Disclaimer: Don't own DN. Lyrics are Frankly Mr Shankly by The Smiths.

Gold and Rose

i'd rather be famous
than righteous or holy
any day, any day, any day

It's been a dreary Sunday, but the sky has cleared. Their ramshackle apartment window is rain-stained, but Matt sits and looks out anyway. There aren't really many trees, and he'd have liked a view with some trees, because after all that's what he grew up with. But the cityscape's nice enough –lots of ups and downs and colours you don't really get a chance to see in nature. Like grey. And at this time of the day, when the sun's setting in a certain way, every pane of glass and mirrored roof and antennae and windscreen catch the light just so, and the whole fucking place lights up.

Sunset glow filters into the apartment, and everything within the window's reach is stained golden and rose. All the lights are off, so the interplay between shadow and light is really something to behold. Matt wants to crack the window and have a smoke, but he really thinks he'd rather have the light shining this way. At least for now.

There's the sound of heavy boots tramping up the stairs. The hallway door goes bang. More tramping. A key scraping in a lock. Mello's home.

"You're supposed to be looking at the monitors," is the first thing he says.

"You're supposed to be back for six," Matt replies, lazy in the sun.

Mello lobs a plastic bag at him; it catches him on the side of the head. He scrabbles for it before it falls to the ground. It's cigarettes, and a lottery ticket. "Feeling lucky?" he remarks, amused.

"Fuck you."

"You're the one who bought the ticket, tough guy."

"It's been a shitty day."

"Every day's a shitty day. Come look at this sunset."

Mello shoots him a scornful look. "A fucking sunset. Really, Matt?"

Matt shrugs, and grins a little. "Hey, you don't want me to be a mushy fuck about sunsets, you get us a place with a window that doesn't face them, right?"

Seeming to concede this as logical, Mello slouches over to the window. He leans, the scarred side of his face inches from the cool glass. Matt knows he wants to put his face against it – to feel anything soothing against the scorched, angry skin – but he won't. Not in front of Matt.

Prideful git.

He toys with a cigarette from the packet Mello bought him. He hasn't even finished his last one. It's a nervous habit, and for some reason, he's begun needing it less and less lately. He doesn't like that. It makes him wonder if maybe he's getting used to this, and Christ knows that only bodes badly.

"You look nice in the sun," Matt says to Mello, only catching the sense of the words against his tongue as they trip out of his lips.

Mello gives him another what-the-fuck-you-pansy looks, but doesn't say anything. He grunts. It means 'thank you'.

Matt grins, and bites the filter of the cigarette. There's worse places to be.