Sin or spend the night all alone
Masamune Reforged
a Death Note- Mello x Matt fanfic
Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note, nor Matt or Mello. The quoted song is “Me vs. Madonna vs. Elvis” by Brand New. I know, a crazy name for a song like this... I don't even like that band; but this song is absolutely awesome and made me write this.

Warnings: Yaoi (Mello x Matt, graphic, kinky lemon: bondage, rough S&M), angst, cursing, alcohol.

Author's Note: I take some liberties here with these two's pasts. All I know officially about it is that they were both potential successors to L at the same Wammy's house. I assume they knew each other when they were younger, but I do not have them being close childhood buddies.

Song lyrics are encompassed in ~~...lyrics...~~

At the far, far, dirty, dingy, dark little corner of the bar, back near the doors that led down to the cellar and the roach infested kitchen. At the far back, where the lights are dead, back near the bathrooms where everyone squats to shit or piss in fear of catching some crippling disease from the unwashed toilets, where the smell reeks and you can almost hear the lingering echo of the guy screaming in the cellar while Sheff breaks his fingers one by one.

I sit back here because it's where I'm most comfortable. I sit here because I don't mind the stench of the toilets, because I don't care about the guy screaming in the basement. I sit back here because I can stare out at the people and they don't get a chance to stare back at me.

I drink a beer, a chocolate flavored dark lager, and watch the red-head at the bar.

~~With one or two I get used to the room~~

“Hey there,” I approach.

“Hey.”

“You okay there? Looks like you're not enjoying yourself much.” I nod at his buddies, the group of laughing, stumbling, drunk idiots.

They notice me talking to him and start whispering, “Who is that blonde guy?” “What's up with his clothes?” “Why's he talking to Matt?”

It's enough to make the redhead try to brush me off. “I'm fine, thanks.”

“Why aren't you drinking?” I press casually.

“Fuckin' broke, that's why,” he's cute when he gets angry.

I slide into the bar stool next to him and look him dead in those sexy brown eyes of his. “Let me buy you a drink,” I demand.

~~We go slow when we first make our moves.~~

“I said I'll be right back!” He shakes his head in frustration, letting the bar door slam behind him. Matt's friends don't seem to like us going outside together. “Jesus...” he mutters. Apparently he doesn't seem to like his friends much either.

“Smoke?” I offer him a cigarette.

“Nah, fuck,” Matt waves me off as we walk out into the parking lot. It's freezing cold, the third week of January. “I got my own.” He staggers slightly, patting at his pockets for the pack of cigarettes that won't be there. Realizing, “Ah, fuckin' A!”

“Here,” I offer him the cigarette again, and he takes it this time, mumbling thanks.

We're at my car now, and as he lights his smoke, Matt takes a look at it, running a gloved hand over the front hood. He said he wanted to see it, the little technophile... It's a brand new, stolen sports car, fiery red like his hair, leather interior of course.

“Damn, it's the newest freakin' model,” he whistles, impressed, as he should be. “This really yours?”

I pull out the keys and unlock the doors. “Wanna see the inside?”

We hop inside, and I can see him trying to hide his enjoyment. I gladly start the engine when he asks me too, and he starts playing with the GPS device while I give the engine some gas in neutral gear.

After three full minutes of him fiddling with the GPS, I lean over and ask him, “You're really into machines, huh?”

“Machines, computers, video games, anything with whirring parts and flashing buttons,” he smiles goofily, still tinkering. “I'd rather spend the night playing with things like this than go out to some stupid bar or club.”

“Wanna go for a ride then?” I offer, moving closer and putting a hand possessively on his knee.

Matt freezes and lets out a surprised breath. He turns and looks at me with surprised, beautiful, slightly blurred brown eyes. He barely manages to whisper, “I don't know...”

“You're cautious for someone who jumps into a stranger's car,” I tease, taking my hand away. Maybe I moved too fast, too early...

“That's the thing; you don't feel like a stranger to me. I feel like I know you,” Matt says bluntly. And he's right, of course. But it's been awhile, and I'm surprised he even recognizes me. Immediately, he blushes faintly and turns away, poking furiously at the GPS touch-screen. “Fuck. Forget it...”

“Sure.” I let the silence hang in the air for a moment. Matt turns to me, sensing the silently building tension, his eyes looking at me expectantly, but warily. It's still too early, it seems, so I say, “Want to go back inside?”

~~'Bout five or six, bring you out to the car~~

He coughs and wretches slightly on the alcohol. Embarrassed, he puts a hand to cover his mouth, but it's too late. A tiny bit slips out and rolls down the side of those luscious, chapped lips, and it's all I can do to stop myself from leaning over and licking it off of him.

His friends are laughing and patting my back like we're all best of buddies from way back when. They're all wasted, thanks to Sheff and the fact that I can order a whole lake's worth of booze at this place and never have to pay a dime.

Matt's wasted too. He stumbles when he walks to the bathroom; and believe me, all I want to do is follow him back there, force my way into the cramped toilets, and fuck him stupid.

He gets back and I buy everyone another shot. This one he takes down without any problem.

He's smiling now, a pure, white, carefree smile. It's drunken happiness, but at least it's something. I catch him stealing longer and longer glances at me. I notice the way he leans his head in when I speak, how he listens with complete attention when I talk.

We play a drinking game and one of his friends pukes all over the floor. Matt looks up at me, grinning loopily. He's close now.

~~Number nine with my head on the bar~~

In the bathroom, letting the poisonous booze escape my body, I can't help but look in the mirror and reflect. I can't help but wonder, scrutinize and somewhat laugh at myself.

Bullying people with my fists, crushing them with blackmail, manipulating them with a gun against their temple, seducing them with alcohol, brute force; this is what I am. This is how I live now.

Sometimes I think back to easier, simpler times. I think about the orphanage and its fresh linen, the hot breakfasts, the toys, the teachers, the desserts... Learning about how to solve problems peaceably, how to better the lives of others... Living in that imitation world...

I look in the mirror and sneer, even though I'm young, sexy, rich and powerful.

I beat people's faces in until the skin on my knuckles tears. I smother them with their mistakes, affairs, mistresses, sins until they twitch and go rigid. I make them piss their pants and do my bidding until they screw up or I get bored of them; then I pull the trigger and splatter their cranium all over the place.

I feed them shots and beers until they can't say 'no'.

This is what I am now.

~~And it's sad, but true~~

I get the bartender's attention and whisper instructions to him. It's almost time to close up for the night. Some of Matt's friends are looking groggy; halfway between drunk and asleep. I have him too pumped up on liquor and caffeniated mixers to sit still.

Last call and everyone gets their bills. Although I don't need to pay a dime, the bartender hands me a list of all the stuff I bought anyway. It's partly to keep up appearances.

I pull out nearly a thousand dollars, just a hundred short of the total. I fake a frown that Matt will notice; and he does, coming over to me right away and asking me, “Is everything okay?”

I show him the bill, let him count the money for himself. Seeing the situation, he lets out a worried huff, worry at my expense.

I don't ask him, I don't even need to. Matt freely goes over to his friends. After a few minutes of bickering, negotiating, and more than a couple dirty looks past him in my direction, he comes back over to me. He slips five twenties in my hand, trying to be sly.

I hold his hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. “I owe you,” I whisper. It makes him smile as if he'd just saved my life.

~~Out of cash and I owe... (I got) you.~~


More to come as soon as I can!
Hope you enjoyed.

Also, please do review / send feedback if you can; it means a great deal to me!



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