would have drawn a beautiful sexy piece of death note art had it not been for the fact that the delivery with my art supplies that was due to come today is now delayed
would have drawn a beautiful sexy piece of death note art had it not been for the fact that the delivery with my art supplies that was due to come today is now delayed
Summary: Mello did not expect to survive the Kira case, but after failing to kidnap Takada as he intended, he is forced to succeed L in order to arrest Light and continue the Wammy's House legacy. Betrayed by the only person he can trust, Mello finds himself at a crossroads between submitting to the whims of the institution he was raised to serve, or becoming the very thing he fought against at risk of his sanity.
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Here we are at the penultimate chapter! Somewhat bittersweet finally making it to this point in the narrative now, but as always, thank you for reading and all the support you have sent my way - it means more than I can begin to articulate. This chapter is written from Matt's POV. ♡
The final chapter will be published 20/12 as I do not want it to coincide with MattMelloWeek (which I am going to begin working on soon). Hopefully it will be worth the wait. :)
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Teaser under the cut ⬎
Loving Mello has always been painfully difficult.
Sure, there are days where you think you have come to a certain peace with it. Those silent days where you lie side by side refusing to speak because there is nothing more that needs to be said. Instead you think to yourself, fuck, I am so lucky. So, so lucky.
He is thinking about something else. Something distant. something darker; you sometimes like to pretend that when he looks at you, he is also counting his blessings. After all, Mello has never been the type to be particularly generous in his gratitude beyond his bedroom performances. Even they have been brutal and haunting at times.
Truthfully, these more tempered days you reminisce on are few and far between. Some might call it abusive, but they do not understand, really. Besides, you have never felt that strong inclination to labels on these things. Even referring to him as your boyfriend, much less your partner, feels inappropriate. These phrases could never encapsulate what the two of you have shared your entire lives. You decide you will not describe whatever it is in any manner, that you will not hold it to some kind of standard from which it can be judged. Not by others, and certainly not yourselves.
You remember the day you shed blood for him, faint at the bottom of the staircase, your face roaring with hurt. The merciless cackle of others at your expense. It had been the week after he left and as you slipped in and out of consciousness, you thought you saw him standing at the top of those stairs.
Mello’s eyes widen, as they once did with joy, or the sense of accomplishment, but the developing tears that glaze across his eyes make clear that this illusion has shattered. Before he has time to react further, you pull him close to your chest, wrapping your arms around him as tight as you are able with your hand supporting his head. Then he begins to cry, loud sobs that reverberate through his body against your chest, the kind you know will cause a lingering headache for the hours to follow. He cries, and he cries, and he cries, and you do not say anything, because what is there to say? You simply need to be there, as you always have been.
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