Summary: 26 locations meme, see table on my livejournal (link available on my profile).
Disclaimer: Mello and Matt, and Death Note do not belong to me. (oh, and, Happy Birthday, Matt.)
.5: Prison cell
This time, it is the distant sounds of a scuffle accompanied by ear-splitting shouts that rouse Matt from his slumber. Grunting, he tries to reason once again that surrendering to the cops was something he had never done before and that he was in the mood for trying out something new at the time, but keeps arriving at the same conclusion.
Stupid, stupid idea.
The bars of his cell rattle and another unfortunate soul is roughly shoved in, landing unceremoniously on the floor. Matt lights a cigarette, his lips curving upwards as he listens to an impressive stream of profanities. It's been a long time since he has last heard such a colorful vocabulary put to use. More outraged huffing and then there are light footsteps, shortly followed by Matt's bed dipping under a new weight.
"Do you have another one?" the newcomer—a he, probably; Matt can't see shit with the lights out—whispers, his irritation still prominent.
Matt grunts in agreement, trying hard not to burst out laughing, and reaches inside the pocket of his backpack, rummaging around a bit, in search of a cigarette. "Forgot your own?" he queries thoughtfully, handing it to his fellow delinquent.
"No," the short-tempered fellow pauses. "It reminds me of someone... so I figured today was a good day as any to give it a shot."
Matt sighs. "And here I was hoping you'd have a lighter on you. I hate matches."
"What are you in for anyway?" the new roommate asks.
"Car theft," Matt quips jauntily, still somewhat in the process of mourning his confiscated lighter. "Hold on, let me find the matches." He lazily slips off the ancient spring mattress and crouches, patting around blindly, trying to pinpoint where exactly he had thrown the small box after using it.
"Assignment?" the other ventures carefully.
"Yess," exclaims Matt victoriously, his palm finally having landed on—something other than grime, eugh—the matchbox. "Err, I mean no," he corrects himself, the bed creaking as if it's about to collapse as he climbs back onto the bunk. "I prefer to work solo."
"And end up in jail with no one to bail you out," his companion supplies, the first traces amusement appearing in his voice.
"I'm not the subordinate type, really," Matt retaliates pleasantly, fumbling with the matches. "Now, would you prefer to try smoking or should we discuss just how ridiculously priceless your earlier entrance was instead?" he teases, managing to strike up a flame on his fifth try.
And as the small light illuminates the space between them, both occupants are no longer able to continue, stunned into silence and completely frozen in their spots.
Even though, really, Matt wants to say that Mello with a cigarette between his lips is the most drop-dead gut-wrenchingly gorgeous sight he has ever seen.
End.
01-23-09, 12:33.