Mello/Matt: Faint Irony
Title: “Faint Irony”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: R (sexual situations and lots of swearing)
Summary: When it comes to Mello, Matt just can’t concentrate. [Mello/Matt] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Death Note belongs to Ohba Tsugumi and Obata Takeshi.
A/N: this is for artsatalex. For no reason. Just because you’re there, <3 The fic’s pretty much plotless and focuses mainly on the dialogue and memories. xp
FAINT IRONY
Mello’s voice sounds strange on the phone, slightly distorted and absolutely emotionless. Something you would expect from Near, but definitely not from him.
“How’s it going?”
“The same. I’m dying here.”
“Stop bitching, Matt! Like my job’s any better.”
Matt takes a break from his gameboy to pay more attention to what’s going on on the screen and lowers his head again. He hates routine, yet he hates being outdoors. Most of the things he hates are ridiculously controversial. He lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out through his slightly parted lips. He can hear Mello sigh on the other end.
“Lung cancer will do you in.”
It strikes Matt that he might have the inclination of what Mello is talking about. He chuckles. “Kira can’t write ‘lung cancer’ in his Notebook, can he?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Still, I prefer this way rather than never knowing what really hit you.”
Matt relaxes in his arm-chair. He can hear Mello breathe and fails to rid himself of memories that cloud his mind.
He bites into the skin, lapping at the sweaty salty flesh - and that taste fills him up, clings to the roof of his mouth. The hot sultry Mello, the very essence of sin; sweet, racy, passionate… Matt’s eyes meet the blazing aquamarine of Mello’s eyes to read a clear hard threat: “You try being sweet and you’re dead!”
“I liked California better,” he grumbles. “It’s cold here.” And he clutches at his sweater forcefully as if it’s the clothing item’s fault. “Fuck.”
“What is it?”
“Lost a game. Nothing serious.”
“California,” Mello muses. “I don’t know. What do you say about South America? Me, I wanna see Brazil.”
“Sure, why not?” Matt smiles. If that is Mello’s way to invite him to come along (and he knows it is), he’ll gladly join. He allows the visions of rich carnivals and sultry mulattos fill his mind and drifts off into a session of pleasant daydreaming.
…and he remembers Mello’s passion-strained outcries, and his blazing look, and his lips forming the noiseless, “more - more - more”, and the false sense of security that Mello’s presence arouses in him… and so many other things that Mello arouses.
Mello growls softly in the background. Matt listens to that sound and lowers his hand, puts the game aside and wets his lips. The tingling in his stomach becomes more intense.
“What?” he asks as Mello curses under his breath.
“The fucking wire. Can’t uncoil it.”
“Oh.”
He imagines Mello’s lithe body trapped beneath his, a quick violent struggle for dominance, his fingers tracing the dim golden hairline on Mello’s abdomen, stroking his inner thigh, plunging inside him and kissing, devouring him with his mouth…
“…did you fucking hear what I said?” Mello’s voice snaps him back to reality. Matt adjusts the headphones and grasps the elbow-rest.
“Yeah, sure. But I’d hear it again.”
“You fucking idiot, you weren’t listening!”
“Stop acting like a motherfucking girl, Mello!”
He likes bickering with Mello on the phone. It gives him a sense of Mello’s presence in the room. Mello always swears and grumbles and promises to shoot him something off if he tries anything ‘funny’. He is selfish and capricious like an ill-bred minx - and that’s about the only thing that has ever been stable in Matt’s life.
Mello binds his hands with the rosary and pushes him against the cold wall and takes him roughly, tearing harsh outcries from his throat. He thrusts harder, bruising Matt on the inside. ‘Why am I so weak?’ Matt thinks vaguely. ‘Why always so damn weak?’ His mind fails to register the liquid moment when Mello’s movements become softer. That’s his undoing; the minute Mello withdraws, Matt comes violently, his lips pressed against the moist tile.
“Hey, Matt. What do you think about when we talk like this?”
For some reason Matt thinks he’s starting to blush. And he hates Mello for that.
* * *
“What the fuck!” Matt exclaims, wrapping his fingers around Mello’s wrist firmly. Mello came home a few hours ago and has been pretty annoyed ever since. The last drop is when Matt catches him standing with his gun pointed at the ceiling - “because those flies are too damn irritating.”
“You are so not shooting holes in the ceiling just to get rid of a few flies!” Matt hisses.
Mello flashes him a dirty look as Matt peels his fingers off the hilt and takes the gun away. He’s inexpressibly sick of being so reserved and level-headed, but it’s a mask he has to wear to keep Mello in balance.
Mello falls asleep in half an hour, still pouting because of the “flies hunt”. Matt stands in the doorway, watching him sprawled on the holey sheets, clutching the pillow in his heavy, disturbing sleep. Matt watches a lock of golden hair slide over his scar and can’t help but smile.
He whispers almost inaudibly: “I’ll take care of you, M,” and wonders softly when Mello has become more than a ‘great fuck’.