Playground Elegy

Genre: supernatural/tragedy

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Weird. Probably M&M pairing. Vaguely suggested spoilers for the end of the series.

Disclaimer: not mine

Notes: I have this thing about ghosts on playgrounds and really weird supernatural stuff where you're not actually sure what's happening. ... That's about it, really.

Re-edited and re-uploaded because oops I accidentally deleted a minor but important part of a line that I think clarifies things better and more quickly.

And to my anonymous reviewer: Oh my god. I had not thought of it as such a thing - but that would be amazing. I love your descriptions of how you see it playing out in your head. I think I would have to ask you to have my babies if you did this. You totally made my day.

-

It's cold. Matt's toes drag across the gravel as the swing sways back and forth, and he watches the other children as though they are aliens, his breath puffing out white in front of his face. Everything is grey. Gravel, metal, sky, concrete.

One of the kids - about seven, from the looks of her, lopsided ponytails and puffy winter coat - has fallen off the monkey bars and is wailing, a loud siren's sound that makes him want to plug his ears. Her mother is already hurrying over to her, dropping to her knees to scoop her child close, soothing and cradling.

He watches the mother as though she is an alien too.

"Brats, huh?" says a voice from beside him, and somehow when he looks over he's not surprised to see the blond boy standing there, balancing on the swing with one foot, knuckles white as he moves his weight forward and backwards, sending the swing moving. Back and forth. Back and forth.

"You came back," he says, and the boy stops. Narrows his eyes, which Matt sometimes thinks should be slitted and gold like a cat's, not the Arctic blue stabbing like subzero into his flesh. "Why?"

"What did you expect?" the boy says.

Matt shrugs, tilts his head back to watch him, consideringly. He doesn't seem quite as alien as the others, and he wonders.

"You live near here?"

"You ever stop asking nosy questions?" the boy shoots back.

"You don't have to answer," Matt says, and traces circles in the grey pebbles underfoot.

The boy slows the swing and jumps off, folds his arms across his chest. He's only wearing a sweater, plain and black. Matt wonders why neither of them seem cold, even though he can see that it is.

(What is cold, again?)

"We've met before?" Matt says.

"No, we haven't, and you should leave me alone." The boy turns away, shoulders hunched. "You should really just leave me alone."

"Don't leave just yet."

"Why not?"

Matt plants his feet on the ground, and stands. The swing barely moves as he steps away from it. "What's your name?"

"Mello," the boy says. "My name is Mello."

"Matt," he offers, after an awkward moment of silence.

"I didn't ask," Mello says, and walks away.

-

Matt's toes drag across the gravel as the swing sways back and forth, and he watches the other children playing because there is nothing else to do, his breath puffing out white in front of his face. Everything is grey. Gravel, metal, sky, concrete. The only flash of colour to be seen is the fall of gold on the head of the boy who sits on the next swing over.

"Why are you here?" Matt asks.

"I dunno," Mello says to the ground. "I've got nowhere else to go."

Another child is screaming somewhere on the playground, loss and anger layered in its voice. Matt tries to close his ears, but the screams keep getting in, and something goes cold in the pit of his stomach.

"Me neither," Matt says, and then digs in his pocket, feels cool disks under his fingers. "I have money. Want to go across the street to the cafe? They have hot chocolate."

(What means money?)

"It tastes like crap," Mello says.

Matt pushes the swing back, and picks up his feet. The subject is clearly closed.

"Hey," Mello says harshly, after a long moment of silence.

"What." Matt twists his head as his pendulous movement takes him past Mello's swing, motionless today.

"I didn't say I didn't want to go. Jerk."

Matt stops the swing and gets off. Impulsively, he grabs Mello's hands to pull him to his feet. Why isn't Mello wearing gloves?

Why does that matter?

"Well then, what are we waiting for?"

They cross the street. Mello doesn't let go of his hand.

(What is a cafe?)

-

Matt's breath curls white across the grey air. The sky hangs low overhead. There are no kids on the playground today, but otherwise, it's all the same. Grey gravel crunching underfoot. Grey metal only slightly brighter than the functional beige of the paint. Concrete blank and featureless over by the sidewalk.

(What are sidewalks?)

It's always the same, he's coming to realize. He doesn't know why he always comes back here, why the times in between, when he knows he goes... home... seem like such a blur. Unreal. Like a scattering dream as the alarm clock goes off.

(What is an alarm clock?)

Fumbling fingers fit over his on the chains, and a thin body in a baggy sweater presses against his from behind.

"Hey," he says, quietly.

"Hey," Mello says back, just as quietly. He seems distracted.

Mello tips forward and back on his toes, rocking Matt's swing back and forth, back and forth. Matt closes his eyes and leans back against him, wondering if he can hear a heartbeat through the cloth.

"Remember when we -?" Mello begins, then cuts himself off.

"Remember what?" Matt asks.

"... Nothing, I guess," Mello says. "Just for a moment, I thought -" Stops. "And sometimes, I feel too old."

"Pssht, you're what, fourteen? You're just so old, Mello."

"Not much older," Mello says, definitively. "But old enough."

"That doesn't make sense."

He can almost hear Mello's bleak smile. It's too bad he can't see it. Mello smiles too rarely. "I didn't say it did."

"What are you doing, Mello?" Matt asks, as the silence grows long like a shadow between them.

"Waiting," Mello says. "Just... waiting, I guess."

"What for?" Matt asks.

Mello's voice is sharp. "If I knew, I wouldn't be sitting here waiting."

"I guess," Matt says. They are silent. The metal is negative space under Matt's fingers, but the space between the back of his hand and the palm of Mello's is almost warm. Somewhere in the distance, sirens scream.

(What is a siren?)

Against the horizon, beyond the tall rooftops, smoke billows in the air. Something is burning.

Matt can't stand the smell of it. His hand twitches, but Mello's keeps him from getting up and leaving. Mello bows his head, forehead bumping against the bottom of his skull, where it meets his neck. His breath at least feels warm against his skin.

"I think you're the only person who ever really got me," Mello says.

"What?" Matt says, but Mello's fingers aren't covering his any more, and when he turns around Mello's already gone.

-

The swings are empty today. So are the monkey-bars, and the slides, and the bridges.

Matt wishes he weren't waiting alone. Wonders what possessed him to come, when he's never sure if Mello will.

It's raining. He should have stayed... home.

He curls up inside one of the tube bridges, halfway through, and closes his eyes, waiting for the rain to stop.

-

Starts awake, hours later, to the feel of a damp body nestling against him, breathing harsh in the tight, enclosed space.

"You came," Matt says, heartbeat slowing.

"What did you expect?" Mello says, roughly. "Where else have I got to go, Matt?"

Matt shrugs.

"Bad dream?" Mello says, after a long moment of silence, listening to their breathing evening out and syncing, until they are inhaling-exhaling in perfect rhythm.

Matt shakes his head. He doesn't really remember it anymore. "I think I hate guns," Matt says. "But I don't remember ever holding one."

"I do," Mello says.

"Was it scary?"

"No," Mello says.

It's warm, pressed up against Mello's side, Mello's weight leaning against him. Matt can feel his eyes sliding closed once more.

"Exhilarating," Mello says at last. "Powerful. Complete control."

"You shouldn't carry around a gun," Matt tells him, eyes opening, feeling something sick settling in his gut at those words. "Weapons'll only get you shot at for sure."

"Even the unarmed die by them," Mello says, and tugs Matt over, pulling his head down so that it's resting on his shoulder. "Even the ones who were never meant to be hurt."

"I s'pose," Matt mumbles. "You read about all sorts of shit happening..."

(What is reading?)

"Sorry," Mello whispers, breath warm against his scalp. "Sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Matt doesn't have the energy to ask what for. His fingers curl into the front of Mello's damp sweatshirt, and that's all he remembers for quite some time.

-

Matt's toes drag across the gravel as the swing sways back and forth, and he watches the other children, playing running and yelling, as though they are aliens, his breath puffing out white in front of his face. Everything is grey. Gravel, metal, sky.

He doesn't remember how he got here. He doesn't remember going... home. Or does he? He remembers falling asleep in the tunnel with Mello, curled close, Mello murmuring contrition against his hair.

(What means home?)

He's starting to wonder what really exists here, what he's just made up in his mind to make it easier to understand. He never remembers anything but this place. Why? And why is everything so flat and dull? Why are the only colours he remembers seeing connected with Mello?

(What are colours?)

What does Mello mean, when he says he's sorry?

(What means sorry?)

And then Mello is beside him on the other swing as though he's always been there.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Matt responds.

"You're beginning to see it, right?" Mello says. "What's wrong with this place."

"I guess," Matt says. "It's always like this, isn't it?"

He nods, feet pushing absently against the ground. "We met here once," Mello says abruptly. "Long ago."

"I don't remember," Matt says.

"You don't remember anything," Mello says, and his voice is thick with unhappiness.

"Is there anything to remember?" Matt asks.

"So much."

"Anything good?"

Mello is silent. He's just a kid. He's just a kid, but in that moment Matt could swear he looks older, thinner, battered and worn.

"I don't know," Mello says finally. "I was hoping you could tell me that."

(What is good?)

"I don't remember."

"I know." Mello's fists are white-knuckled.

"It doesn't matter, Mello. This is the way things are, right now."

"It matters," Mello says, fists clenching tighter. "It matters. Oh, it matters."

"How?" Matt asks.

Mello is silent.

-

The sky is burning, lurid on the horizon, turning steel clouds to sulphur. Matt is standing on the platform of the highest slide staring at it when Mello comes and takes his hand. The chains of the swings are creaking behind them as they sway back and forth, slow and lazy.

"What is it?" he asks, although why Mello should know when he does not is beyond him.

"The end of a story," Mello says, and his voice cracks.

"What story? Mello, I don't understand."

"Once there were two boys," Mello says, and grips Matt's hand harder. "And they died."

Something crystallizes in Matt's stomach, sharp and bitter. "That's not a story, Mello. What the hell is that?"

"There were details," Mello goes on. "Some of them important. Others I forget. But that's what it comes down to, in the end."

"No, Mello, details make the story. That's just the beginning and the end. There's no middle. What happened?"

"It doesn't matter, Matt. This is the way things are, right now."

"Mello -" He's taking his words from him and twisting them. That's not fair.

"No." A gulping sound. "Just - no, Matt."

"It's not a story without the details, Mello."

He turns to him. Mello's face is hard as stone though tears streak his cheeks like rain. His pale eyes are tempered by the uncertainty lingering there, and his mouth quivers. He knows Mello well enough now to know that this is wrong. The dull grey of the world around them is slowly catching fire in the hell-light. Mello's hair gleams, falling across his face, hiding it partially from sight.

"It's OK," Matt says. "You were right. It does matter. More than anything. Please. Mello -"

"Once there were two boys," Mello says. "They had nothing else in the world but each other and an ambition. But they were both stupid. One threw his life away for something he'd never been needed for. One threw his life away on the other. It was never love, though. They hurt each other and didn't apologize and drifted, and now they're dead."

"That's... sad," Matt says.

"It wasn't all sorrow," Mello adds, quietly, and tugs on his hand, tugs him in to face him.

Kisses him on the mouth. It's the first truly warm thing he's felt in a long time.

(What is warmth?)

"You know I would do anything to keep you safe?"

"I'd do anything to keep you safe," Matt agrees.

"I would have taken every bullet for you," Mello says. "If I could have. You weren't the one who deserved that end."

Mello's mouth is both soft and fierce against his. Matt grips the fabric on Mello's shoulders, awkward impatience.

"...You're everything," Matt says. It's not memory. It's not anything, really, but the truth.

Fabric rough under his fingers and Mello's lips on his are the only things that feel real to him any longer.

(Where are the slides/What are slides?)

(Where is the carousel/What is a carousel?)

(Where the monkey-bars/What monkey-bars?)

"I lied. It was always love," Mello tells him.

(What is love?)

"I know," he says anyways.

And the playground is empty. The swings are still. Grey mist curls around ragged metal bars, and wipes it all away.

-