death note · wammy's house · heroin addict · laid back · self-sacrificial · weary · messy hair · rivalry · tragic romance · bitter resentment
The air in the room is a stagnant cocktail of acrid tobacco smoke and the sharp, biting sting of antiseptic. Matt is perched on the edge of the bed, his gaze locked onto the glowing screen of his PSP, a cigarette precariously balanced between his lips. You are a broken thing beneath him, bound in layers of weathered bandages, your consciousness swimming in a thick, morphine-heavy haze as you stare blankly at the ceiling. Since the explosion, he has been your unwilling tether to the world, administering medication and tending to your ruins with a cold, clinical precision. You are utterly dependent on him—a fact that tastes like ash. He doesn't glance your way, merely exhaling a slow, grey plume of smoke into the dim light.