Please forgive me if this, and it probably doesn't, make bugger all sense. I felt strongly compelled to write at least a little something to commemorate these two on their death day. I don't know why, but it feels a little bit harder to say goodbye to the two right now than it was when I first saw them die.

Just a little bit.

Ain't like I'm gettin' all touchy feely and boo-hooey on you guys.

Not at all...

I don't own Death Note, or any of their characters.
Nor do I own The Boondocks, if you can catch the allusion here. I couldn't help it.
Or Pokemon. Or Nintendo. But I do know someone who owns a share in one of the stocks. Maybe I should get into that, too. Then I can say it. HOO HAH!

Don't sue me; I'm funny.

Read and Review, lovers.

Death.

It's a weird thing, innit?

You can't just say one thing about it and expect people to know just what you're talking about. You have to go into this huge explanation about what death is. Even then, one hardly understands exactly what it means to die.

Mello knew. Matt knew.

Mello nearly shit himself in wonder that the presumably homophobic God let butt-fucking fags into his domain.

Matt merely looked around, made the remark, "Cool," and tapped away at his brand new DSi. He was furiously trying to train up his starter Pokemon, Cyndaquil.

As they explored, they saw many things. Something that stuck out was an obese Aryan male looking into a pool, a fountain, breathlessly shouting aloud in wonder, "Praise White God!"

Mello wanted to look and see just what was so fucking interesting about that well, Matt had no reason to go against his dear's wishes, not now, so he walked with the other, rhythmic clicking noises mixed with the battle cries of various Pokemon in their wake.

Mello gripped the edges of the puddle, and looked. There was silence…

"Holy shit," Mello said breathlessly. "M… Matt. Matt… MATT!" He snatched the device from his hands and tossed it into the lake.

"What the hell!" Matt noisily complained, looking up to finally see his lover's perfect face. His whole face. Not a single blemish.

"It's gone…"

"… I can see that."

"Oh, fuck you. I need a bar of chocolate." Mello's voice was distant, then once again boisterous. "This is better than sex!"

Matt's jaw dropped. "I take personal offence to that!"

"I wish I could say I'm joking, but I'm not," said Mello in a sing-song voice. "I wish I could take this moment and have filthy sex with it."

"You are an unbelievable dick." Matt had his game back in his hands. He shook his head, knowing his lover didn't mean the words… probably. "Seems that even being in Heaven won't get you to be polite. What if we see Jesus or some shit? What will you do then?"

"Don't know, don't care!" Mello cheered ironically as he danced with his now giant rosary.

Matt chuckled and pocketed the DS, and crossed the bridge over the river to his partner in 'crime'. In a motion that could only be described as straight out of a movie, Matt took his boy's jaw in his hand and kissed him passionately. He pressed his lips hard against the others, conveying emotion through the sensitive skin of their lips, showing love and gratitude. Not just to Mello, but to the Almighty Lord for just being God.

They pulled away slowly; Mello's arms had wound themselves around Matt's fuzz-lined neck. "Oh, Matt… Matt… Matt…"

"Matt… Oh, oh, God. Matt."

The body swaying before him was battered, bloodstained. He resembled a sort of war hero. Shot down in his prime, only doing his job, defending something… someone he held dear. Was it worth fighting for? Was it worth dying for?

It wasn't, Mello decided, a little of his heart breaking with each shot he fired to his defenceless lover. He was part of the gunmen team. He fired the most of the shots. Oh, God, it hurt so badly.

The promises of agony and gnashing of teeth were nothing, nothing compared to the Hell he was being put through.

"FUCK! NO! NOO!!!"

Cigarettes and video game discarded. He was sitting right next to the fucking whore. Bitch. Slut. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over again, Matt screamed and yelled. He lunged for her fucking throat.

He cried.

Mello died. Over and over and over and over and over, right before his eyes. Each time more painful than the last. It alternated between watching Mello being burned alive, watching the skin peel away from his sweet, dear, poor Mello's face.

The Kami decided to go a tad bit easier on Mihael Keehl, for he was a devout believer. Mail Jeevas was the definition of a heathen. No one cared about him. No one but Mihael. That made the punishment all the more sweeter, the Kami reckoned.

Because that's EXACTLY the kind of dick move I'd pull. Once again... reviews are my most favourite things in the world. I'd appreciate them.