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Fic: Old Age Ain't No Place for Sissies
Title: Old Age Ain't No Place for Sissies
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Mello/Matt
Warnings: AU, and of course the potty mouths
Word Count: 737
Summary: Mello is determined not to age gracefully.
Notes: This is on the silly side, but came out less cracky than I expected. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dn_contest's "fat" prompt.
Matt wakes up to a not-unfamiliar sound, that of his boyfriend getting pissed off not half so quietly as he imagines, and he sits up in time to see Mello fling the object that has offended him--his leather pants, this time--into the corner.
"Guess you showed them," Matt says, sitting up and groping around for his smokes on the nightstand.
"They won't fucking close," Mello huffs.
"You've had those since you were eighteen. Did you think they were gonna fit forever?"
Wrong answer. Mello thwumps naked onto the bed and affects a slouch eloquent of disgust. "You want to get old and fat and pathetic?"
The nicotine's chasing away the sleep-grogginess, and Matt eyes Mello. Hunched and irritated, twenty-five years old today and determined not to age gracefully, he's still so sexy that Matt considers trying to drag him back under the blankets. "Better than the alternative, yeah?"
And really, he thinks, in what world other than that of former Wammy's kids is twenty-five old? Matt's within spitting distance of it himself, and nothing but grateful he's made it this far.
Mello's mouth twitches sideways in that way it does when he agrees, but isn't done being contrary yet. "If the only options are dead or pathetic, I'll take dead."
Matt leans to tap ash into the bedside ashtray, and tries to catch at Mello's arm when he leans back, but Mello pulls away. "And sharing a title is just as pathetic as not having it at all."
So that's what this is really about. For years after Kira, Mello and Near engaged in their own form of detective wars, which only in the last year, and only because Matt and Hal both exerted their influence, ended in stalemate, with Mello reluctantly, ungraciously, conceding that working together as L was better than splitting their resources and diverting their energy to a battle neither could outright win. Matt knows Mello still chafes at the compromise, and he'll never admit he breathed a sigh of relief when he knew all that was over. Maybe he'll 'fess up on his deathbed. Which he hopes is a good sixty years away.
"That's not true," he says, knowing Mello won't be convinced.
Sure enough, Mello gives him a flat look, pointedly puts on the pajama bottoms he's never actually slept in, and stalks out of the bedroom.
By the time Matt finishes his cigarette, the smell of coffee is filling the apartment. He throws on his jeans and a t-shirt and goes into the kitchen. Mello's sugaring his coffee and doesn't turn around.
"Would you rather not have it at all?" Matt says. He can tell that Mello's expression goes blank by the set of his shoulders.
"Don't devil's-advocate at me."
"I'm not. I'm really asking." He goes over and rests his chin on Mello's shoulder. In the last few years, he's gained another inch or so on Matt, and sure, he's put on some weight, no longer whippet-slim, but no one on earth would call him fat, except himself. Matt sets his hands on Mello's hips, fingers grazing along the waistband of the pants, over his stomach, not concave anymore, but still flat. "Do you think L ever loved anyone?"
Mello puts the mug down hard enough that coffee slops onto the counter, and looks back with narrowed eyes, still tense enough in Matt's arms that he feels like he might snap. "What sort of dumb-ass question is that?"
"I think he didn't have time. You do. We do. Mello, listen, I wanna be together when we're really old, and actually fat. I wanna see how much ass you can kick with a walker, and I want you to make fun of me for trying to play Devil May Cry 26 with arthritis."
That gets a little huff that's more amused than annoyed.
"And most of all, I want to be more than some... some fucking consolation prize."
Mello looks down, the hard edges of his expression softening. "You know you are."
"Most of the time, I do," Matt agrees, quietly. "Hey, those pants probably shrank, anyway."
"You're such a fucking dork," Mello says, but he's smiling for real now, and he turns and gives Matt a quick kiss.
"I know that all the time." Matt says, grinning back. "Now come back to bed so I can give you your birthday present."
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Mello/Matt
Warnings: AU, and of course the potty mouths
Word Count: 737
Summary: Mello is determined not to age gracefully.
Notes: This is on the silly side, but came out less cracky than I expected. Written for
dn_contest's "fat" prompt.Matt wakes up to a not-unfamiliar sound, that of his boyfriend getting pissed off not half so quietly as he imagines, and he sits up in time to see Mello fling the object that has offended him--his leather pants, this time--into the corner.
"Guess you showed them," Matt says, sitting up and groping around for his smokes on the nightstand.
"They won't fucking close," Mello huffs.
"You've had those since you were eighteen. Did you think they were gonna fit forever?"
Wrong answer. Mello thwumps naked onto the bed and affects a slouch eloquent of disgust. "You want to get old and fat and pathetic?"
The nicotine's chasing away the sleep-grogginess, and Matt eyes Mello. Hunched and irritated, twenty-five years old today and determined not to age gracefully, he's still so sexy that Matt considers trying to drag him back under the blankets. "Better than the alternative, yeah?"
And really, he thinks, in what world other than that of former Wammy's kids is twenty-five old? Matt's within spitting distance of it himself, and nothing but grateful he's made it this far.
Mello's mouth twitches sideways in that way it does when he agrees, but isn't done being contrary yet. "If the only options are dead or pathetic, I'll take dead."
Matt leans to tap ash into the bedside ashtray, and tries to catch at Mello's arm when he leans back, but Mello pulls away. "And sharing a title is just as pathetic as not having it at all."
So that's what this is really about. For years after Kira, Mello and Near engaged in their own form of detective wars, which only in the last year, and only because Matt and Hal both exerted their influence, ended in stalemate, with Mello reluctantly, ungraciously, conceding that working together as L was better than splitting their resources and diverting their energy to a battle neither could outright win. Matt knows Mello still chafes at the compromise, and he'll never admit he breathed a sigh of relief when he knew all that was over. Maybe he'll 'fess up on his deathbed. Which he hopes is a good sixty years away.
"That's not true," he says, knowing Mello won't be convinced.
Sure enough, Mello gives him a flat look, pointedly puts on the pajama bottoms he's never actually slept in, and stalks out of the bedroom.
By the time Matt finishes his cigarette, the smell of coffee is filling the apartment. He throws on his jeans and a t-shirt and goes into the kitchen. Mello's sugaring his coffee and doesn't turn around.
"Would you rather not have it at all?" Matt says. He can tell that Mello's expression goes blank by the set of his shoulders.
"Don't devil's-advocate at me."
"I'm not. I'm really asking." He goes over and rests his chin on Mello's shoulder. In the last few years, he's gained another inch or so on Matt, and sure, he's put on some weight, no longer whippet-slim, but no one on earth would call him fat, except himself. Matt sets his hands on Mello's hips, fingers grazing along the waistband of the pants, over his stomach, not concave anymore, but still flat. "Do you think L ever loved anyone?"
Mello puts the mug down hard enough that coffee slops onto the counter, and looks back with narrowed eyes, still tense enough in Matt's arms that he feels like he might snap. "What sort of dumb-ass question is that?"
"I think he didn't have time. You do. We do. Mello, listen, I wanna be together when we're really old, and actually fat. I wanna see how much ass you can kick with a walker, and I want you to make fun of me for trying to play Devil May Cry 26 with arthritis."
That gets a little huff that's more amused than annoyed.
"And most of all, I want to be more than some... some fucking consolation prize."
Mello looks down, the hard edges of his expression softening. "You know you are."
"Most of the time, I do," Matt agrees, quietly. "Hey, those pants probably shrank, anyway."
"You're such a fucking dork," Mello says, but he's smiling for real now, and he turns and gives Matt a quick kiss.
"I know that all the time." Matt says, grinning back. "Now come back to bed so I can give you your birthday present."