I'm Baaaack~
Title: Back to the Beginning with you: Matt's Story.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Implied Matt/Mello
Spoilers: Not Really. L, but if you know who Mello and Matt are, you're good.
Summary: It's the night before, and Matt has something to say. The end is really fucking nigh.
Disclaimer: I really don't own. This is all just Matt!speculation, really.
Word Count: 1069.
-Lights fade on, center spotlight. There's a figure sitting on a couch, playing a hand held game with something in their mouth-the game's beeps and pings are background noise for the following. -
"It's not easy, you know. To be human wallpaper, to be a watcher, an observer. But what would you know of putting yourself of another person's shoes? Human beings are apathetic, and selfish and utterly self-absorbed. So let me put my life in terms you can relate to. Just in case I don't make it out tomorrow, I want someone to know, and I guess you're as good as any. So…Picture this, if you like.
You are born in Wales, to a rich father and beautiful mother, and for a while things are great. You have everything you could ask for, computers and video games and problems made for much older children. The rich man and beautiful lady fight and scream, but only behind locked doors. Outside they're all smiles and bright eyes. You just complete the façade of the perfect family. But then, years later, 4 or 5, tops, oops, some woman in a red sports car runs the wrong light and the rich man and the beautiful lady-- who's eyes you've inherited-- are bleeding, then not. Time passes. Then they're still in the waterlogged ground in Wales and you're shipped off to an orphanage in Britain, just outside Winchester, full of brilliant children with broken minds and things to prove. You're seven and convinced you don't belong there. Don't belong anywhere, really. And this drifting, this almost-depression drags on and on. You get a reputation as a mute, and retaliate by thinking of the aggressors as cutthroats and back stabbers. You have no purpose in this place of hallowed genius and dead childhood and crying toddlers-so you play your games, drawing away into a thick shell as you bow your head and stare intently at a battered Gameboy from Wales. A turtle in stripes, intellect be damned.
It takes a boy with a mouth full of orders and a head full of big ideas to get you to look up again. He has yellow hair and an inferiority complex the size of a small continent…-bitter laugh- …and he's beautiful-everyone says so. The teachers, the girls, even the boys turn their heads to watch girlishly long hair flounce as he stalks the halls. He waltzes into your life and makes himself at home there; he wants your loyalty, your friendship. He has both without your consent, and again, things are good. For a time. He makes you live in the real world, take risks and in return he gets your apathy, your mind-a cold balance for his overemotional acts. He gets you in trouble, more times than either of you can count, and that's fine.
But, the years pass in a haze of schooling and shadows and the intensity of too many secrets, this peace cannot last, you come to find. A hero dies, and the boy with yellow hair and a head filled with ideas and plans of pitiable revenge whirls from the orphanage, and your life, without a backward glance or a goodbye. Things are quiet after that. You retreat, like you had before, take up cigarettes to feed your habit for self-destruction. And the years pass. You come to find that it's true, what they say: the only paradise is a paradise lost.
Then you too, move away, from the fog and rain of England to the smog and neon of America. Or rather, Los Angeles. You can't quite move on, but then again, could anyone move on completely after meeting someone so…so. Indescribable.
So you exist. Money's never tight, people all always looking for a hacker and you're the best there is. It's three in the morning when your cell phone rings, and that's normal, so you pause Halo long enough to drawl a hello, and you nearly swallow your burned out cigarette when the voice you've never gotten over, and sure as hell never forgotten seems to smirk and then asks: "why the fuck you're awake at three in the morning and shut off that damn game, because I need you for a job, lazyass."
And just like that, he's back-Texas sized inferiority complex and all. The boy with yellow hair, only now it's grown longer to cover a nasty looking burn over the left side of his face. He won't tell you where he got it, just mumbles something about the Family and the ends justifying the means. So you give up asking, and go about doing the jobs he asks. Watch security cameras, wire explosives, set up bugs and listen for hours and hours. And you do, since it's been years since you've had a purpose like that, and you're insanely loyal to the boy with the leather and rosary and burns. That doesn't stop you from complaining good naturedly whenever he calls to check in, since you're loyal, but you aren't his /slave/. You've known it since you were 7, what's it matter twelve years later?
So it's been nearly two months-you're in Japan (half a world away from Wales, and the orphanage, and even that dumpy apartment in LA) with the best friend you've ever had, he's like your brother for God's sake, and you've about to do the stupidest thing to date. He won't tell you details-his own way of protecting you, you know, but that doesn't make it any less frustrating when he goes so quiet you can hear the creak of his leather pants when he shifts a bit.
This Great Plan involves a motorcycle, your Mustang and a smoke gun. And kidnapping. Because breaking laws has always been his style. You have no idea what this will accomplish, even with the Big Picture or even if it's for the Greater Good, like he says, but you just nod and go along with it, since you both know your life is his to do as he pleases with-- it's always been that way.
Who cares if it's a stupid plan? It'll all be over soon, anyway. And you guys? You won't remember me, my face, or who I was, so I guess that's safe.
That's it, shows over. 19 years as told by me. Self-destruction's always been my vice; and now can you say you're surprised, knowing what you do?"
-light fades-