a dream, aloud
karierte
Matt likes to think, if he met God, or some higher deity, it'd go like this:
– …
– I'm awfully sorry sir, but I'd like another chance down there.
(he had no doubt, really, that he was ending up in Heaven, if there was one. Only a saint could put up with Mello in the morning)
God would raise His eyebrow, and Matt would gaze earnestly back into His eyes and appeal to His better nature. God would be like Roger with Mr Wammy's moustache, and He'd sigh irritably and say
(would He say? Or would it be like…telepathy because of all that omniscient shit that God was supposed to have. Yeah, that was it.)
– Oh, all right then.
and wave His hand in a dismissive 'now go away' motion.
And he'd be back.
--
The first thing he'd do, if he'd met God and everything had gone according to plan (which it would, because he was number three, after all, and that got you something, even if it wasn't L's pedestal), would be to tell Mello that he liked the scar and it was stupid to put hair all over it. Okay, he'd tell Mello, who would be in full leather regalia and would be looking at him like he was mentally ill – (weren't they all?) – …yes, it wasn't pretty, per se, but it was symbolic. It was proof, almost, of what they'd gone through, right? It grounded Mello and made him human and gave him to Matt. They'd kiss, because Matt had always wanted to see if those lips would fit on his own; and if it would taste like chocolate and if it would feel like eternal fire, like Hell burning on his skin.
Matt hadn't really considered what would happen next, but he was a go-with-the-flow kind of guy, and Mello was a bitchy little shit (in the nicest possible way) who liked to tell other people what to do. So things would just happen.
The second thing he'd do would be to invest in some Kevlar (a whole Batman suit of it, if possible) because Matt was practical as well as going-with-the-flow, and he wasn't going to waste another life by being stupid. God probably wouldn't be very happy and Matt knew that there weren't ever third chances.
They'd kiss again; as Matt was sure he'd like it, if it was Mello. And Mello would look beautiful, positively angelic, with blond hair framing his face and a rosary at his throat (he was sure God would appreciate that, that Mello believed in Him, even if he didn't give a damn what He said about committing murder and observing the Sabbath and misusing His name), only an inch taller than him…no matter what he said when he was hulking around in those stupid platform boots.
The third thing he'd do would be to team up with Near…and that way, none of them would have to die. Because Near always won in the end, right? That's what pissed Mello off. He was number one, and Mello was number two and Matt was number three – (and that was a lot of numbers) – and Kira didn't even have a number, and so, together, they could collectively kick Kira's ass – (maybe even several times) – and go home afterwards and play with toys and eat chocolate and smoke cigarettes. They'd kiss once more, he and Mello, because he was bullet proof and he had Mello's name tattooed on his heart with permanent marker indelible ink.
--
Matt likes to stop there, because he's realistic as well as practical and going-with-the-flow, and he knows that if he did meet God, or some higher deity, it would actually go like this:
– …
– I'm awfully sorry sir, but I'd like another chance up there
(he knew really, that he was going to Hell, if there was one. Because, forgive him Father, he had sinned.)
– …
(he hadn't even said all of his Hail Mary's at night and brushed his teeth like a good little boy. No wonder, really, that God hadn't even graced him with a reply.)
And he'd loiter around in the sulphur and brimstone and light his cancer sticks on the fires that all the really, really bad people were cooking in – (there were sure to be a lot of them, he supposed, because Kira was heart-attacking all the criminals and rapists and surely...surely they could miss him amongst them when there were so many) – and there'd be cauldrons and twisted red demons poking people with sticks if they looked like they were enjoying it too much. It probably wouldn't smell very nice, all those chemicals wafting around everywhere.
He'd wait. Obviously.
Maybe even do a little poking himself.
Because he and Mello were in this together, and eventually, he believed, they'd be together once more: it was just a matter of time. Matt was good at waiting because he'd been doing it all his life. When he was born, he waited for Mello to find him, so they could make up secret languages and play Pokémon on Matt's first Gameboy (because there weren't Nintendo DS then) and do quadratic functions. When Mello left, Matt waited, because he knew that if he could just endure a little bit longer, Mello would realise that there wasn't shiny skin-tight leather without black and white stripes in the background. Just a matter of time.
When Mello got there, Matt would kiss him, because Hell rubbed off on you like that, and they encouraged sinning, by all accounts. And he would finally know if their mouths were lock and key, and if their bodies were two white puzzle pieces that slotted neatly beside each other. They'd entwine themselves together so no one could take them apart, and Mello would kiss him back amidst the eternal fire, and he'd wonder hazily if it was Hell or Mello that was searing his skin.
Then Mello would probably want to give God a talking-to, Mafia-style.
"What did He say to you, Matt?" He'd murmur into the shell of Matt's ear, and the sound would spiral into his heart.
"Nothing." Matt would whisper back, embarrassed at previously being so offended.
And Mello would put his hands on his hips, smiling all the while and reply: "Let's go beat the crap out of Him, then."
They'd walk together, fingers linked like a chain.
--
Matt stops there; because first and foremost, before the going-with-the-flow and the practicality and the realism, he's a fool. A fool in love, and that was something, even if that was number three.
And that means, until he meets God, or any higher deity, he's dead. And nothing can change that. In fact, there's an extremely high probability he won't get to do anything again, because he can't cheat death, not when it's punctured his stomach and chest and won't let him get away. He spits on his palm – (isn't saliva supposed to heal? Who told him that?) – however, his arm is too heavy to move, for some reason.
But he likes to think that if he could have snaked that hand up his shirt and touched the holes in his torso, they would have come away clean; leaving soft new skin behind.
Bulletproof.
A/N
I haven't written in so long, ^^. I hope you enjoyed it, and feedback is appreciated~