Title: A Mile in Mail's Shoes
Summary: "Matt, I'm not exaggerating or being a drama queen! I just… wish you understood that." "Yeah, Mello? Well… maybe I wish the same thing." MxM switch roles in a redundant yet modern version of the Prince and the Pauper.
Disclaimer: I don't own DN or the plot, but I stake claim to my clever wordplay.
Author's Note: What the hell is a Pauper anyways?!
…
The stench of blood flooded his senses as he held a body close, whispering goodbyes on deaf ears as the remaining life left his companion. He stood up, dropping the preserving corpse and drawing his pistol –a .45 with the cutaway trigger guard. He released a breath of fog into the angry night air and prepared for action as he left the safety of the makeshift barricade.
He knew his men had his back, so he had no fear for his life as he planned his vengeance; he was immortal.
With his free hand, he drew a second gun –a simple but accurate .380. And… just like in the movies, he keened himself onto the metaphorical stage! His guns blazed and the sound of bursting bullets served in place of a droll monologue.
Spectators were at the edge of their seats and actors were playing their roles, clashing like a contemporary version of the some wanton tryst between Montague's and the Capulet's from a Shakespearean play.
The blonde clearly had the lead role; danger and excitement trailed his every move; all eyes were on him… and that attention only grew more concentrated when he let out a cry as a bullet burrowed into the calve of his leg, effectively making him drop to a kneel as he hissed in pain and addressed the laceration.
Thankfully, the sheer number of his enemies lessened and his comrades protected him well, literally taking bullets for him and returning fire until he composed himself and could once again hold his own.
By then, the noise had died down and everyone left alive was patting one another on the back and talking like jocks on a winning football team; they were unfazed at the stench of death and the sight of slaughter. This, to them, was completely natural. No different than children having poptarts for breakfast or watching Looney Tunes on a Saturday morning.
Still, they cheered their fortune and cleared the corpses, ridding the scene of evidence before parting ways.
The blonde ventured to an abandoned garage half a mile away from where the shootout had taken place. From there he retrieved one of the few things that made life worth living… His motorcycle. With a small smile, he placed a gloved hand on the bike, giving the tank and motorhead a loving caress before hiking a leg over and igniting the engine. With the addition of a helmet and a few melodious revs of the engine, he was on his way, taking the scenic route home, feeling positively free as the world whizzed past him and he penetrated the bristling winds.
A ride that should have taken twenty minutes ended up being two hours. Regardless, he arrived and parked his bike before stealing a key from his pocket and using it to access his apartment. He took a deep breath and entered the same way he always did –muddy boots clunking against the hard wood floors; keys being tossed onto the table; leather coat being dropped wherever he saw fit (the coat rack, the chair, the floor. Wherever.); he grabbed a chocolate bar from the coffee table and dropped onto the couch in a lazy manner.
Finally, after a messy day of work, dishing out punishment to dumbasses who couldn't quite keep up with the mob, he was ready to relax. After eating his chocolate bar, his eyes slipped closed and he felt serene. Surely he could fall asleep and wake up without remembering his nightmares; that would be blissful enough for this blonde.
Just as he decided to sleep, it happened. The clicking. The tapping. The beeping. The videogame theme music. The cheering of a particular redhead shouting: "Ultimate PWNage; fuck yeah!"
"Maaaaatt, I'm trying to sleep!" The blonde shouted, burying his face into a couch cushion. His head was throbbing; he just wanted rest, dammit! Still… "Matt, I'm not fuckin' kidding!" He received no response; so, he got to his feet and angrily stomped to where he knew he'd find the source of his pounding headache. "Matt," he chided, standing in the doorway and glaring at his roommate who was kicking ass at some game or another and occasionally relaying instructions to a fellow player via headset.
Noticing the headset, the blonde strode over and yanked it off, screaming: "Matt!" directly into his companion's ear.
…The redhead heard him that time. "Yeah, Mells?" he asked awkwardly, wincing at the ringing sound that began in his ear (courtesy of Mello's rather rude greeting).
"I'm tired of this shit. I'm the one who pays for your addictions; the least you can do is turn it down while I sleep."
"But –"
"Turn it down. Or I'll turn it off –and I won't use the Power button."
"Mello…"
"I'm not kidding, Matt."
The redhead whined indignantly before muttering: "such a drama queen."
"That's it!" Mello shrieked, bypassing Matt to angrily kick the console… several times; stamping and kicking and effectively trashing it. And, as if that wasn't punishment enough for the gamer, he pulled out his .45 and shot the tv screen.
By now the redhead was in tears, fingers loosely cradling a controller and face contorted in pain. "Mello, please. You don't understand…"
"I'm sorry, Matt. I just wanted a little piece and quiet. But you were blaring the damn thing… and you're too lazy to even turn it down."
"No… You're just an insensitive jerk. My game wasn't loud, and I'm not lazy. You're exaggerating; you're being a drama queen."
"Matt, I'm not exaggerating or being a drama queen! I just… wish you understood that –" I wish you understood that I'm tired; I'm miserable. I just want things to be peaceful when I get home… Then again, how can I expect you to understand? I'm sure you don't even have a clue as to what line of work I'm in. Mello knew what he needed to say, but he couldn't bring himself to form the words.
Thankfully, Matt spoke up. "Yeah, Mello? Well… maybe I wish the same thing. I want to understand you, but I want you to understand me too." I wish you understood that my life's not easy either. I have secrets that even you don't know… Secrets I don't want you to know.
…
That night, as Mello lay in bed staring out the small dusty window, a moving star caught his eye. And, though he didn't believe in wishes, the childhood he left behind surfaced in moments of vulnerability, and for just a moment, he closed his eyes and made a wish, hoping with everything in him that he'd go to bed and wake up to understand his best friend and lover.
Once his wish was made, he opened his eyes and the moving ball of light was gone. He shrugged it off and closed his eyes, finally ready for sleep.
…
Morning came and Mello woke up to an unfamiliar voice with a loud, shrill pitch.
"Mihael Keehl!" The voice was too peppy to assault someone so early.
Naturally, Mello groaned and swatted the air, keeping his eyes closed and trying desperately to go back to sleep. "Matt, turn that gaming shit off!"
"Oh! Mr. Keehl! You must wake up! Your day has begun already! At the stroke of twelve, the spell will be broken! But for now, Mail Jeevas has your life… and you have his! He will have no recollection of being his usual self; he has all of your memories and none of his own. And you–you will also have all your own memories and none of his. Odd, yes, but it's how the spell works. You will live as him until the spell wears off, and during that time, you'll learn what it's like to be him."
…
/Yeah, yeah, this idea has been done before, but I wanted to give it a shot. Review! More to come. Seriously. Next chapter is already done. So, again, REVIEW./