A/N: It seems one shot's are my thing right now. lol. Rediscovering many of the older songs and some of the newer ones in my iTunes library has really given my brain a jump start, as well as going back to college. I've been so happy at having deep, intellectual discussions again. Why, just yesterday I got into a debate with my professor about whether or not it's right to use a dialectically correct term in a professional research essay.
Long story...
Anyways, Jacob has been giving me priceless encouragement for TTB and writing in general is just a lot easier for me. This little series is something of mine that is a bit like Keehl's Ninth, though I'm not taking it as seriously. Keehl's Ninth is a lot like my first real long fanfic, this is more of a way to keep myself entertained and to allow myself to express the ideas that just don't fit into KN or TTB. I always get depressed when I lose my ideas (hence why I am still mourning over the loss of my old hard drive 3 years ago).
Well, I guess I'll make these notes here instead of naming each chapter after the song I was inspired by. This chapter was inspired by the song Addicted (TVCF Extended Vocal) by Sweetbox from their Rare Tracks album.
Everybody enjoy their weekend and this little one-shot!
Please read and review!

Edit: Oh my god! I cannot believe I forgot to do this! How rude of me...
I want to say a quick thank you to everyone who reviewed the new chapter of Beyond and my last one-shot "Never Mind." I really appreciate it. And thanks to everyone who's read or reviewed any of my other fanfics as well! Sorry for being so ungrateful! lol. Honestly, I love you all.

Disclaimer: Since I can barely afford my text books, I obviously do not own Death Note or Addicted. I bet Ohba and Obata can pay for their college text books...

Chapter One - Hell on Earth

It was dangerous down here. He knew that much.

It was hot. It was sticky. It was scary.

It was so simple and so fucking amazing.

Above him, the lights were still flashing and he could see the rich, enticing flash of leather and a glimpse of blond hair.

Mello had said he was completely clean when he was with the Mafia, no drugs, no alcohol, no sex.

Now he knew why.

Mello didn't need drugs, he was a fucking high all of his own. All he had to do was get a guy to piss his pants in fear with a gun shoved halfway down his throat and he was on top of the fucking world. Matt sometimes wondered what it would be like to look through those azure eyes, so sharp and seductive and mesmerizing with a beauty that was pure poison. Staring into those eyes was like driving past a ten car pile up while the flames still burn and the people are still screaming.

His stomach would churn, he wanted to cry, yell, maybe even stab himself in the throat, but he just couldn't look away. It was terrifying, like those last few moments of life when you realize you've done shit, and there isn't much you can do about it now because the dark is about to swallow you up with nothing but the unknown on the other side.

That's what it was like, looking into Mello's eyes when he was high on feeling like a total badass. A goddamn black hole, but instead of light, it sucked out your livelihood and replaced it with pure adrenaline.

Mello didn't need alcohol because...well, because he really couldn't handle it. He was already drunk off his ass and he had only had 3 chocolate martinis. The blond could deny it all he wanted, but Mello didn't dance when he was sober. And he was the one who had dragged Matt onto the dance floor, moving and swaying eagerly against the younger man's figure to the pounding rhythm of the music and the blood pumping through their heads.

All the lights reflecting off of his leather, his skin, his hair, giving him a glow that was nothing short of ethereal. He was inhuman, he was not of this world, he was a fallen angel. He was Lucifer himself. He was an unholy savior, clutching a crucifix and whispering a Hail Mary while he marched through the shadows and alleyways doing the Devil's work. All for justice, all for number one, all for...

It didn't matter what it was really for. All that mattered is that it was something that Mello would do.

Even on the days when he wasn't so pretty, those days when he constantly looked like he had a stick shoved up his ass, or the days when that bloodthirsty maniacal gleam never seemed to completely disappear from his eyes, he was still gorgeous.

Even with the scars, Mello could have made a living as a super model, a porn star, a celebrity of some sort.

Would he love Mello still if he suddenly decided to star in movies? If he ran off to Hollywood? If he wanted to strip for Calvin Klein, or Playgirl, or some depraved fetish website?

Probably. He had tried to stop loving Mello before.

It never worked. He was just...Mello.

When it wasn't bad, it was fucking fantastic. And Matt could last years of terrible, half-insane shit on a single dose of watching the beautiful blond sleep at night.

It was what gave him the energy to cajole Mello out of the house, persuaded him to stop being such a prude and drink, allowed him to thrust and rock against him in a purely seductive dance, and made his heart race when the blond threw himself at him, knocking him backwards with a horribly aimed kiss that ended up landing on his cheek instead of his lips.

And so, here he was, sprawled out on the edge of the dance floor, spilled beer and vodka and who knows what sticking to his hair and his shirt. And Mello had gotten up with an incoherent mumble and left him to dance with some other guy.

There they were, right in eyesight, this bronzed, dark-haired fucker with his arms around the limber blond, hands planted firmly on leather clad hips.

God, he was fucking gorgeous. So goddamn dangerous and deadly, and that made him all the more stunning.

The sway of his hips and the curve of his neck and the curl of his cocoa-flavored liquor laced lips wouldn't have been nearly as lovely without that air of perilous uncertainty that hung about him, without the sleaze that came with it, without the whore that was coming out now as he pressed himself ever closer to his new dance partner.

Even Matt, head still spinning in a euphoria of a pleasure overload, had to laugh. He watched as Mello leaned in to lay a hot kiss on the man's neck who had abruptly ceased dancing, his eyes widening in an unsettling mix of surprise and terror.

He was way in over his head and he damn well knew it now.

Mello was the only person, to Matt's knowledge, who could make a grown man with the build of an ex-marine almost twice his size seize up in fear from a single kiss.

And then the lights were flashing again and Mello was moving on his own, pulling himself away from the man who had apparently decided that dancing with the blond wasn't a good idea. Matt could barely tell where Mello began and ended, his entire body curling and swaying like smoke.

The redhead didn't remember getting to his feet, if it had been the surge of need flying through his body and settling in his groin, or if someone had helped him up. By the time he remembered making any kind of conscious decision, he had his hands on Mello's hips again and was panting heavily against the older man's ear as that sexy, leather covered ass pushed back against his crotch. He could feel more than hear Mello's satisfied chuckle when the blond rolled his hips seductively, coercing a breathless groan from Matt's throat.

He wanted to kiss him, so desperately he wanted to savor those bittersweet lips, to make up for the epic fail from only a few minutes ago, to know that if he suddenly passed out from dehydration or hyperthermia, at least he could have a kiss and a lingering bite of left over martini on his tongue to remember this night by.

But Mello seemed to have other ideas, craning his head out of the reach of Matt's lips until he could grab a fistful of auburn hair in a gloved hand.

"The chocolate in my pocket is melting," he giggled distantly.

There was no chocolate in his pocket, nothing was melting except Matt's restraint. But it was hot, it was getting very hot and very, very cramped. Matt kept quiet, settling for a nod, or as much of one as he could manage with Mello yanking at his hair, sending pleasant chills of pain through his scalp.

Mello could dance with all the douchebags and bastards he wanted. Hell, he could bring them home and fuck them right on Matt's bed after Mello strung the redhead up by his wrists to the ceiling and forced him to watch until the sun rose.

And Matt would still love him in the morning because it would be normal, in a cruel and sadistic way.

He had no desire to tie Mello down, to cage him up, to keep him on a leash. Mello was like a giant wolf with rabies, more in danger of hurting himself than anyone else if penned up. He was an animal, through and through. He had to fly, he had to run free.

It would have been a travesty to tame his sex appeal with safety, to dull his beauty with domestication.

Like hot fudge cascading slowly over smooth ice cream, the blond turned sinuously in his arms until they were facing one another, Mello's eyes sharp with want, rimmed with a slight fogginess of partially dissipated inhibitions.

His hands were like talons, sharp fingernails threatening to tear through striped fabric as they took a hold of Matt's arms and began dragging him away from the crowd and out the door. The redhead didn't protest, as long as Mello wasn't gentle. He had never been gentle before.

He didn't ever want this to change, this indistinct line between love and lust and exploitation. If it ever did, the chase would be over, the search for an answer at it's end, and Mello would no longer be Mello.

It made Matt grin when he found himself shoved roughly against the wall of the club, sliding to the ground with a pained groan.

They were covered in sweat and the scent of pure delirium.

Matt closed his eyes, enjoying the fall breeze rustling his hair, the smell of auto exhaust and wet, dead leaves and the inevitability of the approaching winter filling his nose.

It was all usual, all typical, all so perfect and comforting.

The breeze suddenly disappeared and Matt's eyes opened a crack to find those green eyes staring back, inches from his face, blond hair tickling his cheeks. One of Mello's legs pressed against his own as he crawled a little closer on his hands and knees, his body wobbling tiredly.

"Only you, Matt," he murmured. "They all want to catch me. Not you."

"Not me," Matt repeated in a whisper just before Mello leaned forward to catch him in a slow, passionate kiss, cigarettes and chocolate mixing like poison on their tongues.

Mello pressed ever closer until his knees were trapping Matt's hips and their chests were pressed together and no one stopped them, because the street was empty, just like their heads and their hearts and their futures. Matt was gasping for breath and Mello just kept stealing it away, his hands coming up to cradle the gamer's head between his palms.

It was dangerous down here, on the floor, on the ground, underneath Mello's body. Matt imagined it would probably be all the same in Hell.

It was too hot, way too fucking hot. Mello was suddenly too heavy, too much weight at once, and Matt couldn't take it.

"Get off!" He gasped frantically, roughly shoving the blond away even though he hadn't meant to. "You're drunk."

And Mello simply collapsed against the wall beside him, staring up at the stars while Matt focused on the ground, one searching for hope, the other searching for a reason.

"Matt," Mello groaned, a gloved hand groping along the ground for something to hold. "You know I lo-" Then, he abruptly cut off and was scrambling to his feet to make it over to the alley to puke and retch and cough.

And in his head, Matt was on the verge of tears with a heart so filled with gratitude and affection it was ready to burst, saying 'I know, I love you too.'

In the realm of reality, however, he was lighting up a cigarette and smirking up at the stars with heavy-lidded, lazy eyes.

Nothing was going to change. He wouldn't let it.

So, with the thin line of smoke drifting up to the heavens, he replied,

"Don't be stupid, you're just drunk."