Forty Seconds (MattxMello -- Death Note)

19//eighteen

[A/N: last chapter guys!!]

Mihael trades the soft folds of denim and familiarity of cotton for leather when he's seventeen. Leather that gleams like the barrel of a gun -- that catches the sun's harsh glare and re-directs it at himself so everyone knows where to set their attention. He is too bright to look at. Mihael doesn't wear black anymore -- he smothers himself in it. It's stuck to his skin like dried tar. A reflection of his inner self, perhaps -- dismal and dim and shadowed. The desperation for attention (approval) runs deep. It's desperate and petty and childish, but it fules the blonde boy like gasoline. Ten days straight off shitty Starbucks lattes and RedBulls and he lives. Fingers bleeding and scratching at a door that closed two years ago. Matt knows -- because, as far as expert's go, Matt is adept in the artistry that is Mello. He knows how he craves justification more than air. He is living proof that vengeance is consuming -- never underestimate revenge as a motive.

Mello has always been feline. Walking on fences and slipping through alleyways. Sneaking around corners and dipping into shadows. Becoming a glow-eyed figure in the shadows, the perfect criminal -- mum, noiseless, silence. Almost like, in the dark-dark (too dark to see his milky-pale skin or blazing leather getup) he didn't even exist. Light and dark and perfect saturation, deftly wound and unafraid. A knot of confidence, a breeze of ice-cold air and a jolt of electricity when his icy blue eyes looked at you.

Matt though that's why Mihael had to do it -- had to stomp his feet and whine. Had to dress in all black and had to be the best -- the very best. Because he craved existence. He always craved attention -- no, something more than that. Something crueler. He wanted permanence and importance. Seven billion people in the new world, and only a handful made it to the Big Leagues -- the high-school textbooks, the golden coffin. Only a few have their names whispered among gossiping pedestrians and days of the year dedicated to them.

He wanted to be one of the special few. That's the difference between Mihael and L -- for Mihael, it was never about Kira. Sure, he despised him for killing L. But, to Mihael, Kira was never anything more than the shit on the bottom of L's shoe. Kira was a one-way ticket to fame. And, better yet, beating Near. His competition, his childhood barrier. In a way, Matt was kind of thankful to Near -- for keeping Mello's feet on the ground. For not letting his ego get the best of him. It was that ever-lasting sense of hopelessness that built the Mello that existed today. It was that need to be the best (the very, very best) that kept him going even after he lost everything he had.

And without that, who was Mello?

And without Mello, who was Matt?

Matt didn't want to know the answer to that question.

And now -- now, it had all turned to ash. The fire was over; they'd survived the battle, but hadn't won the war. At first -- after rummaging through hell itself for the blonde boy and dragging them both out alive -- Matt thought it had been over. They'd played their part -- given their share of sacrifices. Mello had lost a good share of his face for the cause. But that was then, and this was now. Now, he knew better. Now, he realized -- they were always meant to perish for prosperity.

In Mello's eyes, it was written in stone. An ancient prophecy. And the minute they stepped out Wammy's house with packs swung over their shoulders it was confirmed.

He ran his fingers softly over Mello's chest -- felt his protuberant spine and jutting rib cage. Felt his heart beat a little too fast. Matt estimated the blonde boy's blood pressure sky-high. Too much testosterone, enough stress to make anyone else's hair fall out. But none of it mattered -- not to Mello, for his mind was at it's sharpest -- sharp enough to slice open all the strings holding Matt together and send him into free-fall. He ran his fingers over the crucifix, and the rosary beads knocked softly together.

Matt's eyes stung and his throat swelled. He was never one to cry -- not since he was nine years old and spilled hot coco on himself hot enough to leave blisters for weeks. His bottom lip quivered, and his eyes watered, but he never cried.

And now -- now, he felt one singe tear escape and he pulled himself together as Mello shifted beneath him. Turning his neck and glancing up at Matt through mooned eyelids. Cheeks stained from the over-powering sobs that had sung him to sleep earlier that day.

"Matt," he whispered, voice like silk "I don't wanna die," he sniffled.

Matt pressed his lips softly to the blonde boy's, tasting him in full flavor. All the envy, all the hatred slipping away in what they knew to be their final hours.

"Shhh, it's okay -- we'll do it together." He felt his heart throb for himself, and for Mello -- for the children who played at Wammy's house and for L and even Near. Everyone wrapped up in this life-consuming cat-and-mouse game. He closed his heavy eyelids -- tired in the way that sleep cannot fix. He nuzzled his face into Mello's neck and whispered "Let's go out with a bang."