AN: Ah, finally, another chapter! I'm sorry this took much longer than I meant for it to take. Final exams sort of just sneaked up on me and then it was study, study, study and staying up all night and all that fun stuff. I did well though, so that paid off. : ) In any case, after studying a lot and doing nothing but reading and writing for a very lengthy length of time (and having to work madly on cosplay during spring break), I didn't quite get around to typing this up... even though I already had it written out in a notebook. *hangs head* I know; I'm a horrible person.
To Unbreakable fans: Please try to be satiated with this for a little longer. Co-writing is apparently a very tedious thing to time out correctly when your authors have ridiculous schedules and breaks that never happen at the same time. I blame the quarter system.
Enjoy~ --Tora
Disclaimer: Don't own Death Note. Don't own Finger Eleven or "Paralyzer." ...and I don't speak Russian, just Bulgarian, so forgive me if I get conjugate something incorrectly.
I wanna make you move
Because you're standing still
He held my gaze. Just that. Held my gaze with those fucking deadly eyes of his and smiled. And didn't say anything.
And, of course, I didn't move. He was challenging me, silently laughing at me, daring me to turn around and leave like I should.
Hell no.
I might be lazy but I guess I have some sort of pride. Yeah, some sort of idiotic pride.
So I just stood there looking down at him, looking down as if I knew I could handle this, and let a single word roll lazily past my lips, though my voice felt gruff.
"Hey."
He smiled, flashing sharp canines, looking about to strike at the jugular. So I figured I was already way too far in to back down (and I'd already decided there was no way in Hell I would anyway).
I shrugged and continued, drawling out my name. "I'm Mail. Mail Jeevas, second year."
Guess it sounded pretty dumb. He cocked an eyebrow.
I added, in an offhand kind of way. I'm a pretty offhand kind of guy, actually. "Most people call me Matt, though."
He still didn't move, the angle of his head insinuating he though I was a complete imbecile. It was really starting to grate on my nerves.
I wanted him to do something. For fuck's sake, I wanted to see him move. The throbbing rhythm radiating from the speakers at the other end of the dance floor was pressing urgently in the back of my mind.
I wanted to see him get up, uncoil that lithe frame slowly, move toward me. Move with me. I wanted to be the one to do it, to make him move.
The thought struck me pretty damn forcefully, rather unbidden. But it was true. It surprised me a little, but it was true.
He blinked once, getting bored with me, and it was basically a yawn. God, he was so fucking good at talking with his body. My mind wandered briefly, as if to imagine what else he could do with it, but I caught my thoughts before they flew off.
I'm a pretty absentminded person, so that was quite a feat. My mind tends to just drift off on its own. But I anchored it and stared directly into his eyes, grinning. By the time he finished blinking, I had managed to sort through all that random crap floating around in my ever-wandering mind and made my decision.
I leaned closer, matching his cold smirk. "And who are you, gorgeous?"
He looked beyond exasperated, and finally shifted. Away from me. Some part of me exalted in the momentary flash of annoyance and discomfort in those icy eyes at my too-close proximity.
He leaned back against the side of the wall, twisting a little with one shoulderblade against the glass of the window so he sat now in the corner, facing me, and every muscle in his body screamed at me to go the fuck away and leave him alone.
I was getting to him. He wasn't about to intimidate me away. I was pretty damn proud of myself by that time and kept it up. "Aw, come on, what's your name?"
I gave him my most charming lopsided little grin, even going so far as to push my goggles up somewhere into that mess of red hair falling over my forehead.
He lifted his eyebrows at me, slowly raising the bottle to take a leisurely sip of his drink, index finger tapping lightly and impatiently against the glass neck. And then finally he spoke, voice surprisingly deep in comparison to his perfect effeminate features, and a certain hostile note of finality rang in his words.
"Persistent bastard, aren't you?"
There was a screaming unspoken message of Fuck off at the end, but I ignored it, still grinning. "Sure am."
He saw he couldn't get rid of me any other way probably, and finally spit it out.
"Fine then, Mattie," he growled venomously, surprising me a bit with the rather random attempted insult he seemed to create from my name, but this also I ignored.
"Mihael." His admission seemed to grate on his pride and he took another quick swig of vodka, probably hoping I'd walk away by the time he finished.
Naturally, I did not oblige. Really, I was practically ecstatic. I smirked slowly, cocking a single eyebrow, never taking my eyes off him. Mihael.
I cast around briefly for any knowledge I could glean from the name. Eastern European from the sound of it, I was sure. His fair features confirmed that. Eastern European, of the Slavic variety rather than the mixed of Ottoman descent. His cheekbones, the contour of his eyes, the curve of his nose.
And from the slight accent with which he pronounced his name—though he had none in any other case—I was willing to bet he was a native speaker.
My smirk widened a little. Mihael was barely bringing the bottle away from his lips, shooting me the most murderous glare yet. I widened my eyes innocently.
"Wow, that's a pretty unique name. You foreign or something?"
The derisive twist of his lips let me know exactly what the beautiful Slav thought of my deductive skills. I grinned inwardly, ready to surprise him, take away the control he thought he had, put him off balance.
Damn, this was fun.
The Slav had said nothing, so I prompted, mispronouncing his name to the fullest extent.
"Mahaylo…?"
The blonde's face darkened, thunderous rage barely restrained behind that icy façade, lips a thin white line, and I could hear his long breaths, forcefully controlled.
I barely restrained a laugh. This guy was just too easy to mess with.
"Fuck off, dipshit."
And with that, he turned away, glowering out the window and taking another gulp of vodka. I wondered briefly how he wasn't drunk off his ass by now, but then again people from that part of the world are pretty much notorious for being able to hold their liquor, vodka, and whatever other strong shit they drink over there.
I sat on the window ledge next to him, leaning back a bit so my back brushed his thigh, raised as it was since he had his feet propped up.
The reaction wasn't quite what I'd expected. I decided it was better.
He moved instantly, one booted foot slamming into my shoulderblade, leaping from his lounging recline in less than a second, and I had to think fast to catch the fist aimed at my face a moment later. My right hand closed around it tightly though, keeping him there.
His features were livid, twisted in fury, yet never diminished in beauty. I could feel him trembling angrily, the captured hand twitching as he tried to jerk it out of my grasp. I tightened my grip and he loomed forward, snarling, other arm coming up to curl his fingers around my throat.
He was fast, but I managed to see it coming, barely catching his wrist, and the sharp sting in the side of my neck—which now accompanied the throbbing of my shoulder—let me know that his long, black-polished nails had managed to reach my skin for a moment. I decided I'd had enough, jerking him forcefully forward to land again on the window seat, this time pressed against the glass by my weight. Twisting his arms behind his lack, I pinned his with one knee pressing into the top of his right thigh, digging painfully into the soft flesh.
I was completely in control. He managed to look enraged, bewildered, and disgusted at the same time. It appeared he was unused to this sort of thing.
"What the fuck do you want?" he hissed.
I grinned fully, leaning in to breathe into his ear. "Dance with me, Mihael."
This time, I let the name roll flawlessly from my lips. Those cold blue eyes narrowed as he realized he'd been provoked on purpose.
"Fuck you."
I kept smiling. "Tанцуй с мной, Михаел."1
His lip curled in a sneer. "I'm not Russian, dipshit."
I nodded. "Я знаю.2 But the majority of Slavic countries in Eastern Europe require primary school children to study Russian."
I felt him shift beneath me slightly in an attempt to relieve the uncomfortable position. Deciding the sizable bruise that most likely already colored the white skin beneath all that leather was enough to remind him of my presence later, I moved my leg a bit.
"Mihael," I breathed, emulating his accent.
He snarled at me. "Don't call me that!"
I laughed in surprise, staring at him. "Isn't that your name? Or did you mean you just want me to shut up in general?"
He glared. I smirked back.
"Okay…" My smirk widened. "…Mija."
He cringed. Perhaps he knew Spanish as well. I fought the urge to laugh, limiting my self to a wide grin, and cast about for a suitably annoying nickname.
"How about… Mello?"
"Get the fuck off me."
I let one of his hands go, wrapping my arm around his waist instead, and pulling us both to our feet. His hands balled into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, but this time he made no move against me.
I guided him slowly toward the dance floor, eyeing my prize appreciatively, admiring the ripple of his muscles against my side as he walked, the shimmer of light in the golden hair swaying around his shoulders, the electric blue of his eyes as he glared ahead in a sort of resigned irritation—and perhaps a bit of intrigue.
His gaze shifted to meet mine and I grinned at the curiosity gleaming there. The cold, distant look was gone. I'd gotten his attention, and held it.
The music thrummed around us and he moved with me naturally as we walked, his step sinuous and light, in rhythm.
I let my lips curve slightly in a tiny victorious smile. He was mine.
RUSSIAN TRANSLATION:
1- "Dance with me, Mihael."
2- "I know."
