Author's Note: So, little thing I came up with in English while trying to write a piece of original writing for GCSE work. Somehow I don't think I could hand this one in. MelloxMatt, death mentions, angsty and lemony.

Warnings: MelloxMatt, sex (not totally graphic), lots of description, angst, one swear. Death mentions.

Disclaimer: Believe me, if I did own Death Note, I would so ace my GCSE English exams. T.T

Dedications: Rasp and Carly; Carly for being there while I described my idea, Rasp for being my Matt.

"So." Inhale, pause, exhale. Smoke infused air. "How dya reckon you're gonna die?"

Mello shrugs and snaps chocolate like he snaps fingers. "Dunno. Reckon Kira'd waste some Death Note for me?" Chocolate crunches before melting into sex in his mouth.

Matt runs his tongue over his teeth, tasting smoke mixing with chocolate four foot away. He feels the air moving around him, arm chair rough and smooth under the slightly-yellowed skin of his burning fingers. Heightened senses, DS a world away.

Mello raises an eyebrow, carefully constructed for questions. "Matt?" Matt looks, seeing blond and black, golden-pale skin, scar twisting defiantly. Blue eyes scan him down, critical, appraising each and every curve and muscle Matt possesses. Black and white, orange prescription plastic perched amongst fire. Stripes stand, crumple and straighten as Matt comes over; ash stick dropped and scrubbed out.

Mello is tugged to his feet, black boots cementing him to Earth for as long as he can be there.

Hot kisses, tongues fighting and apologising, having phenomenal make-up-break-up sex right there in the mouths of two men who never really stopped being boys. Slow touches, cool pale hands tugging down jeans and sliding under stripes to make their mark. Gentle and hard, no-time-to-stop pauses. Swirled fingertips stroking across black shine coated legs, working leather down like the inhibitations the blond has burned away. Sudden touches, bed springs crack like Matt's knuckles, soft skin and hard fucks, perfection hit straight home.

Time later and Mello's dressed, going through hair with hands coated in lies.

"Where're you going?"

"To get pissed." Inane smile.

"But you don't get drunk, Mell. You're Russian." Whirl of black, something that's not anger and not desperation radiating forwards like the smoke Matt can still taste.

Smile.

"Then it just shows how much I care about dying, doesn't it?"

Say what you think please,

it means a lot and helps me improve.

8D

TwistedPearls