Of Solipsism and Vertigo
Author's Note: Dedicated to Viola Canina, who is a Kiyomi Takada fan. I'm one of the few people who's willing to write a Mello/Kiyomi piece (am I the only person who thinks it would be fascinating?). I happen to be a fan of both Mello and Kiyomi (though that's probably because I have a weakness for lovely black-haired and blue-eyed women), and I wanted to explore an aspect of their relationship with this piece. If I manage to convert people into this pairing with my writing, then my mission is accomplished. Enjoy!
Mello was a man of commanding reputation, someone who stood before God and confessed every sin he'd committed in his lifetime. He did so many terrible things that he barely had a conscience anymore, though he knew that he would atone for his sins one day, his beloved rosary unable to save him from eternal damnation. It might have frightened him, though this world remained so disturbingly motionless that Mello could only do what he could to make the world move. When he kidnapped Kiyomi Takada, Mello witnessed the perfect moment where the entire world held its breath as he raced along his motorcycle, handcuffed to the Japanese woman.
No stopping now, not when the world remained so still. Mello had to keep going, his adrenaline rushing into a biological high. A murmur pulsed through his heart; the seductive lulls of pounding blood flooding his brain with delirious solipsism of vertigo and motion. Behind his darkened visor, Mello's eyes narrowed with determination--he could feel her clutching desperately against him, her breasts pressing into his back. If it weren't for the disturbing stillness and if it weren't for the fact that this woman was connected with Kira, maybe Mello would've bedded this lovely blue-eyed woman, Eve embodied, the temptress of Adam.
When she undressed before him, a flourish of her arm revealed the barest suggestion of her breast confined within her lacy bra, the lovely curvature of her back prominent with the defined sculpture of her shoulder blades like the stubs of angel wings; he could see her slightly parted lips gleam with the polished luster of the forbidden fruit in Eden. Like Venus rising out from the sea and blown toward the fated shores of Zephyrs, the Japanese woman bared herself before him, her clothing parted away like waves. She soon wrapped the blanket around herself, only revealing the slightest traces of her curves. Mello let out a soundless breath he unknowingly pent inside himself as he finally turned away, tracer in hand.
Kiyomi Takada. His passionate sin, his blasphemous infatuation, his unholy lust. Such lovely blue eyes she had--he could feel the tremors of his masochistic desire stir throughout him. His heart literally stopped for her. Ah, but he had no delusions that he was dying; the sudden halt of his pulse momentarily synchronized with this deadened world, this stagnant world of motionlessness and monochrome. Yet as he clutched onto his rosary in his final death throes, a disquieting finality lulling him into darkness, Mello then realized he was plunged into perfect stillness while the world moved on without him.