A/N: I am so, so sorry for inflicting my horrible writing on you. But I can blame it on 'Lora! (Go read her drabbles, by the way, if you haven't already.) Erm. That's all. Well, also, most of these drabbles are limey, and lemony, and probably out of character. I'm sorry!
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Tears
It was a given rule, really. Mihael Keehl never cried. Not when he stubbed his toe on a bothersome rock; not when his half of his once-flawless face was scarred. Atleast that's what the world thought.
There were days when it all broke loose and Matt didn't know what to do as Mello sobbed into his loose shirt. He'd awkwardly place a hand on the boy's golden hair, and run long fingers through it, murmuring sweet nothings that Mello would never listen to otherwise.
And then the boy would calm. His shudders would calm to small shivers, and his tears ran dry (Matt's shirt was soaked enough already, anyway). There would be a small silence, and Mello would lift his head up again, eyes red-rimmed but finally calm, and his fingers would find their way to Matt's hair, where they'd tangle themselves with the dark strands.
Before long, Mello would be lying on top of him (and what a comforting weight it was, Matt thought), ever-dominant, and Matt would close his eyes and relish the experience. But it'd be over come morning, and Mello would never speak of it again, arrogance and strength returned until the flood broke loose again.
