#SEVENTEEN RITENUTO {18Coda}
Title: Internecine
Author: neurotoxic
Theme: Ritenuto
Fandom: Death Note
Characters: Mello & Hal
Warnings: Mature themes/content.
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Not just as planned.
Summary/Comments: You don't fight for life, you fight for victory. The two are very different things.
"This isn't a way to live, Mello." Hal says, her back turned toward her impromptu house-guest as she cracks open a window, letting a gust of cold winter's air inside. The sky is a frosty blue today, not a cloud in sight, and it's somehow foreboding. Good days always are. She traces the contours of her lips with her tongue, pausing for a fraction of a second before she finishes, "It's a way to die."
And Mello? He doesn't have anything to say to that. Because Hal's right. It's a straight shot, so absolutely fucking dead-on that Mello doesn't bother to avoid it. Instead, he approaches Hal, slinks wire-taunt arms around her waist and rests his chin on the slope of her shoulder. It's then, when his eyes connect with the blue of the sky, that Mello remembers a bar-man's tale he heard in Los Angeles. A story about a town of three-legged dogs in New Mexico, where mongrels and strays ran wild after any pickup truck that passed by, biting at the fenders, somehow certain that they could win. Time and time again, tires squealed, until each dog had paid the price. He imagines them now, underneath the same stretch of sky, hopping around on the red dirt roads, their ears alert for the sound of a car drawing near, the fight still in them.
Mello's always been like that, too. Soldiers who've already chosen death are always stronger than those who are fighting to live. You don't fight for life, you fight for victory. The two are very different things.
Hal may be perceptive, but that doesn't mean she fully understands. Mello doesn't expect her to, not really, it's something no decent soul should have to ever have to bear with. What he's caught up in, it's one hell of an uphill battle, and it's doubtful that there'll be any survivors.
"I know." Mello concedes after a moment, thoughts drifting to earlier that morning, when he awoke to find Hal's arms wrapped around him in a hold that bore just a little more tension than would expect from simple affection. She'd held onto him the way one holds a trunk full of love letters when your ship has been sunk and the current is pulling your belongings away.
"But you're going to help me, regardless."
There's something about Mello's voice that stings, salt against an open wound, and Hal's frozen in place by the hands at her hips, by the feel of the rosary that Mello always wears against her back. She knows Mello's growing restless, his eyes spark easy, like he's got a head full of kerosene.
She can't delay him any longer, cant help but say, "Of course."
Because the war's always waiting.
Author: neurotoxic
Theme: Ritenuto
Fandom: Death Note
Characters: Mello & Hal
Warnings: Mature themes/content.
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note. Not just as planned.
Summary/Comments: You don't fight for life, you fight for victory. The two are very different things.
"This isn't a way to live, Mello." Hal says, her back turned toward her impromptu house-guest as she cracks open a window, letting a gust of cold winter's air inside. The sky is a frosty blue today, not a cloud in sight, and it's somehow foreboding. Good days always are. She traces the contours of her lips with her tongue, pausing for a fraction of a second before she finishes, "It's a way to die."
And Mello? He doesn't have anything to say to that. Because Hal's right. It's a straight shot, so absolutely fucking dead-on that Mello doesn't bother to avoid it. Instead, he approaches Hal, slinks wire-taunt arms around her waist and rests his chin on the slope of her shoulder. It's then, when his eyes connect with the blue of the sky, that Mello remembers a bar-man's tale he heard in Los Angeles. A story about a town of three-legged dogs in New Mexico, where mongrels and strays ran wild after any pickup truck that passed by, biting at the fenders, somehow certain that they could win. Time and time again, tires squealed, until each dog had paid the price. He imagines them now, underneath the same stretch of sky, hopping around on the red dirt roads, their ears alert for the sound of a car drawing near, the fight still in them.
Mello's always been like that, too. Soldiers who've already chosen death are always stronger than those who are fighting to live. You don't fight for life, you fight for victory. The two are very different things.
Hal may be perceptive, but that doesn't mean she fully understands. Mello doesn't expect her to, not really, it's something no decent soul should have to ever have to bear with. What he's caught up in, it's one hell of an uphill battle, and it's doubtful that there'll be any survivors.
"I know." Mello concedes after a moment, thoughts drifting to earlier that morning, when he awoke to find Hal's arms wrapped around him in a hold that bore just a little more tension than would expect from simple affection. She'd held onto him the way one holds a trunk full of love letters when your ship has been sunk and the current is pulling your belongings away.
"But you're going to help me, regardless."
There's something about Mello's voice that stings, salt against an open wound, and Hal's frozen in place by the hands at her hips, by the feel of the rosary that Mello always wears against her back. She knows Mello's growing restless, his eyes spark easy, like he's got a head full of kerosene.
She can't delay him any longer, cant help but say, "Of course."
Because the war's always waiting.