This is dedicated to my true partner in crime, my Mello, as an early birthday present. At least this is one of them. A bit of an AU, actually, since Matt and Mello….survive the Kira case…? Ah well, enjoy, no flames please because this is a birthday present. Sort of. Actually more of an 'I'm giving it to you anyway!' present. Enjoy^^
Disclaimer: I do not own them, although I do cosplay as one of them and wear Mello's wig just to annoy her.
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Tick…tock…tick…tock….beep-tick....beep-tock…beep-tick….beep-tock…
The noises of the heart monitor and the clock contrasted perfectly, the only sounds in the otherwise dead silent room. Someone had pulled the plug on all the sound in the world, and now there was only this, this never ending stretch of silence. And what was worse it wrapped itself around him, suffocating him, whispering to him that there was only this feeling, this cold sweat, itch-on-the-back-of-your-neck-that-won't-go-away feeling.
The lights were off, you know. He had made them turn them off. The pale gleam of moonlight slipped hesitantly into the room, spilling itself over the off-white tiles of the hospital floor, just nearing the toes of his boots. Other than that, blackness. More like shadow really. That's all he had ever been, a shadow.
The air smelled sterile and tasted cold, added to by the frozen light of the moon and the open window. Winter could do that. Smoke wafted in swirling tendrils from the tip of his cigarette, the red glow turning orange as he inhaled once again, feeling the soothing comfort of the fumes in his lungs. A bad habit, nothing more than that. Like biting your nails or cracking your knuckles. Or eating chocolate.
He didn't like the smoke inside of him really, and it soothed him not because it was his addiction, for it was not, but it smelled like him. It made the cold staleness of the air go away, filling the room with the scent he had grown so accustomed to. At first he had hated it, and chastised him for constantly having it in his mouth, his already nearlyincoherent mumblings turning into a slur of language distorted by the damn lung-burner.
But when they brought him here he had started the habit. The tray was full now, white with ash and speckled with newly shed orange and red sparks, just like it had been at the apartment. Just like home. He had quit with the chocolate for now, eating in general was not as important as the smoking. He would've played the games too, if he didn't suck so much at them.
God, he should've seen the look on the nursery clerk's face when he, in all his black and leathery glory, asked for black flowers. Was it frightening? Was it wrong? He knew he like them. He'd find them impressive, different. That is, if he ever woke up.
So the clerk finally found a pot of black viola's. They were perfect. They were interesting. And when the store clerk conversationally explained him the meaning of the flowers, he wanted them even more.
"They're part of a myth that has to do with the Turkish god Attis," she had said, giving him a look as she flounced her hips side to side, showing off her thin waist, trying to sound smart, "the god of vegetation. The flowers grew where his blood spilled, and they symbolize death." He had flinched at this comment, suddenly not wanting the flowers too much, "But also, resurrection." At this he was sold. He bought a pot of them and brought them to the hospital, placing the huge porcelain bowl on the floor at the foot of his bed rather than placing them on the table.
He smirked slightly when he thought of the nursery clerk, the way she said and did things.
"For someone special?" she had asked, a hint of jealously lilting finely in her sultry voice.
"Yeah, my friend."
"A friend?" he could literally hear the life pour back into her voice.
"Boyfriend, actually." She almost dropped the violas when she heard those words.
"Oh." She choked out, trying to sound friendly but ending up sounding strangled with disgust.
"Anything wrong with that?" he knew there were a lot of things she thought was wrong with that, but she'd lose her job if she said them. Instead, she pursed her lips, gave him a terrible look, and walked stiffly over to the counter to rack in his purchase.
His thoughts flitted away once again, and again the room was filled in the tight silence, its domination only slightly interrupted by the whispering beeps and ticks of the clock and heart monitor. Why? Why? Why must he sit there, staring at his face, remembering things that when he fed and breathed for himself instead of machines he would've otherwise ignored. They were his daily life. They were "normal". But now things weren't normal anymore, they were painful, burdening. And all he could do was sit there! Just sit there, watch the doctors come, tap the IV, tamper a bit with the machines, and scribble something on the clipboard in chicken scratch, most of it in a code that only the doctors and nurses understood. Just watch it all fly by, not able to connect, to reach out and touch the horrible reality.
He wasn't in denial though, everyone knew that. He just lived in this world that existed without sound, a world he had weaved for himself, much like a caterpillar weaves itself a cocoon. Only a caterpillar emerges out of it after a couple of weeks, but he had yet to emerge from his. He dealt with this horror in his own little world, moving, talking, swearing, sometimes eating, all as if he were a zombie, slowly dying in his own grief and sin and mourning. Why? That was the word that blew constantly through his head like a winter wind, a single voice muttering the question in his otherwise blank, pain filled mind.
And then the heart monitor sped up.
The doctors said that if the pace of the heart monitor ever altered he was either dying…or about to wake up. Suddenly the world was filled with sound, so much sound he could hardly take it. It buzzed in his noise-deprived ears, and he could hear the pulse of his heart, feel it jump anxiously deep inside his ribcage.
And then, after an eternity of crying, praying, swearing, begging, and sinning, his eyes opened, blinking twice, like someone waking up from a warm, dream-filled sleep.
He turned his head, looking at him, still blinking, slipping back into the beauty of reality, never questioning the wonder of being alive, his face almost solemn.
"Mells?" Even if Mr. Leather's voice was croaky from crying and lack of talking, he licked his chapped lips, his heart pumping at an unhealthy beat.
"Matt." And then he smiled, and the world was no longer black and white, trapped in a soundless, colorless horror movie, and he was finally able to admire the yellow dot that appeared in the middle of the black velvet petals of the black viola. Resurrection. It was he was resurrected, not Matt, brought back from the dead.
"Hey, are those my cigs?" Matt sounded horrified. And he laughed, for the first time in a long time. And the shell of ice and death cracked…and fell away.
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Yesh^^ I hope my mello likes it. And do you like it. I wanna know, which in translation means: review! No flaming, yell at me nicely. Oh, and that thing about the black violas, the myth, it is a real myth. And those are real flowers. Look' em up, they're pretty.