This idea came to me at like, 3:30 in the morning (I'm somewhat of an insomniac) out of nowhere a few days ago. And I thought, "ah, what the hell?", so thus, here were are. This is something of a literary experiment, hopefully it'll get my juices flowing. Lots of butterfly metaphors ensue.

Just a note: I'm not actually sure what colour Matt's eyes are. In the anime, they seem kind of dark behind the glasses, like they could either be a brown or a green. I like green better, so we're going to roll with that.

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.

The touches dance across his face, light as a feather, soft and fluttering like the wings of those colourful butterflies he used to chase after, laughing wildly, when he was a small boy. Fluttering, fluttering, and drifting, always drifting away. Flying high enough so as to be just out of reach, inches away from his small, chubby fingers. He could never catch them.

Those butterflies were like fleeting moments, beautiful, yet so short-lived. He feels like these quiet moments with Matt are soon to come to an end, and he cannot but help to compare them to the butterflies; beautiful and fated to die before they even really begin to exist. He can't really explain why he feels this way. Matt is always there, has always been there, even on that cold night in London all those years ago when he walked out of Wammy's House and never looked back. Matt was there, always there. Mello cannot shake the feeling; cannot help but feel that this may be one of the last times he and Matt are together like this.

Gentle fingers brushing across his face, fleeting touches, fleeting moments.

He cocks his head slightly to the right as he looks at Matt, regarding him almost grimly, blue eyes and green locked together. Matt must think he's done something wrong because his wandering fingers suddenly stop and his lazy smile disappears.

"What?" he asks, softly. His voice barely above a whisper as if he is afraid to disturb the quiet atmosphere.

How long? He wonders. How long do we have together, before it all gets ripped away?

"How long?" he asks out loud, freeing the thought from his mouth like a child releasing a butterfly from the confines of their little, pale fingers. It flies around the room on its dark and brooding wings, tainting the peacefulness of the moment. Matt is silent; he knows exactly what Mello means and feels the same fears about what is soon to come.

Matt laughs then, a small chuckle to break the tension that has fallen across the room, and smiles that lazy smile. "You worry too much," he says and his long, pale fingers continue their little light dance across his face, across his scars and through his hair; drifting through the blonde strands like a butterfly in the wind. The fingers that remind him so much of butterflies.

"It'll all work out for us, we'll succeed."

A memory comes to him, grasping and flickering out of the dark corners of his mind. He remembers himself as a child, standing in a grassy field full of butterflies. A particular butterfly had caught his attention, the flickering and shimmering wings of a silver-studded blue danced in front of him. He had stood absolutely still, holding his breath, and it had come towards him, tickling his face with the gentle kiss of its wings. He had reached out to brush it with gentle fingers, just a small touch, when suddenly it drifted away from him on those shimmering blue wings and started fluttering in lazy spirals towards the ground. He crouched down on the grass beside it and gently took it into his hands, but it did not move; would not move. It was the first and only time that Mello had ever cried.

He looks at Matt again and he can see though the lazy smile, and through the tender, whispering kisses of butterflies; can see the uneasiness in Matt's green eyes. He thinks of that butterfly and its soft, gentle kisses against his skin and its sudden, lonely little death, and cannot help but feel that their lives and the life of that little silver-studded blue are not so very different.