Summary: Matt plays video games, not only for pleasure, but for fulfillment. "Why the hell do you never put that thing down?" "Because I'm a hero." Slight MelloxMatt For lilacsxandxlolita
A/N: I love lilacsxandxlolita for inspiring this. This is, undoubtedly, for you, with all my love.
A small redheaded boy runs into the living room of his home, his mother sitting on the couch with a man that does not look like his Daddy. He is confused and tilts his head to stare at her and her companion. "Mail," she says, her eyes wide with fear. "Go back to your room, Mail. Everything is all right." But everything does not seem alright to him, and he stays rooted to the spot, his hands clenching into fists at the grungy old man.
"Leave my mommy alone," he yells to the man, and tries to punch the man, to hurt him and get him away from his mother. But the man pulls a gun from his jacket and points it at Mail, and the boy does not know what to think of it.
"Get your kid outta here, Ms. Jeevas. I don't want no trouble," the man growls, and she attempts to scoop up the five year old boy into her arms. He resists, still lashing out at the man with fury. Mail hears a click as the safety is removed from the pistol, and his mother screams, hiding her son from view.
The door is flung open almost simultaneous with the sound of a gun being shot. The young child cannot move, he is pinned beneath his mother's body. Wriggling, he manages to extricate himself and stands upright. A blush of crimson is soaking through her white dress, and she is not getting up from the ground. "Mommy," he insists, shaking her shoulder. "Mommy, the mean man is gone. Mommy, he's all gone now." She lays still, her eyes glassy as they stare into nothingness.
"Mommy!" he screams, tears dripping down his face. "Not funny, mommy, not funny. The mean man's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone!"
…
A seven year old boy stares out the window of his orphanage room, the stars twinkling high above him. He likes to believe that one of those stars is his mother, high in heaven where she belongs. The Nintendo 64 he had begged to receive for Christmas sits in his room, Mario paused in midair as he gathers his thoughts.
"Mario can save the princess," he murmurs to himself, the gray controller sliding from his grip onto the wooden floor beneath his feet. "Because he's a hero. And heroes can save people they love because they're strong." He buries his face in his hands and slouches against the windowsill, tears dripping from between his fingers. "I wasn't strong enough, I let Mom die…" He shakes his head.
"But I will be a hero. I will protect someone I love," he sobs, falling to his knees, crystalline tears splashing to the ground.
…
Matt pounds on the fire button on his PSP with his thumb, his goggled eyes never once looking away from the screen. Mello watches him in irritation, a chocolate bar hanging from his mouth, a pile of homework crowding the desk in front of him. Their room is a mess, clothing and sheets and candy wrappers everywhere. It is an ungodly, disgusting pigsty that would make any sane mother want to kill her sons. However, Matt and Mello are orphans, and had no need to worry about a frantic mom.
A loud crash erupts from the tiny speaker, nearly causing Mello to bite the bar, and his tongue, in half. His friend, however, seems entirely unperturbed, still mashing the buttons, his own homework entirely untouched. The sounds of screaming and explosions continue to come from the game, and Mello glares at Matt, his concentration waning. "Why the hell do you never put that fucking thing down?"
The noise ceases.
For a moment Matt sits still, his nose slightly wrinkled at the sight of the paused game. Then he turns to Mello, his voice soft as he replies, "Because I'm a hero."
…
Matt stares off into the distance, a DS limp in his hands as he listens to the sounds of the police screaming about Kira, a Japanese murderer, and heart attacks and magic on the television. The smell of the empty beer bottles piled on his floor entice him, and he stands up to pluck another from the fridge of his Motel 6 room. It's icy as it slides down his throat, and after he downs it in one swallow Matt turns back to the video game, his gaze fixed onto the screen.
The newscaster's voice slowly fades into the background, the heroic music of the comic book game he is playing giving him a strong sense of satisfaction.
He is a hero.
And Kira isn't.
…
Las Vegas is his kind of city. The lights, the beautiful girls, the gambling, and his fake ID card, it all makes everything about the city worth while. He has been living here for a long time, getting money from stealing and pawning off electronics. He made a small fortune just from a hijacked truck of plasma screen TVs.
The teenaged boy watches the people walk down Las Vegas Boulevard, his PSP in his lap as he wears out his fingers on the system. He isn't sitting on the most dangerous seat in Vegas for nothing. He's waiting for something. Someone.
It's been almost five years since he'd seen this person. That is a long time to be without seeing a person you considered your best friend for most of your life.
Matt flicks the game off as a set of heavy footsteps grows closer, and he stands up with his hand lightly brushing the gun in the pocket of his tan jacket. Turning around slowly, his grip becomes firmer and a voice says darkly, "Leave it Matt."
Matt blinks and stares into a pair of deep blue eyes, one of them surrounded by inflamed skin, and his entire, once handsome face is haloed by beautiful golden hair. "Sorry, Mello," he replies, shrugging his shoulders.
"Nice to see you again," Mello tells him, pulling Matt into an awkward embrace. He accepts it, knowing that this time, he could play the hero for someone he loves. Mello is not going to die before he does.
…
He's surrounded. Men with guns and radios and orders for murder rolling around in their heads.
But he's also unconcerned.
Mello got away ten minutes ago with Takada, Mello got away. That's the best part. He was the hero, he was able to keep the one he loves from dying. And that's all he needs to know.
"Since when are the Japanese allowed to carry such nice guns?" he asks with a hint of sarcasm in his tone, stepping out of the car and raising his hands over his head. His eyes are already closed behind his goggles. He knows what's coming; he knew it from the very moment Mello met up with him again in Las Vegas.
He's been preparing for it.
His mind is blissfully unaware as he hears the clicking of ten, twenty handguns all around him. He played the hero.
"I am a hero," he whispers as shots fire out in a circle around him. "I'm a hero."