Boku no-da yo (Mine!)
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Death Note › Yaoi-Male/Male › Mello/Matt
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Adult +
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2
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Category:
Death Note › Yaoi-Male/Male › Mello/Matt
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
2
Views:
1,456
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own, nor do I claim to own, any Death Note characters, locations, ideals, etc. I gain no monetary profit from this story at all.
Regret
Title: Boku no-da yo (Mine!)
Fandom: Death Note
Genre: Romance, slight Angst,
Warnings (other than those listed in summary): likely OOC-ness, Overused plot bunny, and overstressed authoress
Beta: None, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Rating: This chapter R, but NC-17 overall
Characters: Matt, Mello, L, Raito, and several minor O.C.s
Summary: Mello, overcome with worry, seeks out L to find his scorned lover, Matt, who has been gone for several days. Pasts are revealed, secrets uncovered.
Warning! Spoilers if you don’t know their names!
Chapter 2: Regret
~*~*~*~
It had been difficult to convince L that Matt hadn’t just walked out of Mello’s life, just like he said he would. Mello knew Matt better than that. No matter how angry – how furious – Matt may be, he wouldn’t /ever/ leave his PSP behind.
L, finally realizing this was true, conceded to moving his ‘base’ to Mello and Matt’s shared apartment in New York. It /was/ where Matt was last seen, after all. Of course, to do this, preparations had to be made. Preparations that would take a hundred man team six years to accomplish. First and foremost on that list: get Raito to give up the Death Note.
Matt was doomed.
~*~*~*~
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be Kira”
“Then who /would/ be Kira?”
“… Takada?”
“She’s dead, L.”
“… Technically, you’re dead too…”
Mello scoffed at the conversation taking place right in front of him.
This, of course, turned the defeated god’s attention to him. “Anything you would like to add, /Mihael/?”
“Not really, /Kira/. I would like to point out, however, that Shinigami-san* wants his notebook back. He already almost killed you… I don’t think there’d be much regret on his part to write your name. It’s only ‘cause of L that he didn’t before hand. So, as I see it, you owe L your life… Ne?”
It was silent… so silent you could almost hear L’s teeth rotting as he sucked on his fifth sugar cube since the conversation started two – no /three/ – minutes ago.
“I… relinquish ownership of the Death Note,” was Raito’s solemn, almost whispered, reply.
~*~*~*~
Twenty hours and sixty chocolate bars later; Mello could /swear/ that there was a marching band tournament being hosted inside his skull.
“Where the FUCK is my suitcase?!”
Make that a marching band, competing with an elephant stampede, dipped in heavy metal concert for good measure.
The. Fucking. Airport. Lost. His. Fucking. Bag. Greeeaaat… that’s all he needed…
“You know, if you’d just carried a carry-on bag, you wouldn’t have lost it.” Came L’s monotone
Mello’s eye twitched.
~*~*~*~
An awkward cab ride (his keys were in his bag) and innumerable amounts of mumbled curses later; Mello’s headache could be felt on the Richter scale.
Breaking into his own flat (with state-of-the-art security systems, of course) made him reconsider his job choice. Matt was /waaay/ too good at beefing up security for him to be breaking others’ systems. Or maybe that’s why he had gotten so good… hm…
‘Note to self,’ Mello thought, imputing the 17 digit, /timed/ code into the third beeping device, ‘once this mess gets sorted out, make Matt start a home security business. We’d make a killing.’
~*~*~*~
Finally, with near-overdose levels of ibuprofen in his system, Mello sat down to check the mail as a scowling L and a giggling – GIGGLING! – Raito unpacked.
Bill. Bill. Junk. Magazine. Junk. Junk. Matt’s new videogame. More junk.
“… What’s this?” It was a rectangle. A white rectangle. Hm…
Mello opened it, emptied the contents into his lap, and immediately felt like he was going to barf.
“Oh, /god/…” The blonde hissed closing his eyes tightly, as if it was just a dream.
But it all was still on his lap.
A blank video tape. A piece of plain white paper, folded three times into a burrito-shape. And…
And a white shirt with red-striped sleeves, covered in blood.
Mello knew that shirt all too well. It was Matt’s.
“L,” His voice cracked on the single letter.
Raito stopped laughing and looked over, following L’s shuffling heels. “What is it?” Ever calm, ever monotone; that was L. Glancing at the items in Mello’s lap, Raito scurried off to get gloves so as to avoid messing up any fingerprints on the objects. “The letter first, Mello,” Even L’s voice sounded strained, even if only a bit. Mello smiled bitterly, knowing the only reason L hadn’t scooped the items up already was the fact that Raito just got back with gloves for the both of them.
Mello scooped the letter up by the edges, his leather gloves always on, and opened it carefully. Reminding himself to read the typed print aloud (lest L get impatient and start snatching) he began;
“To the one who almost ended my life,
Trade?”
Not signed, of course! Grr…
L plucked up the tape, popping it gently into the VCR and smashing ‘play’ with a – shaking? – finger.
Mello felt sick.
~*~On the Movie~*~
Matt stumbled back into a fold-up chair placed strategically in the middle of a seemingly empty room, right in front of the camera. Immediately, four masked figures (who, from the looks of bulging arm muscles the size of Matt’s head, were men) swooped down and roped, then chained, each of Matt’s limbs to the legs of the crappy chair.
“What the fuck do you want with me?!” Matt spat, lifting his head to show the camera (and all those viewing) a large, bleeding gash across his temple, a (more than likely) broken nose, bruised cheeks, and a split lip, which all littered his face making it look like he had given his captors hell.
The voice of the man behind the camera, apparently the leader of this little gang, chuckled before answering in (English) a tone that fit better with a father scolding his toddler son than the leader of a torturing party. “You? What makes you think I’m after you?” – there was a mumbled ‘because you grabbed /me/’ from Matt, but it was ignored – “Little Mail*,” there was an audible gasp, both from Matt and from Mello, “Yes, yes, I know who you are… Mail Jeevas, age 20, birthday February 1st, 1990, weighed 2 pounds, 3 ounces, born two months premature. Am I right so far?” Stunned, Matt didn’t answer, but boss-man continued on anyways; “Mother: Angela Jeevas, died during birth. Father: unknown. You were sent from orphanage to orphanage, since no one wanted the medical bills that came with a fragile baby. Age four, you could read. You could speak German, Russian, Japanese, English, Latin, and Chinese fluently by age five. You were finally placed with one Charles Gloch in Germany right before your sixth birthday, but he died too. Right?”
“After he certified me as a genius and made tons of money off me, yeah. He was murdered; No suspects, no traces of any clues. A perfect job if there ever was one.”
“We both know who killed him, don’t we?” The tone was leering, taunting, and Matt fell for the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Me,” Matt looked back up, cocky smirk back in place, “So… you kidnapped me just to tell me I killed Gloch? Good job, you can let me go now.”
“I see you’ve had enough talking, Mail. I’ll get to the fun part. Guess who I’m going to send this video to? Well, I think it would make a nice gift for your little boyfriend, Mihael. Just to let him know what Uncle still thinks of him. So, Mihael,” ‘Uncle’ was addressing the camera, though still unseen, “Will you give yourself to me in order to set him free?” The sound of a door opening, “You may start, though to try to keep it light for now.” The door shut, camera still rolling, as a man stepped into view.
The cloaked man knelt next to Matt, whispering in an elderly-sounding voice, “Scream all you want, kid. It excites me to hear pain. Call me Blud*, for you’ll see a lot of me.” Blud cackled, picking up bronze knuckles with iron spikes along the bumpy part. A metal-clad fist slammed into Matt’s stomach, leaving four punctures that were already soaking the white shirt red. Pain flashed across Matt’s blue gaze, but other than that, he didn’t even flinch. Fists raised again, and fell again. A repeat of the same process, only now focusing solely on Matt’s left shoulder. A few well-placed punches later, and a sickening snap was heard. It was then that Matt gasped in pain, his collar bone having snapped. Blud focused his attacks still mainly on the shoulder, but began also hitting ribs. Several more cracking sounds, each followed by a louder gasp, were drawn from the redhead before, finally, the strikes stopped. A knife was plucked from a nearby table along with long, black rubber gloves. The knuckles were dropped in the floor, only to be replaced by the gloves. Matt’s shirt was then sliced off of him, revealing the full extent of Blud’s fists. Matt looked like he was shot by Takada’s supporters all over again. The knife was twirled around once, twice, a third time, before being plunged into Matt’s shoulder, where there was no skin left, only bloody muscle riddled with holes. A cry of pain, another slash, another, louder, cry, another, deeper, slash. Until white was seen from the mutilated shoulder. A lot of white, enough for Blud to wrap his fingers around and pull. A deafening crack, followed by a bloody-murder scream. The bastard had just severed the bone totally. Blud walked away, and the screen went black.
~*~Back in the room~*~
Mello had to hold his mouth as he stumbled recklessly to the closest bathroom. Tears pricked the backs of his eyes and he emptied what little food he had on the plane into the toilet. His stomach was empty, but the heaves and gags kept coming. He couldn’t help it; /He/ was the cause of Matt’s pain – all of Matt’s pain. The only reason this ‘Uncle’ person got him was because of Mello’s fucking screw ups!
Light walked in, gently holding back blonde hair, placing a cool rag on the back of Mello’s neck, and rubbing the distraught boy’s back soothingly. It was all he could do while L started the search for ‘Uncle’ and ‘Blud’.
~*~*~*~
Okay, so its 5 am and I still couldn’t sleep. So I wrote another chapter… tell me if it doesn’t make sense… I forgot the word ‘limbs’ for a full minute and a half, no joke.
*Shinigami-san: basically a polite way of saying ‘Mr. Death God’
*according to Wikipedia Matt’s true name is Mail Jeevas (based on the katakana its pronounced mile jee-vuhs). I made the rest of that up… {for those wondering; premature babies are in 2 classes; low weight and very low weight. Anything below 4 pounds is very low.}
*Blud, pronounced blood, spelled differently to avoid confusion. (huh? Blud is running down Matt’s abs, what?!) and yes, I made several puns… {{please don’t kill me}}
{edit: I'm not sane ( well, mostly) and I reread this chapter. Not really the point I wanted to put across, but a point all the same. It's edited, at least for now.}
Fandom: Death Note
Genre: Romance, slight Angst,
Warnings (other than those listed in summary): likely OOC-ness, Overused plot bunny, and overstressed authoress
Beta: None, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Rating: This chapter R, but NC-17 overall
Characters: Matt, Mello, L, Raito, and several minor O.C.s
Summary: Mello, overcome with worry, seeks out L to find his scorned lover, Matt, who has been gone for several days. Pasts are revealed, secrets uncovered.
Warning! Spoilers if you don’t know their names!
Chapter 2: Regret
~*~*~*~
It had been difficult to convince L that Matt hadn’t just walked out of Mello’s life, just like he said he would. Mello knew Matt better than that. No matter how angry – how furious – Matt may be, he wouldn’t /ever/ leave his PSP behind.
L, finally realizing this was true, conceded to moving his ‘base’ to Mello and Matt’s shared apartment in New York. It /was/ where Matt was last seen, after all. Of course, to do this, preparations had to be made. Preparations that would take a hundred man team six years to accomplish. First and foremost on that list: get Raito to give up the Death Note.
Matt was doomed.
~*~*~*~
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t be Kira”
“Then who /would/ be Kira?”
“… Takada?”
“She’s dead, L.”
“… Technically, you’re dead too…”
Mello scoffed at the conversation taking place right in front of him.
This, of course, turned the defeated god’s attention to him. “Anything you would like to add, /Mihael/?”
“Not really, /Kira/. I would like to point out, however, that Shinigami-san* wants his notebook back. He already almost killed you… I don’t think there’d be much regret on his part to write your name. It’s only ‘cause of L that he didn’t before hand. So, as I see it, you owe L your life… Ne?”
It was silent… so silent you could almost hear L’s teeth rotting as he sucked on his fifth sugar cube since the conversation started two – no /three/ – minutes ago.
“I… relinquish ownership of the Death Note,” was Raito’s solemn, almost whispered, reply.
~*~*~*~
Twenty hours and sixty chocolate bars later; Mello could /swear/ that there was a marching band tournament being hosted inside his skull.
“Where the FUCK is my suitcase?!”
Make that a marching band, competing with an elephant stampede, dipped in heavy metal concert for good measure.
The. Fucking. Airport. Lost. His. Fucking. Bag. Greeeaaat… that’s all he needed…
“You know, if you’d just carried a carry-on bag, you wouldn’t have lost it.” Came L’s monotone
Mello’s eye twitched.
~*~*~*~
An awkward cab ride (his keys were in his bag) and innumerable amounts of mumbled curses later; Mello’s headache could be felt on the Richter scale.
Breaking into his own flat (with state-of-the-art security systems, of course) made him reconsider his job choice. Matt was /waaay/ too good at beefing up security for him to be breaking others’ systems. Or maybe that’s why he had gotten so good… hm…
‘Note to self,’ Mello thought, imputing the 17 digit, /timed/ code into the third beeping device, ‘once this mess gets sorted out, make Matt start a home security business. We’d make a killing.’
~*~*~*~
Finally, with near-overdose levels of ibuprofen in his system, Mello sat down to check the mail as a scowling L and a giggling – GIGGLING! – Raito unpacked.
Bill. Bill. Junk. Magazine. Junk. Junk. Matt’s new videogame. More junk.
“… What’s this?” It was a rectangle. A white rectangle. Hm…
Mello opened it, emptied the contents into his lap, and immediately felt like he was going to barf.
“Oh, /god/…” The blonde hissed closing his eyes tightly, as if it was just a dream.
But it all was still on his lap.
A blank video tape. A piece of plain white paper, folded three times into a burrito-shape. And…
And a white shirt with red-striped sleeves, covered in blood.
Mello knew that shirt all too well. It was Matt’s.
“L,” His voice cracked on the single letter.
Raito stopped laughing and looked over, following L’s shuffling heels. “What is it?” Ever calm, ever monotone; that was L. Glancing at the items in Mello’s lap, Raito scurried off to get gloves so as to avoid messing up any fingerprints on the objects. “The letter first, Mello,” Even L’s voice sounded strained, even if only a bit. Mello smiled bitterly, knowing the only reason L hadn’t scooped the items up already was the fact that Raito just got back with gloves for the both of them.
Mello scooped the letter up by the edges, his leather gloves always on, and opened it carefully. Reminding himself to read the typed print aloud (lest L get impatient and start snatching) he began;
“To the one who almost ended my life,
Trade?”
Not signed, of course! Grr…
L plucked up the tape, popping it gently into the VCR and smashing ‘play’ with a – shaking? – finger.
Mello felt sick.
~*~On the Movie~*~
Matt stumbled back into a fold-up chair placed strategically in the middle of a seemingly empty room, right in front of the camera. Immediately, four masked figures (who, from the looks of bulging arm muscles the size of Matt’s head, were men) swooped down and roped, then chained, each of Matt’s limbs to the legs of the crappy chair.
“What the fuck do you want with me?!” Matt spat, lifting his head to show the camera (and all those viewing) a large, bleeding gash across his temple, a (more than likely) broken nose, bruised cheeks, and a split lip, which all littered his face making it look like he had given his captors hell.
The voice of the man behind the camera, apparently the leader of this little gang, chuckled before answering in (English) a tone that fit better with a father scolding his toddler son than the leader of a torturing party. “You? What makes you think I’m after you?” – there was a mumbled ‘because you grabbed /me/’ from Matt, but it was ignored – “Little Mail*,” there was an audible gasp, both from Matt and from Mello, “Yes, yes, I know who you are… Mail Jeevas, age 20, birthday February 1st, 1990, weighed 2 pounds, 3 ounces, born two months premature. Am I right so far?” Stunned, Matt didn’t answer, but boss-man continued on anyways; “Mother: Angela Jeevas, died during birth. Father: unknown. You were sent from orphanage to orphanage, since no one wanted the medical bills that came with a fragile baby. Age four, you could read. You could speak German, Russian, Japanese, English, Latin, and Chinese fluently by age five. You were finally placed with one Charles Gloch in Germany right before your sixth birthday, but he died too. Right?”
“After he certified me as a genius and made tons of money off me, yeah. He was murdered; No suspects, no traces of any clues. A perfect job if there ever was one.”
“We both know who killed him, don’t we?” The tone was leering, taunting, and Matt fell for the bait. Hook, line, and sinker.
“Me,” Matt looked back up, cocky smirk back in place, “So… you kidnapped me just to tell me I killed Gloch? Good job, you can let me go now.”
“I see you’ve had enough talking, Mail. I’ll get to the fun part. Guess who I’m going to send this video to? Well, I think it would make a nice gift for your little boyfriend, Mihael. Just to let him know what Uncle still thinks of him. So, Mihael,” ‘Uncle’ was addressing the camera, though still unseen, “Will you give yourself to me in order to set him free?” The sound of a door opening, “You may start, though to try to keep it light for now.” The door shut, camera still rolling, as a man stepped into view.
The cloaked man knelt next to Matt, whispering in an elderly-sounding voice, “Scream all you want, kid. It excites me to hear pain. Call me Blud*, for you’ll see a lot of me.” Blud cackled, picking up bronze knuckles with iron spikes along the bumpy part. A metal-clad fist slammed into Matt’s stomach, leaving four punctures that were already soaking the white shirt red. Pain flashed across Matt’s blue gaze, but other than that, he didn’t even flinch. Fists raised again, and fell again. A repeat of the same process, only now focusing solely on Matt’s left shoulder. A few well-placed punches later, and a sickening snap was heard. It was then that Matt gasped in pain, his collar bone having snapped. Blud focused his attacks still mainly on the shoulder, but began also hitting ribs. Several more cracking sounds, each followed by a louder gasp, were drawn from the redhead before, finally, the strikes stopped. A knife was plucked from a nearby table along with long, black rubber gloves. The knuckles were dropped in the floor, only to be replaced by the gloves. Matt’s shirt was then sliced off of him, revealing the full extent of Blud’s fists. Matt looked like he was shot by Takada’s supporters all over again. The knife was twirled around once, twice, a third time, before being plunged into Matt’s shoulder, where there was no skin left, only bloody muscle riddled with holes. A cry of pain, another slash, another, louder, cry, another, deeper, slash. Until white was seen from the mutilated shoulder. A lot of white, enough for Blud to wrap his fingers around and pull. A deafening crack, followed by a bloody-murder scream. The bastard had just severed the bone totally. Blud walked away, and the screen went black.
~*~Back in the room~*~
Mello had to hold his mouth as he stumbled recklessly to the closest bathroom. Tears pricked the backs of his eyes and he emptied what little food he had on the plane into the toilet. His stomach was empty, but the heaves and gags kept coming. He couldn’t help it; /He/ was the cause of Matt’s pain – all of Matt’s pain. The only reason this ‘Uncle’ person got him was because of Mello’s fucking screw ups!
Light walked in, gently holding back blonde hair, placing a cool rag on the back of Mello’s neck, and rubbing the distraught boy’s back soothingly. It was all he could do while L started the search for ‘Uncle’ and ‘Blud’.
~*~*~*~
Okay, so its 5 am and I still couldn’t sleep. So I wrote another chapter… tell me if it doesn’t make sense… I forgot the word ‘limbs’ for a full minute and a half, no joke.
*Shinigami-san: basically a polite way of saying ‘Mr. Death God’
*according to Wikipedia Matt’s true name is Mail Jeevas (based on the katakana its pronounced mile jee-vuhs). I made the rest of that up… {for those wondering; premature babies are in 2 classes; low weight and very low weight. Anything below 4 pounds is very low.}
*Blud, pronounced blood, spelled differently to avoid confusion. (huh? Blud is running down Matt’s abs, what?!) and yes, I made several puns… {{please don’t kill me}}
{edit: I'm not sane ( well, mostly) and I reread this chapter. Not really the point I wanted to put across, but a point all the same. It's edited, at least for now.}