Gravity-Zamiel
A/N: orig. supposed to be aligned to the Right-looks nice that way. Put up a fight with my computer. Computer won. Therefore, aligned to the left.
Prologue
He reeks of blood, iron, perspiration, charred flesh-an abortion from hell, an alchemist's experiment gone wrong. Even with the thick, crusted eel of blood slithering out of one of his nostrils, he can still smell himself, the monstrosity he's become. One push of a button and-BOOM-I've burnt to hell and back, baby.
He knuckles down on the accelerator and pushes past 80, pulling the hoodie further over his face and hair. The neon purple of the sky overhead-glowing like some poisonous thing-makes the freeway look like a scene ripped off from some indie B-movie flick. Blood hacks up from the back of his throat along with dregs of concrete, grimy like sand against his tongue. A small boy in the backseat of a passing van waves to him-look the hell away, kid-and the headlights, streetlights suddenly become a blurred orgy of pale white and red as he bites down the urge to spit. He gingerly sucks on the regurgitated mess-saltiness diluted with saliva, a watery, putrid meltdown.
(I've burnt to hell and back, baby).
The exit looms ahead.
(-don't let me down).
I.
In the end he decides to use his gun because four years, though not that long of a time, is still long enough to twist old connections. Time could fuck with a person if she put her mind to it.
He beats the gun handle against the door, splintering a crack into the molding. Bangbangbangbangbang and silence as if the whole world is juiced into a post-apocalypse. (Bangbangbang just to make sure. No, the bastard's not home).
He hates that fucking door, grim and silent like a closed mouth-did I come this far just to...? He raises his arm as if to break it down; the sudden weight in his body causes him to slump against the wall.
Matt...
The pain is just too fucking beautiful. He's aware of it for the first time as his body retaliates. It bites and snarls through his limbs and veins, burrows through him like a mutated fetus. Grotesque. Omnipotent.
..what the hell.
II.
The barrel of the gun stares at Matt beadily-a socketless glare possessing all the hunger of the rabid beast clutching it.
"You owe me." The guttural rasp. Simple. Concise. You look the same but Mello fingers the trigger just in case.
"So you've come to collect, hunh?" The words uttered casually, as if Matt were accustomed to having mutiliated bodies lie outside his apartment. He fumbles through his pockets-lighter, loose cash, paperclip, keys-and unlocks the door. "Get in."
III.
He realizes Mello hasn't spoken-save for those last 3 words-hasn't greeted him or spared him conversation and he's relieved because he relishes the silence, the comfort of not having to dick around for meaningless words.
Mello-always obstinate-
(Matt tries to look into that face; semi-human, semi-alien, the angry gash that separates those two hemispheres.
And fails).
-disappears inside the bathroom with needle and thread.
It's cooler outside. Matt nudges the door open with his foot and the wind-dry; sarcastic; like an old, canned laugh-whips through his hair. He watches the smoke dispelled by his cigarette go haywire for a brief instant before the wind sucks it out like a vacuum.
IV.
Mello's blood is everywhere-a hemorrhage, a homicidal eruption-staining the tiles, the sink, the mat. It is the colour of rust, of mahogany and coffee. Its presence assures him of Mello's mortality...
not a demon incarnate. Just Mello.
The demon holds his gaze steady, vehemence embedded like shrapnel inside his pupils. "Why the fuck are you here?" he spits, tugging a stitch through his upper arm.
(He's never seen Mello cry).
"Get the fuck away from me." Not like this.
Don't... ...no, not like this. Fuck, this hurts.
Mello stands and swaggers, pain tearing through his body-like sharp ends of plasticine. As if they're killing off my insides one by one-and Matt catches him just as he's about to fall.
"Easy."
He smells of blood. Perspiration. Charred flesh. Mello's blood runs in rivulets through Matt's fingers-
sometimes
-it splatters on Matt's shirt as Mello wrenches himself free with a jagged sort of desperation. The serpentine pattern of Mello's stitches creases through his brain and if he closes his eyes, he can still see it there like an afterimage of light.
just sometimes
Mello reaches for his gun.
I wish I were dead.
"Just get the fuck out." His voice is low and steady but the finger hooked on the trigger is taut and ready. His arm trembles the tiniest bit.
(But then...there's you)
A drop of blood tears through Mello's index finger, pristine, trapping threads of flourescent light inside its liquid ruby body. It slides down the handle of his gun; before it hits the floor, Matt is gone.
(don't leave me).
V.
Cigarette stubs litter the carpet, shells of exorcisms long-since passed, of muses spent and done. He lights another and simply holds it loosely between his fingers until the flame nips at his skin and he drops it.
He lights another.
Mello's already preparing to leave, not bothering to clean the dried flakes of blood from his face, not bothering with explanations or lies. Just-stitch, eat, snag some money and clothes-and after four hours of borrowed time, he's about to slip out just as easily as he's intruded; a vapor; some vague, distant nightmare.
The flame burns Matt's fingers.
He drops the cigarette. (and lights another).
(Matt's nervous habits never changed).
He watches Mello gather the small heap of his belongings and if I put my mind to it, I could hate you for everything, for fucking it all up. He drops the cigarette.
but-
Mello walks without glancing backward, pulling his hood over his face.
-I can't.
He stands in the emptiness, the dark, listening to Mello rev up his engine. And before the throaty growl of Mello's beat-up car can become just a memory (just his imagination?), Matt dashes outside and places his hands on the fender.
And looks into that face-the charred marks, malicious, angry-where Mello is and is no longer-like an obscenity slashing through his skin-monstrous and yet strangely, contaminatedly beautiful...
Matt shakes the kaleidoscopic thoughts out of his mind.
"Wait," he says and the word is lost inside the whirlwind roar of the engine, purring away like a maniacal beast.
"I told you to fuck off," Mello shouts, nudging the accelerator. Matt's feet slide on the gravel.
There's a brick wall behind him; Mello could, with one solid push, slam the car into the wall, crushing Matt's body in-between.
It's fine.
"Hey!" Thump, the sound of Matt's hand slamming down on the car hood, Mello's inaudible cursing.
"Don't fuck around with me! Stay out of this!"
Mello's actually does it-even if it's halfway. Matt feels the car-warm, alive beneath his hands-push him, fling his body into space. For a second, there's no gravity-an expanse-the concept of eternity-
-and his bones slam into the wall, his neck flicks back and his skull breaks into a million fragments-
...fuck.
He can hear it shatter piece by piece inside his ears crackcrackcrackcrack until he realizes that's the sound of Mello's footfalls on the gravel.
"Asshole." Mello's voice, cold and emotionless. "I told you to stay away."
"I'm coming with you."
Mello's anger tears through him like a surge of acid. But Mello, it's what you wanted. Only you'd never admit it to yourself.
A few seconds later, Matt realizes he's spoken this thought aloud.
"Asshole," Mello spits again, only this time frustration jags through his voice. "I don't want you to go down with me. Can't you see that?"
I could see it alright. It's fine.
It's the way I want to roll.
(Mello cries. But only for a second).
VI.
The neon purple of the sky overhead-glittering like some poisonous thing-
-gunned down on the pavement, blood hot and burning black like heavy tar-
a bullet slams into his ribs. another punches through the car window, crystalline shards shattering, flying, clattering, then still-they're taking me piece by piece, hungry fucking maggots...
bangbangbangbang disembodied noises and...
Mello-
a bullet tears through his lung. his blood is warm, foreign inside his mouth.
-without you, I'm nothing.
the next bullet takes his heart.
VII.
Matt dies five times and by the fifth time, Mello feels nothing. The news reel loops through the scene, replaying it again and again and again like an ugly marionette show...
Matt's body falls to the floor.
Asshole...
and again.
that's why
Mello's crucifix plays upon his fingers, cold and mocking, the familiar T of the metal beneath his fingers. He could, if he closed his eyes and concentrated hard enough, feel a warmth radiate from the silver. Almost. If he strained his concentration too much, the feeling would disapparate like a vapor, leaving the barest tease of a memory.
that's why I told you not to get involved.
Matt's body falls to the ground for the eighth time-but this time it's only in my mind's eye-the light on the end of his cigarette flickers hypnotically before it is still, dropping slowly from his mouth-
that's how it went. You knew. And you expected nothing from me in return.
The crucifix falls to the floor of the truck.
VIII.
It's dark inside the church; dark and cold like a stale womb
They say God notices and watches even the sparrows fall
(no, no one's watching this time)
(...fuck)
you fall too hard and with one BANG it's all over, baby, you burn too fast because we're all just so fucking fragile. Like those porcelein chess pieces of Near's, remember? The ones Roger brought from Spain. I chucked them at the wall and they all broke-every single fucking one-because I wanted to see if they could take the impact and Near just watched with those huge, empty eyes...and fuck, that's how it is right now. Mail, I'm getting tired of waiting to die.
(It's the bollocks. The wait).
Near'll figure it out, the bastard.
(Actually, he better figure it out, the bastard)
...(it ain't over til it's over).