[Dream || Week 6, Day 1]
Loud.
Everything’s so goddamn loud.
“You have become very distracted, Mello.”
“I’m-ah-not.” And that is a brilliant argument if he’s ever had one.
His hands are tangled in soft, full red hair and Mello glances down to see dazed, pretty green irises staring up at him, something like a smile touching the corners of them even as they flutter closed; long lashes brushing pale cheeks and Oh, God, that mouth is so fucking wet. It’s like she is doing everything in her power to keep Mello from diverting his attention and for a few seconds, he watches, lets her think that she is successful in doing so.
He can feel big, prying eyes leering, and no matter how much he would rather not, Mello looks up from that thick red hair sprawled over his legs and the cushions, forces his gaze steady. He can’t let L see him break. Not now. Not ever. His breath catches hard in his chest, and L’s eyes are so fucking big; pupils wide and fixed straight ahead as though Mello doesn’t have a whore’s head between his legs, like he’s not pressing his fingers against her scalp and forcing her mouth down further with a barely concealed groan.
“I have to keep up appearances.” He’s justifying it, even though L hasn’t said a single, additional word. And really, who is he bullshitting? There is no lying to L, he tells himself, curling fingertips into his palms at the increased pace. One glance and it’s clear that his mentor knows everything in the world, can see things that Mello is trying his hardest to conceal and-
Oh, shit.
There is a hand snaking up his inner thigh; fingers prodding and squeezing, his skin giving beneath the insistent touches. The faint smell of smoke wafts into his nostrils; invasive, annoying, and the voices coming over from the makeshift poker table are so overtly distracting that Mello squeezes his eyes shut; blocks out the sound, blocks out L’s stare, ignores the slip of fingers over his shoulder from behind.
The smoke thickens.
“Talkin' to dead people now, genius?”
Lips tighten, tongue working over him. “You shut the fuck up.” It holds no real conviction, because this mouth is distracting; making his stomach coil and tense, and there are a few sets of eyes on him from over by the table; one pair in particular that’s pissing him off more than anything. He knows. He knows, and he's judging, even behind the orange tint of goggles set to hide his own expressive nature.
Fucking hypocrite.
“I fully understand the need to keep up a certain facade in order to project an image that is acceptable those around you, that you may sit amongst their ranks unnoticed. However,” L shifts in his crouch, and with the steady flow of words, Mello has to look away from the table, try to ignore the heat pooling in his groin because if he fucking pops right now, it’s going to be in front of L, and this…this can’t happen. “what you’re doing is fairly excessive, even by my own standards."
“Bullshit,” he snaps, tightening his fingers in the hair for emphasis, his own outburst giving him pause. No. He’s not supposed to talk to L like this, even if he’s dripping crimson from his chest and not paying it any mind. “And you’re bleeding.”
“I am aware.”
“So fix it.”
“In due time.” L’s large eyes glance down at his chest, studying the spreading stain before he rises, all long limbs and languid movements, and closes the distance between himself and the tattered, worn couch that Mello is sprawled on.
Mello recoils, grabs on to the back of the girl’s shirt for leverage, but L is sinking down next to him, drawing knees up to his chest, watching him with interested eyes and an otherwise blank expression. “Pardon me.” His mentor gives the girl a small push in order to slip a bit closer to Mello, stare a little longer as the pad of his long thumb prods at his bottom lip like Mello has seen him do a thousand times before.
Cold air against his exposed flesh, the touch of nails accompanying the press against his thigh. So sharp that he can feel it, even through the leather. “You’re not paying attention.” And she has a soft voice, imploring. Mello has no idea as to whether she is referring to herself or L.
Or the fact that three men and one asshole at the poker table are now staring at him, quite blatantly.
Maybe everything. Maybe nothing.
But L’s fingers thread through his own, assist in pushing her head back down, eyes still not leaving Mello’s. It’s terrifying, because L’s not supposed to know, not supposed to see, not supposed to…
“All in!” There is a shout from the table, a slap of a palm against wood, chips toppling from their well-organized piles and spreading over the worn surface.
Silence.
A breath.
Another.
Breathe.
“He’s gonna fold.”
“You sh-"
[Mello jerks awake, throwing a hand over his mouth to stifle the last sentence lingering from the dream. A quick glance around before his gaze comes to rest on the Hitomi. He’s disoriented, sticky, and extremely fucking uncomfortable.
Goddamnit.]