Just a oneshot to say "I'm still alive." Sort of. You're going to be over run by oneshots for the next two weeks or so...
Black And White
The morning was the year's first snow; it was tints of white and flushes of harsh cold, it was desperate people rushing to reach their destinations, it was flustered weathermen reporting the unexpected snowstorm with apologetic grins on their smooth faces. It was grey shadows under gnarled trees, sprawling fields of clumped snowflakes glistening innocently next to the hunched old orphanage, it was small faces peering out their windows, gazing across the horizon at the pale sun, mouths agape and spewing happy giggles, it was arms nudging and boots being pulled on with gusto, eager children rushing to dance in the freezing air.
For Matt, the morning was an empty bed across from him, a clock flashing a time much too early for his liking, the pounds of footsteps hurrying to reach the large front doors of Wammy's. It was goose bumps across his pale arms and reluctance to slip out from between heavy blankets. He looked out the window, huffed at the outside world, and turned back into the comfort of his room, where Mello was not. Matt blushed and shook his head, because on this morning he did not fancy his best friend. This morning was a hot shower, not a cold one. This morning was a cinnamon bun with extra whipped cream; it was revelling in the absence of most of the other orphans at meal time. Those who did drift in through the cafeteria doors all glanced at Matt, seated alone, pulling off pieces of his breakfast, hair falling into his eyes. For them, this morning was a lucky one. Snow piled higher and higher, promising hilarious snow ball fights, and Mello was out of sight. They would pour milk over their cereal without hearing his insults in their ears, would wait calmly in line without feeling him push and prod them, and would reach for the container of chocolate milk without already knowing Mello had drunk the whole thing or spit in it to make sure no one drank any of what he deemed as his. A few of them even thought of sitting next to Matt, whom they actually liked, but never dared communicate with excessively, for the same reason they didn't bother with the milk when Mello was around. He protected what he deemed his, and Matt was Mello's friend. They didn't sit with the redhead, though, instead letting him swing his thin legs and nibble on his food alone.
Matt felt their glances, knew they were all glad to feel the peaceful atmosphere that cloaked every room Mello wasn't occupying. He felt the difference, too, the strange way everything was silent and carefree, the lack of banging or yelling. He didn't know how felt about it, this morning, where he was left to his own devices. This morning was uncertain. Matt knew Mello was all noise and feeling, a firecracker in the form of a human being, and he liked that Mello just fine; really liked him, if he was honest with himself. But that Mello was also unapproachable, quick to judge, instant in his decisions. If Matt was honest to himself, he knew Mello would throw him aside if he were ever to say how much he cared, how the morning was only empty bed, empty seat, empty silence, to him. Matt didn't know if he preferred never having Mello to confuse him or if he needed the blonde boy as much as he wished his friend needed him.
For Mello, the morning was soft breathing from across the room, gentle wisps of white floating by his window, it was quiet contemplation and it was sudden inspiration. Mello, his feet a whisper across the floor, slunk out of the room where Matt slept soundly and two neon radio clocks blinked 7:00 am, and slipped through the door like one of the shadows decorating the floor in front of him. He blinked his dark lashes, rubbed blue eyes, and paced down the familiar hallways of Wammy's, finally reaching the door that housed one of his favourite places in the entire building. Here the shadows crouched darkly, the floor gleamed white when the lights were flicked on, and the bench where he sat shone black and sleek. He sucked in a breath, let it out again. This morning was calm, for Mello.
Matt left breakfast, rolled his eyes at the ceiling, let his legs move aimlessly, drifted down hallways he couldn't recall having ever seen, opened only doors with uneven numbers plastered across their pale wood, calling softly "Mello?" every time, knowing Mello wasn't in any of the rooms. If his friend wanted to disappear, he would disappear and Matt wouldn't find him. Though his mind did play him a movie of places he might find Mello. In a closet, in an old classroom, in a deserted hallway; all of these places housed undeniably pretty girls wearing Mello for lipstick. Matt wanted desperately to find the blonde, but half of him wanted to turn away and play Final Fantasy instead. Cloud never left him to tangle with girls…
Matt shook his head, pulling at the band of his goggles and hiding his hands in his pockets. Cloud wasn't even real. Mello was more important. So Matt played detective on this morning, pretended to be searching for a very important missing person, someone who would undoubtedly wrap their black clad arms around his neck and press their lips to his in appreciation when he found them. He entertained himself with this as he strolled, humming lightly and laughing occasionally at his own spinning thoughts.
It was the last door he opened, the one with the silent hinges and the faded bronze handle, where he stopped humming. This room was a different morning, it seemed, one where the air was warm and the sun shone from the ceiling in the form of a bright white light bulb, banishing the chill of winter, illuminating the brightest thing in the whole place, probably the whole world, making it shine even brighter. It was Mello, back straight, shoulders light and relaxed, fingers dancing across keys of black and white, focused only on the beautiful sound he was making, sitting there on a wooden piano bench. Matt blinked, smiling against his will at the music, stopping the door with a gloved palm and floating out of one dream and into another. Mello was loud, he was fighting and ranting and yelling, he was broken dishes and ripped up papers. In this room, where Mello sat playing a large and beautiful piano by the light of his own aura, Mello was peaceful, melodic, and gorgeous. He was everything Matt loved and everything he had wished he could love, and Matt didn't hum because Mello's fingers were taking care of the soundtrack. He just stepped into this new daydream, took the half step toward the piano, looked into the gold bangs hiding Mello's eyes, jumped onto the instrument, leaned black and white striped arms over black and white striped keys with a loud musical thump and pressed his lips to Mello just as the music stopped, just as the questioning eyes rose to meet his own orange tinted ones. He smiled when he felt the pull of Mello's arms around his neck, slid onto the piano bench with a painful bump, and ignored it, melting his lips into the other boy's instead of trying to get comfortable, because feeling Mello's hand on his waist was more comfortable than anything. This morning was wonderful; it was an old fashioned photograph, one to be treasured. It was not a daydream.