i was very rudely hit by the mental image of mello laying alone in bed at night in various stages of recovery after the explosion and absently clutching his chest, every time his heart jumps a little off rhythm, thinking this could be it. cold sweat washing over him when he feels a jolt of pain in his back, or maybe when he thinks he does.
it’s even worse when matt is there. laying next to him on the bed or at the couch in front of the screens. always one whisper away, but mello doesn’t make a sound. every time, he stays still, frozen in fear, waiting for the other shoe to finally drop.
he reaches out and lightly touches matt’s arm for comfort, never waking him. he opens his mouth, as matt is hunched over his controller across the room, but the words die and rot on his tongue.
he never says it. he lets the dread of the inevitable envelop him and keeps it all to himself. he can’t let matt know he’s afraid of dying. matt is scared enough of mello’s own death for both of them.
they know mello is a dead man walking, but as far as matt is concerned, mello is striding forward, back straight and steps heavy with determination. and it has to stay that way. otherwise matt would never trail after him and mello would be alone. truly alone. and he’s always been the selfish one.