Disclaimer: I own nothing. This piece is not for profit. No copyright infringement intended.
Warnings/Etc.: Not technically following canon storyline, for obvious reasons. Shounen-ai implied. Language, but it's Mello so that's expected.
A/N: Third Death Note piece, first Matt/Mello. Written back in December, finally posted. Critique appreciated.
Dedicated to both Lili and Ellen 'cause I owned this to both of you ages ago.
The way he's coiled is all wrong.
Matt knows this because he has watched Mello sleep for years. He has spent nights with the other boy since Wammy's and now, in their late teens, it is still the same.
But not this time. This time Mello is sprawled face-down, unusual, and lying on top of the sheets instead of entangled in them. Matt has never seen him like this, and he knows something is wrong.
He rushes over, filling space usually taken by three steps in one. The blonde's shoulders move up and down, assuring Matt that Mello is still alive. But the beat is irregular and the barely audible wheeze coming from Mello is strained and painful
"Mels?" he asks, unsure. Matt's voice trembles but does not crack, his eyes skimming over the blonde and surveying Mello for any sign of injury. He sees no notification of new injuries, the cobweb-like patterns of scar tissue spilling across the pale skin the only indication of their difficult, if not somewhat uneasy, past.
Mello lets out a low, unintelligible noise, the letters too slurred together, wrapped around a moan of pain, for Matt to comprehend. The gamer approaches, kneeling down next to where Mello lays on the mattress that serves as a makeshift bed. The sheets are mismatched, clashing colors, but the day Mello swiped them and Matt's fashion sense was off-put does not register as he searches electric blue cotton for any sign of the telltale crimson that means injuries.
"What was that?" the gamer asks softly, and this time his voice does crack. Mello speaks very slowly, his voice muffled by a pillow because he does not move.
"`s… not'in'…" comes the reply and had something not been seriously wrong Matt would have smacked him. As it is, something clearly is seriously wrong, no matter what Mello says, and so Matt places a cool hand on the nape of Mello's neck – something he'd once heard was a soothing gesture – before moving downwards to feel for any well-hidden wounds.
Matt finds nothing glaringly obvious and seeing as he is a gamer, most things are glaringly obvious.
Matt is about to repeat his earlier query when something clicks. A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, his hands stilling and resting on the smooth curve of Mello's lower back as pieces of the puzzle click, almost audibly, into place.
"Mels," he begins slowly, trying to hide the growing laughter in his voice. "When was the last time you ate anything?"
This time Mello does move, turning his head to shoot Matt a scathing glare and spit, "Earlier today." Matt rolls his eyes, whatever concern he'd felt disintegrating at the clear confirmation of his hypothesis.
"I mean something besides chocolate and coffee." The statement is accompanied by another eye-roll from Matt, and though Mello begins to protest the redhead cuts him off with, "I mean real food."
Mello growls out something unintelligible that Matt assumes is some half-assed excuse about how Mello doesn't need proper sustenance and could live off of coffee and chocolate and more chocolate.
"Would you prefer I order Chinese or attempt to create something out of the… diverse… gathering of foods in our fridge?" Mello gives another groan and flails a hand violently in Matt's general direction, just barely missing the now-laughing gamer's nose.
"Chinese it is then," he says, laughter in his voice and a twinkle in his eye. He opens a nearby cardboard box, crumpled and torn and re-labeled in Sharpie so many times that whatever it had was originally supposed to hold was illegible. Rummaging around Matt procures a worn piece of pink paper; the slanting Papyrus font is riddled with typos, the comical Engrish Matt has become accustomed to reading scattered throughout. He pulls out his cell phone, dialing the numbers he knows by heart and gazing over the menu even though they always order the same thing.
Matt stands, moving away from Mello and down the hall, his socked feet padding quietly across the creaking wooden floorboards of the apartment. He lights a cigarette as an old man with a thick accent picks up.
By the time he has ordered ash has fallen from his lips, leaving small smoking singes on the floor. Belatedly Matt hears the telltale creak of floorboards and a moment later Mello's arms wrap around Matt's waist, the blonde's mouth coming down to bite the back of Matt's shoulder, hard, in what Matt knows is the most thanks Mello will ever be able to express.
Owari