Uh oh. I'm in love with this pairing. Big tiems.
I don't know where this will take me, but my sudden uproar of passion for Mello/Sayu knows no bounds, so hopefully this won't be too much of a bumpy ride.
I don't own Death Note. The lyrics are "Night Drive" by Jimmy Eat World, which is BEAUTIFUL and should blare from the speakers of every fan of this pairing. I replay the line "give me everything you've got now" until my walls are screaming it.
1. sans etoile
/
[now's the right time for a good song.
get something to say that i can't.
do you feel bad, like i feel bad?
pour us a road,
we'll both drink and drive.]
/
Somewhere, the sun is up. But not here.
In the backseat of a hotwired car, the license plate stripped and one headlight burnt out, Sayu Yagami doesn't think the world has ever known a night this dark. Every tale of the commonly coined "forbidden romance" has told her that the sky should be riddled with stars, so many that it would rival those in her eyes, but nothing about this situation is cliché, from the drop-rise rhythm of Mello's chest to the pale peaks of her breasts exposed to his deadly blues.
Here in this starless place, they're an assortment of skin and breath; Sayu's feet are pressed against the window, her legs spread shamelessly to let Mello fall between them, and their hips, motionless and tense, are connected just from the sheer lack of space. Neither complain or make a single sound, save for the strained breath coming from Mello's scarred throat as he hovers above her, propped up on his elbows and lit somberly in indigo and oleander.
They've been reduced to glowing shapes in the dark, but Mello makes more colour than anyone Sayu has ever seen even in daylight.
She doesn't know what she's doing. She's not beautiful or intelligent or interesting. She's not Light. All these years spent being the little sister, the girl in skirts and sweaters, the notable but drearily average one have made her more than aware that she's not a special case when it comes down to anything. She hasn't changed the world or helped anyone. She hasn't even helped her poor mother, who sleeps next to a ghost every night, who could wake up at any moment and find that her daughter has vanished into smoke again. She hasn't even helped herself, when she turns on the radio just to hear some sound, some sign of life outside the white box of her bedroom before returning to the coffin of her own musings. And yet here she is, and here's Mello, staring down at her as if she's everything golden and together and complete. He looks a little broken himself, a little confused, even, but the fact that he's undeniably alive is enough to keep Sayu's gaze pinned to the point of his neck where blood flows the fastest.
Before she can lean up and kiss it, he distracts her with the feel of his hand atop her chest, resting on the place where her heart beats and thrashs like a robin caught in barbed wire. His hand is rough and too warm to be that of a dead man's, and Sayu knows he's alive, knows he made it out of that burning ninth level of hell that she imagines comes to him in fitful, raging nightmares. If this battered creature with the sharp shoulderblades and wandering hands and cloudy eyes ever sleeps, she's sure it's not for long.
Sayu hasn't slept in three days, but she finds room for dreams.
Her fingertips find solace on the creases of his hipbones; they remind her of the white, dog-eared pages of an old encyclopedia, printed with all the knowledge of the world that she never cared enough to learn. Mello tenses but doesn't look away from her, no, not for even the most brief of seconds that would be long enough for Sayu to figure out what exactly she's trying to get out of him here. She's touching him, she's imagining his blood flowing bright and rapid beneath the mottled canvas of his skin, and she's laying out her entirety for him in this criminal car, but as for why, and as for what, she just can't seem to trace.
Mello murmurs something in her native tongue, but she responds in his own. "No," she whispers. "English here. Speak English to me."
He falters, hand sinking into her heart, and something splinters in the air above their heads.
"Please," Sayu says. Her hands roam lower, from his hips to the flat slate of his stomach to the sweet swell of his being below it all. She feels him harden and tilt his pelvis into her touch, exhaling unsteadily at the contact. "Just English here, Mello."
His head drops to her neck, and what he mutters into her skin belongs to no language either of them know. From his cool lips spill everything Sayu never heard about in stories or on television or from the mouths of girls in high school bathrooms. They spin a series of sounds without a home.
This girl and this boy, they're a collection of shapes without a home.
"Please."
Mello steals her hands away from the majesty below his hips, covers his mouth with her palm, closes his eyes. They curl into a weave that can fit and cooperate prettily, piercing and gliding like perfect machinery, and up they go.
To the moon. She's flying up to the moon.
/
[give me everything you've got now.]