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comment_fic virginity. :D The prompt was "Death Note, Mello/Matt, driving across the desert at night."
Road Music
He doesn't let Mello drive that often; the car is his baby, and as with so many of Mello's ideas, the execution makes for white knuckles and the need to chainsmoke even more and a pulse pounding out a rhythm that sings oh god oh god we're gonna die get caught be grounded 'til we're twenty. But after a while a hundred miles an hour across empty desert starts to feel like hardly moving at all, and Matt lets his arm hang out the open window, lets his head fall back. He hums along to the pieces of songs chasing each other around in his mind, golden ages and pink moons, and Mello, steering with two fingers, laughs.
"You have the attention span of a gnat, Matty."
"Yeah yeah, but you love me."
"Don't push your luck," Mello says, with a smile that probably means just the opposite.
Watching him like this, in the moonlight that turns his hair silvery and softens the hard edges into shadow, Matt could almost pretend this is the life he used to daydream about. Just them, on the road, going from adventure to adventure.
He knew even then it'd never happen, just like he knows this isn't a road trip but a breathing space between battles. But he reaches over and tangles his fingers into Mello's already tangled hair, and grins at him, and tries not to think about how one of the best road-trip songs he knows is also a hymn to unrequited love.
comment_fic virginity. :D The prompt was "Death Note, Mello/Matt, driving across the desert at night."Road Music
He doesn't let Mello drive that often; the car is his baby, and as with so many of Mello's ideas, the execution makes for white knuckles and the need to chainsmoke even more and a pulse pounding out a rhythm that sings oh god oh god we're gonna die get caught be grounded 'til we're twenty. But after a while a hundred miles an hour across empty desert starts to feel like hardly moving at all, and Matt lets his arm hang out the open window, lets his head fall back. He hums along to the pieces of songs chasing each other around in his mind, golden ages and pink moons, and Mello, steering with two fingers, laughs.
"You have the attention span of a gnat, Matty."
"Yeah yeah, but you love me."
"Don't push your luck," Mello says, with a smile that probably means just the opposite.
Watching him like this, in the moonlight that turns his hair silvery and softens the hard edges into shadow, Matt could almost pretend this is the life he used to daydream about. Just them, on the road, going from adventure to adventure.
He knew even then it'd never happen, just like he knows this isn't a road trip but a breathing space between battles. But he reaches over and tangles his fingers into Mello's already tangled hair, and grins at him, and tries not to think about how one of the best road-trip songs he knows is also a hymn to unrequited love.
