[Matt's in one of the bars scattered around the mansion, as he often is on the weekend. As usual, he has a pint of beer in front of him, a cigarette in one hand, and a paperback in the other (Unseen Academicals, today
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[Matt's been back at the mansion for a week or two now; as always, time's damn near impossible to tell in the place, and he just sighs as he stalks into the room, knowing it to be a bar. Blinking, he proceeds toward the counter, dying for a hard drink.
He has yet to realize that his shirt reads DOESN'T REGRET KILLING HIS FOSTER FATHER across the chest.]
Finally, some liquid relaxation. [He actually cracks something of a smile as he thinks about what he'll have.]
[Oh, it's her. He knows this Misa by tone now, and Matt has to resist stepping away from her. He'd actually been in a decent mood, too.]
What're you- [He looks down, noticing the writing. It's been some time, but he's still quite adept at reading upside-down. Making a face at the shirt, Matt just leans back against the bar and shrugs.] Oh well. I've been down this road before. [It seems strange, though, that mansion would bring such an old issue back into play; maybe it's because he's dealing with his death surprisingly well? Matt can't be sure.
He makes a gesture to her shirt.] Yours isn't much better, really. [He feels the need to point this out.]
Hmm. [She gives a noncomittal shrug.] Did he do~ something, or was there a different reason? Or even... [Here she smiles ever-so-slightly.] No reason at all?
[He sets her up with an even stare. It still seems so long ago that he and his Mello tackled this very subject inside the Therapy Room - and then had their first actual fistfight right outside of it. To him, it was years ago.
He gestures to the Matt behind the counter for a double shot of whiskey. Let Misa order her own damn drinks.]
He was a sick bastard, and I was eight. [Matt pauses, readying himself to say what his Mello keeps telling him, something he feels he should believe by now.] He deserved it.
[He shakes his head, moving a bit further away from her. The other Matt comes over with his double shot, and he isn't sure whether his double noticed the writing on his shirt or not. Probably, he thought, slamming down the double and leaning across the bar, fetching himself the bottle. He's gonna need more faster than he thinks the other can bring 'em.]
Don't do that. You and I- We're not the same. [He means this.]
Of course~ we're not the same. We're nothing alike. [She sneers just slightly. She means this too; Noah are on a whole different level to other humans.]
[The faded silver pattern on Mello's shirt has rearranged itself to form letters: IS DEALING WITH HIS DEATH BY PRETENDING IT DIDN'T HAPPEN, but he doesn't notice yet. He comes up behind Matt and sets his chin on his shoulder, in a reasonably good mood for once. Denial's suiting him just fine, so far.]
[Smiling softly, Matt just turns his head, pressing his lips against Mello's cheek and kissing him gently.]
Heh - welcome back to the land of the living. [He means this completely figuratively, and it doesn't strike him how that might affect Mello's mood. He has yet to see the printing on the shirt, so the irony of his statement escapes him.] You've been sleeping so hard lately. 're you sure you're all right?
[Mello hops onto the stool beside Matt, and signals to the version who's playing bartender for two shots of scotch. His expression darkens for a moment at his boyfriend's figure of speech, but he forces a smile and a joke.]
I'm probably still running a sleep deficit from Wammy's.
[Still smiling, he turns to Mello, leaning against the bar with a chuckle. Then his eyes fall on the writing on Mello's shirt, and he frowns, his expression sobering instantly.
He has yet to realize that his shirt reads DOESN'T REGRET KILLING HIS FOSTER FATHER across the chest.]
Finally, some liquid relaxation. [He actually cracks something of a smile as he thinks about what he'll have.]
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What're you- [He looks down, noticing the writing. It's been some time, but he's still quite adept at reading upside-down. Making a face at the shirt, Matt just leans back against the bar and shrugs.] Oh well. I've been down this road before. [It seems strange, though, that mansion would bring such an old issue back into play; maybe it's because he's dealing with his death surprisingly well? Matt can't be sure.
He makes a gesture to her shirt.] Yours isn't much better, really. [He feels the need to point this out.]
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He gestures to the Matt behind the counter for a double shot of whiskey. Let Misa order her own damn drinks.]
He was a sick bastard, and I was eight. [Matt pauses, readying himself to say what his Mello keeps telling him, something he feels he should believe by now.] He deserved it.
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Don't do that. You and I- We're not the same. [He means this.]
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[He pours himself another double, slamming it down hard; it helps take the edge off. Two more, at the most, before I'm shit-faced.]
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[She gives him a somewhat sour look.] You shouldn't be wearing his face, though. That sucks.
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Hey, Matty.
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Heh - welcome back to the land of the living. [He means this completely figuratively, and it doesn't strike him how that might affect Mello's mood. He has yet to see the printing on the shirt, so the irony of his statement escapes him.] You've been sleeping so hard lately. 're you sure you're all right?
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[Mello hops onto the stool beside Matt, and signals to the version who's playing bartender for two shots of scotch. His expression darkens for a moment at his boyfriend's figure of speech, but he forces a smile and a joke.]
I'm probably still running a sleep deficit from Wammy's.
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He blinks, looking Mello right in the eye.] Oh-
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