Secret Santa
Title: And It's Getting Colder
Rated: NC-17
Pair: Matt/Near, implications of Mello/Near and Mello/Matt
Word count: 1,246
Summary: Matt finds nostalgia in all the worst places.
Warnings: Smut. >>;
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.
Notes: Secret Santa for radiospaceship, the prompt was Matt/Near and Goya's Black Paintings.
Matt has longer, bonier arms than the rest of the orphans, his baby fat replaced with stringy muscles, a messy pile of burgundy red hair obscuring the plastic goggles on his forehead, the rubber lining printing an outline into his skin, his dark, wide eyes blinking away the longer strands. He’s wearing prison-style stripes, black jeans, barefooted and his clothes covered in stains from dinner, his fingernails crusted with leftover dessert he shoveled into his mouth earlier. His cheeks are thinner, his face seems longer, his voice has begun squawking as it changes to a deeper tone, he wakes up with midnight erections and has faint bags under his eyes.
He’s scrawny, his fingers thin and nails bitten sharp as they appear over the edge of white sheets, gripping the mattress as Matt hoists himself up onto the bed. The child that was originally sleeping, his appearance is in stark contrast to Matt, from the soles of his white, socked feet to the monotone look on his pale, clean face. He’s a year younger than his intruder, thirteen years old and the epitome of unfeeling: without boredom, temper, or curiosity, he’s missing a human part of him, yet still has a beating heart and a mind that befuddles the most erudite of prodigies before him. He’s dressed in white cotton, the folds of his pajamas smudged at the edges with shadows, the clothes large and baggy on his child-sized frame. His skin is still padded with prepubescent fat, his eyes are dull green, as if faded from winter chill. White, curly hair falls over his dead eyes, sweep over white lashes as idle fingers tangle themselves in the strands, wordlessly observing his encroaching guest.
“Yes?” Near’s voice lacks curiosity, a thin, airy vapor rushing from his lips into the cold air.
Matt’s tone is husky, his breath scented of freshly-smoked cigarettes, the dirty soles of his feet spreading dirt onto the blanket as he sits down, stretching out, filth clinging to his boy-frame like another shadow.
"Your bunk is big enough for two," He shrugs, his cheeks paled from the cold. "I thought I'd visit."
Near doesn't say anything, but gives him a placid stare, waiting for more. But all Matt does is pull the goggles over his eyes, giving the room an acidic orange tinge.
"Saturn Devouring His Son." He says, quirking a glance at Near, clearly expecting him to recognize it. "Someone hung it up in the hall. Cheerful painting. Actually, it's really disturbing. Why would anyone want that?" Matt shakes his head.
Near's socked toes curl idly. "We're studying Greek mythology at the moment."
So that's that. Matt says no more, propping his knees up, as if it were his own bed. Near, he's still watching, his fingers moving out of his hair and slipping back underneath the folds of his huge shirt.
Matt's nimble fingers are rough as they hold his unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger, contemplating whether it'd be worth it if he'd be kicked out. Decides yes, inhales, then blows smoke into the air.
Near, catching a whiff of the tobacco, shifts closer to the bed's edge. Matt, dirt crumbling off his clothes, his knees pressing stains onto the sheets, takes a long, sweet drag before crouching over Near, straddling him, his hands on his thin shoulders, cigarette dangling between his lips.
"Some kid put Old Men Eating in the bathroom. I guess someone's a fan of Goya."
Near's eyes are fixed upon the wall behind Matt as he works at the buttons on his collar, pushing the white cotton apart, exposing skin. There's a silence as rough fingers trail down the shadows of healed scratches, a frenzied pattern of bitemarks, cresents of sharp nails along Near's torso and shoulders. Matt, he continues as if he sees nothing, his fingers not shaking and his voice steady.
"It's really fucking sick. It's like something he would do to you."
He exhales, a plume of smoke permeating the frozen winter air, two fingers reaching downwards, slipping underneath the buttons and twisting a pale nipple, hard. Near utters a noise, not giving so much as a twitch as the pain fades, the pinched skin slowly becoming rosy.
The prison stripes, the black jeans, the plain boxers become one crumpled pile on the floor. Next comes the cigarette, thin smoke still rising faintly from the extinguished end, snaking into the air, grey and smelling of rot.
Matt's body, still developing, is full of angles compared to the childish curves and soft bends that Near has, clearly visible whenever he bends his spine back, or tucks one leg to his chest, or extends his arm to twist a curl of white hair. Matt's hand is filled with the softness of Near's thigh when he shifts it, moving it out of the way as he sloppily licks a digit, gradually presses in, and then feels his finger being clamped onto as Near tightens up in pain.
He withdraws, licks liberally, and tries with two fingers, then three, and it's a charm, judging by the involuntary kick of Near's legs and the quiet hitch of breath. Matt, he's never done this before: he ends up pushing in too deep too early, Near taking in an audible ragged breath.
Before Near can even start rocking against him, Matt's already seeking more friction, pressing Near's back into the mattress, grabbing along his hips and sides, dragging him closer. Near's observations don't cease even as he's being fucked: the sheets are bunched uncomfortably beneath his spine, the smell of decay blows into his face, and where Matt is pumping in and out of him, it hurts more than he'd prefer. But it must feel good: his pajamas are becoming stained, his face is warm, and he can't help but move with the unpracticed motions.
Matt comes first with a shudder, the hands on Near's shoulders giving a painful squeeze, chewed-sharp nails digging into his shoulders, drawing little bubbles of blood. Near does not climax at all, the pain roughly bringing him back down from the fine edge of bliss he was teetering on.
As Matt mops the dribbling seed with bunched up sheets, Near buttons up his now thoroughly wrinkled shirt, pulls up his baggy pants and boxers, ignoring the wetness and dissatisfaction. Matt throws the sheets into the laundry basket, tugging on his shirt and fitting into his jeans, shedding the dirt like a second skin as the redness fades from Near's skin.
"I believe you will find Half-submerged Dog in the dining hall." Near says, his voice without emotion, if not somewhat faint.
Matt stares, pulling his goggles off, a red mark around both his large, dark eyes.
"He liked Goya." He murmured, running a hand through jagged strands of dark red.
"That's why I thought you might want to know where it is." He reaches up, absently curling white strands of hair around a pale finger.
Mello liked Goya, and perhaps Matt going to every Black Painting hung in the orphanage is his way of keeping him there; it isn't for his mental health that he pines for his lost friend.
There isn't even a thanks as Matt slips from the bed, from the bodily heat, and goes in search of Mello.
Near is curled up under the covers before Matt has even vanished down the hall, still painfully hard, touching only the blankets as the cold begins to creep back in.