DN -- The Trigger
Title: The Trigger
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG
Word Count: 372
Warnings: illicit alcohol consumption? Oh, wait, that's in every fic I write...
Prompt: "Time to Dance," by Panic at the Disco
Summary: He's waiting for someone to splatter his brains on the wall.
Author's Note: For sparkleloli -- Merry Christmas, hon! :) Don't mind the angst; it's organic. XD
THE TRIGGER
You’re pulling the trigger
Pulling the trigger
All wrong
- “Time to Dance” - Panic at the Disco -
Love is a game of Russian Roulette, and Mello can feel the barrel underneath his chin.
It’s mortifying, how it goes-spin the chamber; snap it in; pull the trigger and see if you can feel a thing. He’s tried so many times to find somebody in this godforsaken town, somebody who will listen and actually hear; somebody who will look past the gleam of leather and the swaying cross and see that they’re both kevlar-that they’re propping up his ego and holding off his hell.
He’s waiting for someone to stop his heart. He’s waiting for someone to splatter his brains on the wall.
It’s funny, how these things work-watch the crowd; down the drink; step outside and shudder, still wreathed in the absinthe burn. It’s just enough to make him jittery, but not enough to make the staircase ripple as he takes the back door to the street. It’s too hot in there; the air’s thick with liquor and sweat and desperation, and he can smell the gunpowder when he stays too long. It’s clear out here-crisper. Safe.
He thumbs through the beads. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary passes either pay off big or spectacularly fail. He figures that’s how he’d like to go.
It’s wretched, what his God designs-exhale; glance right; see him and stop dead. Matt’s looking back at him, idly, like he’s La Gioconda, soft behind the glass and smaller than you expect. Matt’s changed and unchanged; he’s tacky orange goggles and classic stripes; he’s taller but just as scrawny, and he’s starting to smile. He’s exactly the breath of fresh air Mello came seeking, and that’s the horror of it all.
Mello steps towards him. He opens his mouth and shuts it again.
Matt’s grinning properly, no more braces, no more shame.
“Hey, Mel,” he says.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mello’s voice demands.
“The usual,” Matt replies. He tosses a cigarette butt to the pavement, which is littered with others of its kind. It burns bright orange, and then the embers fade to gray. “Waiting for you.”
Mello doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t care.
“You found me,” he responds.
Matt winks, and the trigger yields.
Bang.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: PG
Word Count: 372
Warnings: illicit alcohol consumption? Oh, wait, that's in every fic I write...
Prompt: "Time to Dance," by Panic at the Disco
Summary: He's waiting for someone to splatter his brains on the wall.
Author's Note: For sparkleloli -- Merry Christmas, hon! :) Don't mind the angst; it's organic. XD
THE TRIGGER
You’re pulling the trigger
Pulling the trigger
All wrong
- “Time to Dance” - Panic at the Disco -
Love is a game of Russian Roulette, and Mello can feel the barrel underneath his chin.
It’s mortifying, how it goes-spin the chamber; snap it in; pull the trigger and see if you can feel a thing. He’s tried so many times to find somebody in this godforsaken town, somebody who will listen and actually hear; somebody who will look past the gleam of leather and the swaying cross and see that they’re both kevlar-that they’re propping up his ego and holding off his hell.
He’s waiting for someone to stop his heart. He’s waiting for someone to splatter his brains on the wall.
It’s funny, how these things work-watch the crowd; down the drink; step outside and shudder, still wreathed in the absinthe burn. It’s just enough to make him jittery, but not enough to make the staircase ripple as he takes the back door to the street. It’s too hot in there; the air’s thick with liquor and sweat and desperation, and he can smell the gunpowder when he stays too long. It’s clear out here-crisper. Safe.
He thumbs through the beads. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary passes either pay off big or spectacularly fail. He figures that’s how he’d like to go.
It’s wretched, what his God designs-exhale; glance right; see him and stop dead. Matt’s looking back at him, idly, like he’s La Gioconda, soft behind the glass and smaller than you expect. Matt’s changed and unchanged; he’s tacky orange goggles and classic stripes; he’s taller but just as scrawny, and he’s starting to smile. He’s exactly the breath of fresh air Mello came seeking, and that’s the horror of it all.
Mello steps towards him. He opens his mouth and shuts it again.
Matt’s grinning properly, no more braces, no more shame.
“Hey, Mel,” he says.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mello’s voice demands.
“The usual,” Matt replies. He tosses a cigarette butt to the pavement, which is littered with others of its kind. It burns bright orange, and then the embers fade to gray. “Waiting for you.”
Mello doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t care.
“You found me,” he responds.
Matt winks, and the trigger yields.
Bang.