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remix_reduxTitle: Magnificent Trivialities (my soul's burning out remix)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arislanchan
Summary: It's not like the video games, but this time, Matt's glad.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Ohba & Obata's, not mine.
Original story: Trivial Magnificence byruriruri
Notes: Spoilers for chapter 99.
“Don't find the time to cry for me, don't find the words to speak for me, don't find the nerve to feel for me - just get the fuck away from me.”
He shivers and tries to flex his fingers a little, numb and stiff beneath the heavy gloves. It's January, late January, and it's fucking freezing, he thinks - but even with the window wide open and icy blasts of wind whipping at his hair, it's not really registering.
His gun's lying dull and useless on the empty seat next to him - it's served its purpose, right? And now so has he. The screeching of tires; weaving in and out of traffic - they're getting closer, and he knows it won't be much longer.
Not like the video games he's so used to. And he thinks that should probably frighten him, but it doesn't. It's always been retry; start again; doesn't matter if you fuck it up, 'cause you've always got another chance. It just doesn't matter, nothing does.
And that would have summed him up pretty well, before.
So you wouldn't have thought anything of him if you'd seen him earlier; all hunched shoulders and dingy stripes, slouching down the street. Downcast eyes shielded by goggles, hands in his pockets. You'd walk on by.
He’d smoked another cigarette, lounging on the old, off-beige sofa in that dark apartment, waiting for the call. PSP out, disconcertingly nimble fingers flitting over the buttons, with the eerie glow of the tiny, busy screen reflecting itself in his goggles.
Everything ready? Smoke-gun out, jacket on - there’s not much else he’ll need for this final fling, after all. It only matters because Mello says it does.
(it’s now, now or never)
Go back further, rewind, start over. Wammy’s House, that God-forsaken orphanage where he’d learned to blend in, sit back, let others take the lead.
(mello. let mello take the lead)
That place where all that mattered - (or rather, all that they’d wanted you to care about) - was results. Competition and rivalries and wanting to be better than any potential friend who might be sitting near you.
But, well. Matt was Matt, and he wasn’t the best, and he knew that honestly, he didn’t care.
It seemed petty and pointless, and he’d rather spend his time playing video games.
(retry, do that section again.)
But this matters, and there’s only one shot at it. It’s freezing, and the cigarette between his lips is a hot lifeline, thinning the air in his lungs and fuelling a surge of exhilaration.
(I want this to mean something. I want my life to mean something.)
Matt swallows and wishes he could make it so.
(so why am I doing this)
Matt knows why. Matt has no idea. Tangle it up, straighten it out.
Half an hour ago, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. There’s Mello - of course there’s Mello, always has been. He supposes that would have been “the reason”. It was all abstract though, Matt was never one to dwell on emotions or analyse himself.
But Mello could cut through his apathy with a single word, was the one to drag his reluctant self into something that might have meaning.
It’s getting warmer.
Five minutes ago, taking that fake shot at Takada-sama, he might have told you he was doing this to catch Kira.
Though that would have been a lie. He’s still gripping the wheel, squinting through his goggles, heart beginning to race.
It’s still Mello. But at this point, with death stalking him in sleek, fast black cars, he’s thinking - just maybe - he should have a more noble reason, just so it sounds good later, when it‘s all over.
Nah.
Matt’s palms are starting to sweat. He knows that Mello’s opinion is the only one he’s ever placed any real value in.
(Mello, frowning at him, distorting that scar. Running a hand through his dirty blond hair and muttering. Mello seems to hate this plan he’s come up with, and seems to hate Matt for agreeing to it without protest.
“This could get us both killed.”
Matt just looks at him, doesn’t even need to shrug. Brilliant, desperate Mello, gambling everything because it’s all he can do.
Mello cares. Too much, Matt thinks, but that’s why he’s drawn to him. He’s passion and longing and hatred, and determination and life, and all those things that Matt doesn’t really feel and wonders why.
It pisses Mello off sometimes, he knows it does.
But then Matt will find himself pushed back against the wall, Mello’s fingers hard and unforgiving, gripping his arms and begging a reaction.
When he smirks, Mello hisses obscenities at him and storms off.
When he does nothing, and just stares back blankly, Mello kisses him harshly, lips hot and rough against his own.)
Matt can still feel them, ghost-kisses, grazing his neck and skimming his jaw line. He’s too hot now, contrary to the January night - and he’s glad, because he’s finally feeling.
His heart’s racing and Mello’s name is on his lips - Matt’s just the fucking distraction in all of this, but it’s probably the most magnificently trivial thing he’s ever done.
Now there’s nowhere to hide. He can’t stay behind the scenes; they’re after him, he’s in the spotlight, and the heat is on.
And that’s fine, ’cause he’s never hiding again - fuck them, fuck the lot of them, ‘cause he’s going out with a bang.
They corner him. He protests, but he knows what’s coming.
And in the split-second moment before he hits the ground which rushes up to meet him… he's never felt so alive.
Author:
arislanchanSummary: It's not like the video games, but this time, Matt's glad.
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Matt/Mello
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Ohba & Obata's, not mine.
Original story: Trivial Magnificence by
ruriruriNotes: Spoilers for chapter 99.
He shivers and tries to flex his fingers a little, numb and stiff beneath the heavy gloves. It's January, late January, and it's fucking freezing, he thinks - but even with the window wide open and icy blasts of wind whipping at his hair, it's not really registering.
His gun's lying dull and useless on the empty seat next to him - it's served its purpose, right? And now so has he. The screeching of tires; weaving in and out of traffic - they're getting closer, and he knows it won't be much longer.
Not like the video games he's so used to. And he thinks that should probably frighten him, but it doesn't. It's always been retry; start again; doesn't matter if you fuck it up, 'cause you've always got another chance. It just doesn't matter, nothing does.
And that would have summed him up pretty well, before.
So you wouldn't have thought anything of him if you'd seen him earlier; all hunched shoulders and dingy stripes, slouching down the street. Downcast eyes shielded by goggles, hands in his pockets. You'd walk on by.
He’d smoked another cigarette, lounging on the old, off-beige sofa in that dark apartment, waiting for the call. PSP out, disconcertingly nimble fingers flitting over the buttons, with the eerie glow of the tiny, busy screen reflecting itself in his goggles.
Everything ready? Smoke-gun out, jacket on - there’s not much else he’ll need for this final fling, after all. It only matters because Mello says it does.
(it’s now, now or never)
Go back further, rewind, start over. Wammy’s House, that God-forsaken orphanage where he’d learned to blend in, sit back, let others take the lead.
(mello. let mello take the lead)
That place where all that mattered - (or rather, all that they’d wanted you to care about) - was results. Competition and rivalries and wanting to be better than any potential friend who might be sitting near you.
But, well. Matt was Matt, and he wasn’t the best, and he knew that honestly, he didn’t care.
It seemed petty and pointless, and he’d rather spend his time playing video games.
(retry, do that section again.)
But this matters, and there’s only one shot at it. It’s freezing, and the cigarette between his lips is a hot lifeline, thinning the air in his lungs and fuelling a surge of exhilaration.
(I want this to mean something. I want my life to mean something.)
Matt swallows and wishes he could make it so.
(so why am I doing this)
Matt knows why. Matt has no idea. Tangle it up, straighten it out.
Half an hour ago, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you. There’s Mello - of course there’s Mello, always has been. He supposes that would have been “the reason”. It was all abstract though, Matt was never one to dwell on emotions or analyse himself.
But Mello could cut through his apathy with a single word, was the one to drag his reluctant self into something that might have meaning.
It’s getting warmer.
Five minutes ago, taking that fake shot at Takada-sama, he might have told you he was doing this to catch Kira.
Though that would have been a lie. He’s still gripping the wheel, squinting through his goggles, heart beginning to race.
It’s still Mello. But at this point, with death stalking him in sleek, fast black cars, he’s thinking - just maybe - he should have a more noble reason, just so it sounds good later, when it‘s all over.
Nah.
Matt’s palms are starting to sweat. He knows that Mello’s opinion is the only one he’s ever placed any real value in.
(Mello, frowning at him, distorting that scar. Running a hand through his dirty blond hair and muttering. Mello seems to hate this plan he’s come up with, and seems to hate Matt for agreeing to it without protest.
“This could get us both killed.”
Matt just looks at him, doesn’t even need to shrug. Brilliant, desperate Mello, gambling everything because it’s all he can do.
Mello cares. Too much, Matt thinks, but that’s why he’s drawn to him. He’s passion and longing and hatred, and determination and life, and all those things that Matt doesn’t really feel and wonders why.
It pisses Mello off sometimes, he knows it does.
But then Matt will find himself pushed back against the wall, Mello’s fingers hard and unforgiving, gripping his arms and begging a reaction.
When he smirks, Mello hisses obscenities at him and storms off.
When he does nothing, and just stares back blankly, Mello kisses him harshly, lips hot and rough against his own.)
Matt can still feel them, ghost-kisses, grazing his neck and skimming his jaw line. He’s too hot now, contrary to the January night - and he’s glad, because he’s finally feeling.
His heart’s racing and Mello’s name is on his lips - Matt’s just the fucking distraction in all of this, but it’s probably the most magnificently trivial thing he’s ever done.
Now there’s nowhere to hide. He can’t stay behind the scenes; they’re after him, he’s in the spotlight, and the heat is on.
And that’s fine, ’cause he’s never hiding again - fuck them, fuck the lot of them, ‘cause he’s going out with a bang.
They corner him. He protests, but he knows what’s coming.
And in the split-second moment before he hits the ground which rushes up to meet him… he's never felt so alive.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-24 05:39 pm (UTC)When I've got time to do a big Remix rec-list, this will definitely be on it. And I'm adding it to my memories. :D Awesome, awesome, awesome.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-29 08:21 pm (UTC)I love the writing style! Thank you, thank you for posting this. *mems*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-04-30 04:31 am (UTC)*Adds to the OMGAWESOME links folder :D*
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-27 03:04 am (UTC)Second off, omigosh, omigosh, this was wonderful. Loved how you took everything in different, sometimes totally opposite directions but brought it back, loved the real beauty of the language, how you brought in the feeling-versus-apathy thing and-- just everything was really great. Thank you so much.