Testing out the waters of the fanfiction society, shaking off the rust and whatnot. I'm not back with a funny list this time; I'm back with a fanfiction, Death Note to be exact.
Disclaimer: What, you think I own Death Note?
It's funny, the things people think before they die.
(They shot him. They fucking shot him.)
For instance, cigarette smoke. Mello never cared for the smell, unless it was the scent that clung to Matt's clothes, the scent that let him know that he wasn't going to go insane because he wasn't alone. But now, Mello would breathe smoke because Matt was dead shot down like a criminal faced with a firing squad. Which, in essence, he was. Matt didn't even know what hit him; the last thing he felt before leaving this earth was the lead tearing through skin and organs, heart betraying him by pumping out precious blood from his wounds with its dying clench.
(Matt is dead because of me.)
Matt died without a friend to hold his hand, without a lover to kiss his forehead and his lips and to say that it was okay, Mello's here and God please don't let him die-
("Don't worry, Mels. I shoot the gun and you grab the girl. What could go wrong?")
But then again, that was Matt's style- strike fast while the iron was hot, live fast and have no regrets. That was one of the last things he had said to Mello, and he loathed Matt for it. Hated himself for what he had responded with-
("Look, if you have to surrender to stay alive, do it. I don't want you getting shot, Matt.")
And Matt surrendered, just like that, because even though they had never said it he loved Mello and would do anything he asked. Even though it was Mello's damn statement that caused him to step out and Mello's damn idea to kidnap Takuda and it was all damn Mello's damn fault.
("Don't be stupid, Mello. I'm not gonna die.")
Just blink away the tears and keep driving. Blink away the tears because he could almost hear Matt berating him for wasting time on such a thing, precious time that was needed to watch the kidnapped Takuda. Oh God, Matt was dead. Mello would never again smell the scent of Matt's favourite brand of cigarettes or hear the clicking of Matt's favourite gaming system. He would never one day hear those three important words come from Matt, whispered as if it were some secret.
It's funny, the things one thinks before they die.
(Was that the sound of pen to paper?)
This whole fucking incident reminded Mello of a sick, twisted video game, except you couldn't get up from twenty bullets in your chest. You couldn't always escape, find a hidden passageway or at least some hidden meaning to- his chest tightened painfully.
(I wonder, Matt. Will we get a second life like those video games? Will we come back as better people, or will we burn in Hell?)
His chest clenched again. Heart attack, or a broken heart? ...Matt...
(I loved you, you know.)
(I know, Mello.)
(I'm dead, aren't I?)
(Yeah. But there's nothing we can do about it. Let's go home, Mels.)
His head hit the steering wheel, and Mello smiled.