Author's Note: RIP Matt and Mello…
Matt was humming quietly, his vocal chords trembling, almost by themselves, as if powered by the sheer delight coursing through his veins at the sight of the young man in his bed. His lips were suddenly vibrating as well, a rumbling melody spilling from them.
"They call me mellow yellow."
The cause of the sudden resurgence of the old Donovan tune was no mystery, and, glancing to his right, he murmured the rhyme carefully, rolling the syllables around his mouth.
That was somewhat fitting, considering the color of the hair strewn across his pillow, but yellow was too bright and cheerful a word. Saffron, perhaps, for the spice he added to his life, but that was such a bad pun that Matt could almost feel the punch in his shoulder.
Though yellow could be used to mean sensationalist and scandalous, words that could very well be the leather-clad ex-Mafia boss's middle name, if Matt was going to scrounge up obscure definitions, he couldn't overlook the one that meant cowardly and afraid, words that clashed so strongly with his character, yet Matt had seen be exceptionally applicable in the last few months that they'd been together.
Matt didn't like being this analytical when it came to his best friend—did that status even still stand?—so he quickly moved on to the next rhyme.
"Cello Mello." Nah. That was just stupid. He didn't even like classical music.
That was somewhat of an oxymoron, considering the young man's slight build, rather feminine haircut, habitual necklace—rosary, whatever—and tight, midriff-bearing clothing. In the early days back at Wammy's, his femininity had been the basis for several insults. But by the time Mello had reached adolescence, calling him a girl was a preposterous idea, not only because revenge would be exacted in the most mortifying way possible, but because—though no one would admit it—he was far too sexy to be considered female.
Wait. Whoa. He'd just called Mello sexy. Not the greatest idea when they were currently mostly—or in Mello's case, completely—unclothed with nothing but a thin excuse for a sheet and Matt's raging libido between them.
Moving on. Quickly.
That sounded like an order, and though Mello would likely oblige with pleasure and probably a few swings of his fist, ordering Mello around wasn't something sane people—or even insane people, really—dared do.
Matt hated this play, as it was unbearably sad and contained too much pointless dying for even his eyes, which watched countless characters, as well as himself, be mercilessly slaughtered every day on his DS. He regretted having thought of it the moment after speaking, if only because he was painfully reminded of the kiss the young blonde had pressed to his forehead years ago when he'd been found sniffling in his dormitory with the book splayed across the floor back at Wammy's.
Back to adjectives, then.
"Mellow Mello" didn't fit his icy demeanor at all, and sounded ridiculous anyways, so he didn't bother to whisper this one aloud.
That was really pushing it, and the phrase didn't roll off the tongue too nicely, but it was better than "Near-o's Mello" or "Roger-o's Mello"—though admittedly not as melodious as "L-o's Mello"—and it was the thought that counted anyways.
The young man in question groaned in his sleep, his shoulders rolling and shifting the tousled sheets across his pale back. The redhead's breath caught in his throat as his bedmate flipped over with a sigh, and his fight or flight response kicked in. It should be noted, however, that there was a considerable difference between his two possible courses of action and those shown on Animal Planet; while the latter remained the same and consisted of his planning how to sneak out of bed and scatter empty beer bottles around the apartment in a desperate attempt at feigning drunkenness and irresponsibility for their actions, the former had been replaced by a rapid desire to thrown off those bothersome sheets and engage in some calorie burning activities.
However Matt refrained from implementing any of these ideas and instead remained frozen with his hands locked anxiously in the quilt. Long fingers emerged from under the covers and splayed in the air as the arms they were attached to stretched, then curled into fists and vigorously knuckled drowsy eyes. These eyes blinked open to reveal hooded cerulean orbs that widened before narrowing in confusion.
"What—" he began, taking in the sight of his half-naked roommate in his bed, and then his gaze flickered down to his own chest. He peered under the covers, turned an unhealthy shade of puce, swore feelingly, and whipped his head around to stare questioningly at Matt.
Author's Note: A quickie in honor of the—as of today D:—deceased Matt and Mello. This beloved couple was the source of much entertainment for fangirls around the world, and will continue to live vicariously through fanfiction.
Also, yes, 'yellow' has several definitions. :P
Arigatou gozaimashita to chibi-hime123 for her superb betaing at 10 PM. Love you, darling!!