Title: Plaster
Description: And as he looks to Mello, emerald meeting sapphire, he knows the blonde will be the one to tip over his hourglass. But as he sits here among the ashes and cool pavement, he can't think of a better way to die.
Pairings: Slight MattMello
Rating: T
Warnings: Potential anime/manga spoilers
Disclaimer: If I owned Death Note (which I don't sadly), Matt would've had a tremendous amount more of screen time, L would've evaded death and the whole show would've lasted more than 37 episodes.
A/N: Well, greetings Death Note Fandom. It's my first time here and I see a bunch of new faces since I've been in the Naruto wormhole for quite some time. A fair warning to you all, I have not read the manga, I've only watched the anime (in eng. sub) so hopefully as far as characterization goes, I'm not completely off-base.
- - -
Back to zero
Your time's about to come
- - -
The cigarette is burning his lips. Smoldering ashes of nicotine and tobacco are throbbing like a swollen heart between his chapped flesh and he doesn't have a mind to discard it. He wonders minutely if his fingers have been severed because he surely can't feel them anymore inside his leather gloves. Have the nerves suddenly gone dead; sporadically shut down? He isn't sure anymore, but he can't feel his legs either and the odd sensation of knowing your limbs are there but not feeling the connection within your sockets is causing his heart to skip beats in its metronomic melody.
He can see ashes take their suicidal leap into the snow below, burning millions of tiny holes through the delicate, fragile flakes. He stares as the cinders fade from red, to orange, to black as the cold suffocates each one. It's like watching death and he doesn't appreciate the morbid symbolism in the least. He much rather play a game where you are given a second chance – find the hidden key and you get one more shot. It'd be much easier, but then who said living – breathing – was supposed to be easy? He is bitterly reminded that it is hard work, the way his lungs are quivering and quaking with each exhale; how he can't ignore the raw sore of his throat as the chilled air slathers it. He's working his ass off.
His back aches against the numbing brick wall he's propped up against, legs splayed forward in the embankment of snow. He can feel every grouted groove poke and prod beneath his insulated vest, bruising his pale skin, and knows the indents will be red come tomorrow. A weak wisp of smoke travels in front of him, or maybe it's his huffs of breath. Again, he isn't too sure. How can he be when his brain is thawed and cumbersome, limbs disconnected, blood beginning to freeze onto his clothes in burnt mahogany splotches that clash horrifically with his sallow skin?
He can faintly hear steps to his right, coming towards him in frustrated haste, a rhythm he knows all too well by now. In hindsight, he figures that would've been his warning to get the hell up, no matter how numb his legs were and how purple he's sure his fingernails have become. But he wasn't gifted with precious foresight and remains where he is, in lackadaisical limbo.
He can almost taste the sweet cacao as black, bulky boots appear before him, fists most likely clenched tautly.
"Why the fuck are you out here?"
The words are slightly gurgled, but his groggy mind manages to interpret the garble all the same. He doesn't know how long it takes for him to maneuver his swollen tongue (still saturated with blood) to form any words, but in due time he distantly hears his slurred reply.
"Got locked out again?"
A growl emanates from the boots. He could probably lift his head to view the rest of the body, to stare blankly into the sapphire eyes he's sure are smoldering hotly. But, he digresses, his cranium is just too heavy to lift on his own, so he settles for having a conversation with the footwear – not minding the unsettling awkwardness in the least.
"Bullshit. I swear to God, Matt, if you've been shooting up I'll fucking blow your head off!"
He hears the gun cock for emphasis above him, but still can't compel his emerald eyes to raise. He desperately wants to tell him that he hasn't been shooting up – hadn't since that first time, that only time – but his brain can't make the connection and he's left with the negligible statement, "'Should get inside. 'Snow's cold."
He can sense (for all the wonder in the world, he never comprehends just how he can discern this) the slight hesitance and he knows he's caught the blonde off guard. He wonders if the gun's been put away or if he's still being held for ransom, but his eyes stay glued to the ebony boots that never reveal its secrets.
For the life of him, he can detect yet another pause before he hears words that contain a less amount of venom than before, "There's no snow, you dumbass."
Then why was he so damn cold? His cigarette flicks more ashes that suddenly don't die within the imprisonment of flakes, but rather simmer quietly on black pavement. He realizes, belatedly, that the blood that had, just moments ago, drenched his furred vest is no longer present – bullets holes suddenly patched up and fixed. The sticky scarlet is not slathered upon his left cheek and his fingers are in working order once more. He blinks and finally looks up to see Mello raising an eyebrow at him in askance (or is it plain puzzlement?), azure eyes appraising his slouched figure with bemusement. He blinks again, finding the feeling back within his legs and notices that his cigarette is no longer scalding. Mello's other golden brow raises to join its twin brother and he lets a sheepish smile cross his face, realizing his tongue can now create words. But he finds himself merely looping in repetition.
"I got locked out."
He licks his cold, chapped lips, testing the waters before elaborating hesitantly, "Lost the damn key again."
His jade irises trace over the blonde's bisected face – one side perfect and clean while the other is charred and distorted. Was it so horrible that he wanted to stroke the imaginary line that divided the two sides; feeling his finger beneath both smooth and rough?
He doesn't make a move to rise from the cinders that litter in a peculiar geometric shape around him from fallen ashes. He can't seem to shake off his gaze that lingers unashamedly upon Mello's jaded eyes and then to his golden locks; he chuckles inwardly at how the luminosity plus his perspective creates a halo of pure white light around Mello's head – but he knows the blonde is no such thing. Quite the opposite. The cigarette burns his lips again and he wonders offhandedly if this is Death staring him in the face.
The thought is morbid and out of place but as he stares into the barrel that's still halfheartedly aimed between his eyes, he can feel the bullet lodge itself within his heart.
Mello doesn't move from his spot nor lower the gun and he ponders whether the chocolate-addict can predict what's coming next like he always had before. Judging by how the firearm trembles just slightly in Mello's grip, he deduces that the former mobster can't – and doesn't like that fact one bit.
It scares him.
He wants to say something else, perhaps lift the ominous air around them or settle Mello's mind with a predictable statement. But he can't. His lips are crusted shut around the cancer-inducing stick and all that is exchanged between them are the translucent curls of smoke. The silence is roaring in his ears but he doesn't try and break it because he knows all he'd say is a mere repetition. The frost is beginning to slather upon his lungs and he's suddenly shivering from something he knows is not the cold.
And as he looks to Mello, emerald meeting sapphire, he knows the blonde will be the one to tip over his hourglass. But as he sits here among the ashes and cool pavement, he can't think of a better way to die.
And suddenly he's found friction, lifting himself up slowly (absently wondering when it got so hard to breathe, whether cancer really was murdering his lungs), boots gripping onto the gravel in desperation. Before either of them know it, he's flung himself forward, towards Mello, the gun, and Death. Mello inhales sharply as he tenses, not knowing what to do in this unforseen situation, as he merely wraps his arms tight around his partner-who's-secretly-his-friend, feeling the gun dig almost painfully into his chest, his vest, striped shirt and vulnerable skin. The perfect circle of the barrel is cold but Mello's so warm with his flesh and blood that he almost doesn't notice the equally frigid leather that's attempting to protect the blonde from everything.
He can feel Mello's larynx vibrate next to his ear, his voice noticeably taken aback and soft with shock, "Matt..."
He can feel him swallow before he says a little louder, "Come on. Let's go inside and..."
The sentence trails off because they both know that they can't get away with something so nonchalant and normal. His goggles are fogging up with the heat radiating from Mello's body and he knows he has to pull away before he gets too attached.
He replays that thought over before he throws caution to the wind with a dismissive hand. Fuck it, he's been in way too deep for a while now.
Placing his chin on Mello's shoulder, pretending to notice its not shaking just so, he closes his eyes, trying to soak up the warmth of skin on skin (disregarding the fact that both of them are clothed; one in a warm vest, the other in cold leather) and forget for just one second about the barrel on his heart and how it's been there since he said 'yes' to him. To everything.
Mello tries again, perhaps attempting to backpedal to make everything right again. It never really was, though. But he would take anything he could get. Mello just didn't seem to realize that yet. "Matt, you don't have to..."
He grabs on tighter, bunching that damn leather and all its insinuations into his fists, and finally bites out, "No."
Mello stops talking, but he most likely knew his answer before he even started to form the words on his tongue. He was second in line after all. He feels Mello lower his head just slightly -- knowing that they can't go back and wondering how the hell did they end up in this damnation -- and he just keeps holding on because he can suddenly feel the snow back in his bones. He can feel the bullet holes start to rip open again, bloody rivulets marring his tan vest and alabaster skin. He can feel his lungs become punctured and bruised, but in some small miracle, he's still breathing.
In the distance, he can hear brakes screech to a halt and muffled shouts of something he can't convey. He can distantly sense a car door open and he knows he has to get out.
The barrel is digging into his heart.
"Mello."
He can feel him cringe and then tense, knowing what he's about to say and not being able to stop it. He can picture the blonde narrowing his eyes at his own infallibility.
Scarlet trickles from his lips, the cigarette becoming drenched and soggy from his own life force leaking out. The taste is acerbic like biting into metal, but he can't spit it out because he doesn't want to ruin Mello's precious leather.
Crimson is marring his body in such malevolent splendor that he isn't sure if any more exposed canvas is left. He keeps his eyes shut. He keeps his arms around Mello's thin body tight. He keeps breathing. He keeps holding on because maybe he'll be granted one last request.
He tries not to picture Mello's rosary that's hanging just behind the gun and attempts bravado only to rethink it and instead whisper gently.
"Kill me."
He can imagine the reluctant finger pulling back, unsteadily leaning upon life and murder. He isn't sure whether the cold liquid that's streaming down his face is clear or crimson. He never finds out.
He breathes in for luck.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
And one more just in case he isn't dead yet.
The warmth is gone as is the barrel to his heart, but the bullet hole is ripped open all the same. It's leaking out everything, letting the red escape and drain him. He dares to open his eyes, knowing beforehand that he'll be disappointed. The blinding lights from hubcaps pierce his fading corneas like he secretly knew they would and he isn't surprised to see at least thirteen firearms aimed at him still, just in case he'll pull out an AK 47 on a whim.
He wishes he kept his eyes closed so he could still blissfully pretend.
He staggers slightly before collapsing to the cold pavement. The cigarette is cold and lifeless, making him wish that it was still burning through his flesh. He slumps against the bumper and resumes his position of lackadaisical limbo. He lets his limbs gently fade out to numbness. He lets his lungs gasp and sputter.
The cigarette falls.
Matt lets his heart die –
Bullet in place.
- o - o - o -
A/N: Okay, so this is basically a little illusion Matt has as he faces down the thirteen or so cops surrounding him. I thought it was a nice conception – how Mello pretty much held the gun to his head (or heart, in this case). So, I hope that clears up some confusion you may have when reading this.
Soundtrack while writing:
- Hot - Avril Lavigne (believe it or not – it actually brought out some really nice lines in here)
- Beautiful Love - The Afters
- Everything is Alright - Motion City Soundtrack
- The Future Freaks Me Out - Motion City Soundtrack
- Let's Get Fucked Up and Die - Motion City Soundtrack (can you tell I heart this band?)
- A Boy Brushed Red... - Underoath (only the first few lyrics in the beginning – don't like the screaming)
Lyrics at the beginning – Scream (Hotel Tokio)
Hope you all liked this oneshot! I may write more Deathnote fics once inspiration strikes!
'Till then,
H. 92