into the driver's seat while Mello fiddled impatiently in shotgun. At least this one thing remained the same - Mello was always in shotgun when it came to Matt's ramshackle baby, and he always bitched about Matt's driving.
"Hey, sheepfucker, we kind of need to be somewhere so now is not the moment to indulge some freaky law-abiding speed-limit fantasy," Mello snapped, fiddling with the dial of the radio station until it rested on some bullshit news channel.
"You're the sheepfucker," Matt accused, flipping back to a station which seemed solely devoted to Blue Oyster Cult. At Mello's outraged glare, he smirked and allowed a drawl to slip into his accent. "Well, you know, Near looks kinda like a sheep and you guys do have that whole hate-hate relationship goin' on..."
Mello slapped him upside the head as Matt swerved onto the sidewalk to overtake a semi-trailer. Matt felt his cheeks burn, mortified at himself. He felt like a pre-pubescent again.
"Through here," Mello said softly, and Matt eased off the gas until the engine was a low purr in the deserted streets. The hollow skeletons of industry loomed through the road, deserted trucks and empty boxes making irregular shadows in the pre-dawn gloom. Matt, always hyperaware of Mello's movements, noticed the exact moment when the blonde tensed in his seat and followed his gaze; the warehouse was huge, solid, ordinary. Matt pulled up beside its stained concrete walls and thought that a showdown like this really ought to happen in a dusty dirt-road, with a tumbleweed for some cinematic atmosphere and Mello with spurs on his boots.
But Kira would outdraw Mello, somehow, because that was the way things were. And Near would step over his fallen corpse and pull the blood-sticky gun out of Mello's limp fingers and smile creepily before blowing Kira's brains out. With his mind.
Matt noticed that Mello was staring at him again, and smiled beatifically before jumping out of the car. His gun was a comforting weight in the waistband of his jeans, another one shoved inside his jacket, cold against his ribs. Mello had walked slowly around the hood of the car towards him, seeming stilted. His gaze skittered nervously, jumping erratically from the warehouse to the power lines bisecting the horizon, sometimes sliding almost fearfully over Matt's face. Mello's hands were shaking, and his lips were bloodless in his hollow face and Matt didn't know what to do with this person who suddenly was not Mello.
Mello licked his lips, and Matt shivered as the wind scudded along the ground, low and angry sounding as it flapped against some loose corrugated iron.
"Is Near here yet?" Matt asked to break the silence, because he had never been able to stomach tension.
Mello shrugged, pulled a face, then nodded. "Yeah. Inside. Kira, too - but we don't go in until someone else does." Matt was leaning against the sleek bonnet of his car, and he angled a look towards Mello.
"Well, thanks for telling me the plan, you jerk. Until who goes in?"
Mello licked his lips again, and said, "Mikami. Remember the guy Near had his bitch, Gevanni, follow? He's on the other side of the warehouse with his eye glued to a crack in the door." Seeing Matt open his eye to point out the obvious flaw, Mello added, "Near had the doors rusted. Heavy thing like that, we'll hear it open, no problem."
"And run in with all guns blazing?" Matt asked sarcastically, and couldn't help thinking At Near's command, after all. After all you did, Mello, we're still just doing Near's thing.
Mello sneered at him, and then he was hot against Matt with his hands tangled roughly in Matt's hair and he was pressing his lips brutally hard to Matt's mouth and Matt was wrenching his lips open, Mello's tongue slick and sweet as it swept across his palate and Matt couldn't help himself, he had to bite on Mello's lips until the blood was sour in his mouth, but it was all okay because Mello was moaning and rocking his hips against Matt's with a little snap at the end of each roll and Matt was sucking on Mello's lower lip, and -
Sound tore through the air, and for a moment Matt couldn't identify the sharp snaps of brutal noise which had his ears ringing. Then Mello wrenched away, and the cold slammed into him with the realisation. Gunshots.
"Shit!" Mello gasped, blood trickling from his swollen mouth, and Matt was amazed. Did I do that? Mello grabbed a handful of his shirt and pulled him forwards until they were both running full-pelt towards the warehouse. Matt skidded to his knees and heaved the door open, and Mello was rolling under it even as Matt was cursing and cocking his gun and storming in after him.
***
Light Yagami stood pressed against the corrugated iron wall, his eyes wild and frenzied and a smoking gun at his feet. Mello could see, even from here, that the clip was empty of bullets and thanked God in a rushed mumble of Russian. "Let me introduce myself," Yagami gasped, and his face tore in half as he grinned horribly. "I am Kira."
The gun shook in Mello's hand, and he brought up his other hand to steady it. Near's body was hunched at Mello's feet, his silky white hair slick with the blood that had pooled from the bodies of his task force members. Some of them bore no gunshot wounds, twisted hands clasped to their chests, and Mello's eyes flickered guiltily to a faceless body collapsed by the door, white shirt already saturated with crimson. Halle had fallen with her weapon still curled in her fingers and pointing towards it last victim, a perfect red circle burnt through her shirt. Mello knew that if he turned her over, her chest would be a bloodied mass of ribs, twisted like candy from the force of the blast. In the end, she had done well.
It probably wasn't any condolence.
Near was panting shallowly, but Mello ignored the boy that had been his rival and hate since he had surpassed Mello as the next L; his attention was entirely focused on the handsome twenty-something year-old in front of him who had just admitted to being a serial mass murderer. Yagami's girlfriend, Misa Amane, stood angrily at his right shoulder. Her Shinigami eyes flashed silver, like a cat's eyes underneath headlights, as she glared at Mello. Reading, no doubt, the name and numbers floating above his head. Well, Mello didn't give a fuck. It wasn't him who would be dying today.
"I'm not Near," Mello said, and his voice was surprisingly steady. "And I am not L. I will not spare your lives. I am going to kill you, right here." He felt Matt's intake of breath, and the slight rustling as he stepped forwards, but Mello held out a hand for him to stop. Adrenalin was rushing through his veins like electricity, every sense heightened and more aware than anything he had ever experienced before. Mello was so close to his dreams - Near lay failed at his feet, and Kira was at the mercy of his gun.
And Mello didn't do mercy.
Mello took a deep breath and swung the gun to point at Kira's heart. Light Yagami began to laugh, madly; the sound careened through the room like a twisted lullaby.
"You can't kill me!" He yelled, and staggered forwards a few steps. His head turned to where his Shinigami must be, and he began to gabble madly. "Ryuk. Do it. Write the names!" He fell to his knees, hands scrabbling at the empty air. Mello fired a shot into the ceiling, and felt Matt, peaceloving, non-violent Matt, tremble behind him.
"Quiet!" Mello ordered, hands were clammy with sweat. He couldn't help but wonder; Were those numbers above his head already winding down? His eyes flickered to Misa, but she looked sick and pale as she watched Light scramble on the ground. Suddenly, Yagami began to laugh. He was kneeling on the floor in a grim parody of prayer, torso and head thrown back with insane mirth. "No," he gasped. "I cannot die. I am God! I am Justice!" His breathing hitched, and with a scream, Amane ran to his side and flung herself beside him, like the heroine in every movie she had ever played.
"No!" She screamed, as Kira's torso twisted with pain. His back arched, eyes wide with fear ... And then he slumped forwards, onto the ground. His fingers were scrabbling at his tie.
No, Mello thought, strangely breathless. I did not live this life to see Kira killed before my eyes. It is my destiny. Mine. The gun swung around to face the man, slumped on the ground and gasping for breath. He was whimpering in pain, his head thrashing from side to side. Froth was dribbling out of his mouth.
The gunshot exploded through the room with a roar of sound. It deafened him; all Mello heard was Matt's cry of alarm. Kira sagged like a marionette with its strings cut, face down on the concrete ground, black-looking blood seeping from the front of his shirt. Like a spider, he was smaller in death. Amane screamed again and scrambled away from the body, trembling. She was convulsing with sobs that shuddered through her entire, tiny frame, and Mello pointed the gun at her coldly. She would never notice him. It would be over for her before she even realised.
Mello pulled the trigger.
And Matt lunged forwards and grabbed his wrist, wrenching the gun towards the ceiling. Ceramic tiles shattered and rained down upon the four of us; Misa Amane and L's three protegees. He didn't think that the corpses really minded. Mello barely had time to swear before Matt was running forwards, kneeling beside Amane and gently pulling her into his arms. She clung to him like they were sinking, and his face was pressed into her neck. Matt - my Matt, Mello thought in a swift rush of bewilderment - was rocking her slowly backwards and forwards, crooning soft sounds and humming lullabies that had long lost their words.
Mello looked down at my victory, at God's body sprawled in the corner of a dirty warehouse. At Matt, whom Mello had lost the moment he tried to shoot Amane, and Mello didn't know whether he loved Matt or hated God more.
- - END - -
So, this is un-beta'ed and i wrote it over several months, so please forgive the whole disjointed thing i have going on. it kinda began as a humour, but then segued into angst somehow. also, the last section was initially written in first person Mello POV (which is why there is an alarming lack of my most lovely Mattie) and all of these things have kind of just mutinied against me to create a really random ending! so thanks a lot for reading all the way through! *hearts*
~ Eicklehart