And feelings were ignited as they sat there smoking cigarettes at five in the morning.
He couldn't make out the figurines on the shelf resting against the dark walls collaged with a significant amount of crosses directly in front of where he sat because of all the smoke clogging up the teenage girl's room.
His lips were stained with nicotine by then, the way she said she liked them.
She was playing with the lighter, resting horizontally on her bed. Her face was upside downin front of himfalling off the side of her doubled cushion; her long blond hair touching the floor beneath her. From the corner of his azure eyes, he found a bong hidden underneath.
The fluorescent heat burned in front of her face, illuminating her porcelain features in the cave of a room from what he could see.
The flame disappeared in that sudden adjustment of her slender fingers. Her nails were patterned with two colors, black and red, which ironically matched the shirt she had been wearing. His shirt; the striped long-sleeved one. He never said anything, but he admitted to himself that he was beguiled from the site of her figure wearing his own apparel.
He inhaled from his cigarette once more. Then he blew a cloud of smoke in her face. Her nose scrunched up and grunted, obviously indignant to his action. She remained silent, thoughshe wasn't in the moodit wasn't like hernot anymore, anyway. They didn't need words to express what they were feeling around each other. She reckoned it was just a mutual bond, a unique one, to be specific.
That whole "Misa Misa" act. That wasn't real; never was real; never will be real.
Matt knew that; he always did; ever since he first started spying on her under Mello's commands. The first thing he noticed every time that girl was alone in her unoccupied hotel room was the fact her attitude changed. She was misunderstoodit was exactly what she was. He noticed that, too. She put on a mask every time she left.
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
She became this bubbly, energetic, teenage girl who smiled for everyone once someone started talking to her. But not for him.
Never for him.
She dropped the lighter on the floor and stole his cig from his fingers, popped the tip into her mouth and breathed in, and blew out.
Misa Amane was never that cutesy-acting child who needed to use high vocal chords and speak as if she wasn't educated at all around him. She was real; normalnoshe was not even close to normal. She was smart, conservative, even. She was beautiful. She was Misa; the real Misa.
A smile surrounded by red flustered lips was painted on her face.
And that's all Matt could ever ask for.