DN -- 28 Days
Title: 28 Days
Collection: Fifteen
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,245
Prompt: 28 Days
Warnings: language, more language, references to sketchiness, alcohol use, implied sex
Summary: Twenty-eight days of Matt's life, beginning with the day that changes everything.
Author's Note: ...I sincerely doubt he's writing any of it down. Also, this was the first time I wrote first-person Matt.
8. 28 DAYS
Day 1: Dug my ex-best friend/soul-mate/first-and-only love out of a pile of rubble. Dusty. Bloody. Gross.
(So fucking scary I almost cried.)
Mello, please keep breathing.
…my poor fucking car.
Day 2: Sat at the bedside for nine hours tallying heartbeats (lost count). Held him down when he woke up and flipped the fuck out (typical). Dragged him to the bathroom. Gave him some soft clothes. Got the door slammed in my face.
(God, I’ve missed that crazy bitch.)
Days 3 - 6: Bought a shit-ton of chocolate. Hacked police servers (highly-illegal, extremely fun). Got my ear yelled off.
Again.
(Made him drink apple juice when his throat hurt.)
Day 7: Sacrificed a year’s worth of WoW subscriptions to buy a leather jacket.
My fucking account is going to expire.
(How can he be so beautiful?)
Day 8: “…Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“…never mind… What the fuck, is that Tetris? What part of ‘fucking dictator at large’ do you not understand?”
“I understand the first part…”
(I think I heard a “Thank you” in there somewhere.)
Days 9 - 14: The work is really fucking boring. Codes, codes, codes; script, script, script; firewalls all going Jericho and Troy… Anybody could do this shit.
But at night, when Mello can’t sleep, he lies on his back with his hands folded on his chest and talks.
Just talks.
About everything.
So that’s all right.
Day 15: Pulled something/cricked something/bent something leaning funny to turn the TV on. Back hurts like a bitch.
(Some things heal easier than others.)
No fucking way I was going to sleep on the floor, though. Crawled in next to Mello, who didn’t even flinch.
(Not sure what I was looking for.)
(Might have found it.)
Day 16: Waking up next to Mello mostly involves getting a fuckload of hair in your face.
Romantic.
Day 17: Love blows.
(Mello knows all about the latter.)
Day 18: Gave up on the floor again last night. Woke up with Mello’s arm across my chest and his face against my neck. Kira almost got some unexpected help.
Pretended not to notice; went back to sleep. He’d like the escape route.
Woke up again, and he was watching his hand smooth my shirt.
(Like I was something precious.)
Day 19: Coffee and a cigarette.
Figures Mello only drinks the good stuff.
They spoiled him in the Mafia. Fucking princess.
Kira’s an amateur; Starbucks is the one taking over the fucking world.
Day 20: Still sleeping in his bed.
Sounds like it means something when you put it that way.
You’d think I was a fucking puppy for all the difference it seems to make.
(In a lot of ways, you’d be right.)
Day 21: Vodka and a cigarette. Even more effective.
Gets you weird looks on the street, though.
(Haven’t you people ever seen a fool in love before?)
Put Mello’s coffee on the nightstand, just out of reach-otherwise all that morning-cat stretching would knock it over, and he’d give me hell about it for the next hour instead of cleaning the carpet.
“Carpet.” Good joke. More like crumpled chocolate wrappers and a rainbow assortment of discarded energy drink cans.
It’s kind of weird to get drunk in your own kitchen.
Did you know that half a bottle of vodka over the course of a couple hours will get you to throw up almost immediately?
Gets me to, anyway.
You learn something new every day.
(Mello pounded on the door for ten minutes even after I explained the circumstances, such as they were.)
(He probably just wanted a shower.)
Day 22: “Matt.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Lock me out.”
“It’s my house.” Relatively speaking.
“Yeah, but-well, Christ, I could’ve held your hair back or something.”
Has to be an act.
(Or I’m totally fucked.)
Day 23: Mello was gone when I woke up. The sheets were already cool.
Half-dressed, wholly given over to dizzying panic, I hit the kitchen at a run only to discover him sitting at the table carousing with the remaining vodka.
I don’t know what it is about that kitchen.
I tried to take the bottle away, and he leapt up and danced out of my reach.
Literally.
(Fuck.)
Appeal to his work ethic: “Weren’t you planning to get a bunch of shit done today?”
He was singing.
Appeal to his pride: “You don’t want me to see you like this, do you?”
In French.
Appeal to his… sex appeal? “You look pretty bad.”
He laughed.
Not that I can blame him; we both knew it wasn’t true.
Cradling the bottleneck, he sashayed a little closer-a lot closer-right up to me, with about two inches to spare. Vodka-breath and bright eyes and tangled-silky hair.
(He always was a cheater.)
“Do I really?” he inquired. “You like it.”
(Smart, too.)
“You’re drunk,” I noted.
“And?”
“You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow for acting like this. Maybe by tonight.”
He stared at me blankly for a long moment, ostensibly uncomprehending-but could you ever tell, with Mello?
I sighed, leaned forward, buried my fingers in his beautiful hair, and kissed his forehead.
“You’re a lunatic, Mel. Go back to bed.”
Day 24: Mello doesn’t do shame.
(Could’ve guessed that from the wardrobe.)
He does irritability.
But then, he does irritability for everything.
He ignored me all day-because he didn’t want me to pay attention to him, I think, as opposed to the other way around-and dedicated his affections to the computer screen.
But he did start talking again that night.
(“I’m scared” somehow says everything.)
(Strange eloquence is nothing new for Mello.)
(He must have heard my heart beating that close up.)
Day 25: “We’re out of chocolate again.”
“Eat your dinner.”
“Pizza’s really not that much better than chocolate as far as nutrition goes.”
“Fuck you.”
Long pause.
(Shit.)
I covered my slice in a hot-pepper avalanche and pushed the empty packets aside. Fascinating work. Had to be perfect. Required my complete focus. The mere thought of ingesting all those peppers made my cheeks warm.
(Real convincing.)
Day 26: “I’m hungry.”
“There’s more pizza in the fridge.”
“I need chocolate.”
“I thought I was the addict here.”
“C’mon, Matt.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re lazy. Come on.”
“Why don’t you?”
“You know I can’t.”
“I’m tired.”
“C’mon, Matt.”
Tune him out.
“Please?”
…the bastard.
Day 27: Slim white fingers were curled in my shirt when I woke up.
For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that disentangling them would require me to take Mello’s hand in both of mine.
Or it didn’t until he opened his eyes.
(This isn’t what it looks like.)
He must have felt my heart pounding when he curled his fingers tighter.
And as he drew me in.
And as he crushed our sleep-numbed mouths together.
It was all downhill from there.
(This is exactly what it looks like.)
(…finally.)
Day 28: “Matt?”
“Mello?”
“I want chocolate.”
“There’s a ton in the kitchen.”
“That’s a million miles away.”
“And you call me lazy?”
“Yes. Get off your ass and get me some chocolate.”
“If anything, you’re my bitch-”
“Mine’s sore.”
“…you’re a horrible person.”
Dragged in for another kiss.
“But you love me.”
There was a gleam of desperate hope in his wild eyes alongside all the half-mad arrogance.
“More than Link, Leon, and life itself,” I answered.
“You’re my bitch.”
“You’re my bitch.”
(We’re each other’s bitches, really.)
(I can live with that.)
Collection: Fifteen
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,245
Prompt: 28 Days
Warnings: language, more language, references to sketchiness, alcohol use, implied sex
Summary: Twenty-eight days of Matt's life, beginning with the day that changes everything.
Author's Note: ...I sincerely doubt he's writing any of it down. Also, this was the first time I wrote first-person Matt.
8. 28 DAYS
Day 1: Dug my ex-best friend/soul-mate/first-and-only love out of a pile of rubble. Dusty. Bloody. Gross.
(So fucking scary I almost cried.)
Mello, please keep breathing.
…my poor fucking car.
Day 2: Sat at the bedside for nine hours tallying heartbeats (lost count). Held him down when he woke up and flipped the fuck out (typical). Dragged him to the bathroom. Gave him some soft clothes. Got the door slammed in my face.
(God, I’ve missed that crazy bitch.)
Days 3 - 6: Bought a shit-ton of chocolate. Hacked police servers (highly-illegal, extremely fun). Got my ear yelled off.
Again.
(Made him drink apple juice when his throat hurt.)
Day 7: Sacrificed a year’s worth of WoW subscriptions to buy a leather jacket.
My fucking account is going to expire.
(How can he be so beautiful?)
Day 8: “…Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“…never mind… What the fuck, is that Tetris? What part of ‘fucking dictator at large’ do you not understand?”
“I understand the first part…”
(I think I heard a “Thank you” in there somewhere.)
Days 9 - 14: The work is really fucking boring. Codes, codes, codes; script, script, script; firewalls all going Jericho and Troy… Anybody could do this shit.
But at night, when Mello can’t sleep, he lies on his back with his hands folded on his chest and talks.
Just talks.
About everything.
So that’s all right.
Day 15: Pulled something/cricked something/bent something leaning funny to turn the TV on. Back hurts like a bitch.
(Some things heal easier than others.)
No fucking way I was going to sleep on the floor, though. Crawled in next to Mello, who didn’t even flinch.
(Not sure what I was looking for.)
(Might have found it.)
Day 16: Waking up next to Mello mostly involves getting a fuckload of hair in your face.
Romantic.
Day 17: Love blows.
(Mello knows all about the latter.)
Day 18: Gave up on the floor again last night. Woke up with Mello’s arm across my chest and his face against my neck. Kira almost got some unexpected help.
Pretended not to notice; went back to sleep. He’d like the escape route.
Woke up again, and he was watching his hand smooth my shirt.
(Like I was something precious.)
Day 19: Coffee and a cigarette.
Figures Mello only drinks the good stuff.
They spoiled him in the Mafia. Fucking princess.
Kira’s an amateur; Starbucks is the one taking over the fucking world.
Day 20: Still sleeping in his bed.
Sounds like it means something when you put it that way.
You’d think I was a fucking puppy for all the difference it seems to make.
(In a lot of ways, you’d be right.)
Day 21: Vodka and a cigarette. Even more effective.
Gets you weird looks on the street, though.
(Haven’t you people ever seen a fool in love before?)
Put Mello’s coffee on the nightstand, just out of reach-otherwise all that morning-cat stretching would knock it over, and he’d give me hell about it for the next hour instead of cleaning the carpet.
“Carpet.” Good joke. More like crumpled chocolate wrappers and a rainbow assortment of discarded energy drink cans.
It’s kind of weird to get drunk in your own kitchen.
Did you know that half a bottle of vodka over the course of a couple hours will get you to throw up almost immediately?
Gets me to, anyway.
You learn something new every day.
(Mello pounded on the door for ten minutes even after I explained the circumstances, such as they were.)
(He probably just wanted a shower.)
Day 22: “Matt.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Lock me out.”
“It’s my house.” Relatively speaking.
“Yeah, but-well, Christ, I could’ve held your hair back or something.”
Has to be an act.
(Or I’m totally fucked.)
Day 23: Mello was gone when I woke up. The sheets were already cool.
Half-dressed, wholly given over to dizzying panic, I hit the kitchen at a run only to discover him sitting at the table carousing with the remaining vodka.
I don’t know what it is about that kitchen.
I tried to take the bottle away, and he leapt up and danced out of my reach.
Literally.
(Fuck.)
Appeal to his work ethic: “Weren’t you planning to get a bunch of shit done today?”
He was singing.
Appeal to his pride: “You don’t want me to see you like this, do you?”
In French.
Appeal to his… sex appeal? “You look pretty bad.”
He laughed.
Not that I can blame him; we both knew it wasn’t true.
Cradling the bottleneck, he sashayed a little closer-a lot closer-right up to me, with about two inches to spare. Vodka-breath and bright eyes and tangled-silky hair.
(He always was a cheater.)
“Do I really?” he inquired. “You like it.”
(Smart, too.)
“You’re drunk,” I noted.
“And?”
“You’re going to hate yourself tomorrow for acting like this. Maybe by tonight.”
He stared at me blankly for a long moment, ostensibly uncomprehending-but could you ever tell, with Mello?
I sighed, leaned forward, buried my fingers in his beautiful hair, and kissed his forehead.
“You’re a lunatic, Mel. Go back to bed.”
Day 24: Mello doesn’t do shame.
(Could’ve guessed that from the wardrobe.)
He does irritability.
But then, he does irritability for everything.
He ignored me all day-because he didn’t want me to pay attention to him, I think, as opposed to the other way around-and dedicated his affections to the computer screen.
But he did start talking again that night.
(“I’m scared” somehow says everything.)
(Strange eloquence is nothing new for Mello.)
(He must have heard my heart beating that close up.)
Day 25: “We’re out of chocolate again.”
“Eat your dinner.”
“Pizza’s really not that much better than chocolate as far as nutrition goes.”
“Fuck you.”
Long pause.
(Shit.)
I covered my slice in a hot-pepper avalanche and pushed the empty packets aside. Fascinating work. Had to be perfect. Required my complete focus. The mere thought of ingesting all those peppers made my cheeks warm.
(Real convincing.)
Day 26: “I’m hungry.”
“There’s more pizza in the fridge.”
“I need chocolate.”
“I thought I was the addict here.”
“C’mon, Matt.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re lazy. Come on.”
“Why don’t you?”
“You know I can’t.”
“I’m tired.”
“C’mon, Matt.”
Tune him out.
“Please?”
…the bastard.
Day 27: Slim white fingers were curled in my shirt when I woke up.
For some reason, it didn’t occur to me that disentangling them would require me to take Mello’s hand in both of mine.
Or it didn’t until he opened his eyes.
(This isn’t what it looks like.)
He must have felt my heart pounding when he curled his fingers tighter.
And as he drew me in.
And as he crushed our sleep-numbed mouths together.
It was all downhill from there.
(This is exactly what it looks like.)
(…finally.)
Day 28: “Matt?”
“Mello?”
“I want chocolate.”
“There’s a ton in the kitchen.”
“That’s a million miles away.”
“And you call me lazy?”
“Yes. Get off your ass and get me some chocolate.”
“If anything, you’re my bitch-”
“Mine’s sore.”
“…you’re a horrible person.”
Dragged in for another kiss.
“But you love me.”
There was a gleam of desperate hope in his wild eyes alongside all the half-mad arrogance.
“More than Link, Leon, and life itself,” I answered.
“You’re my bitch.”
“You’re my bitch.”
(We’re each other’s bitches, really.)
(I can live with that.)