Even before it ends, Matt knows it's over. He knows something is bound to go wrong when the recognizable sound of combat boots on the fire escape suddenly wakes him from a black oblivion. Matt doesn't sleep anymore; there is but a small interval between when he could shut down around 4 a.m. and then restart to greet reality a few hours later. My life is just a system of binary code, mundane; repetitive. A stream of 1's and 0's, of heating bills and rent payments. Deep down, he knows he's starving for something more.
After months of disappearance, Mello is back. Black eyes gazing at him wildly from outside Matt's window. Mello never uses the front door, which requires passing the lobby security, dealing with people. Too many questions, not his style.
Matt crawls out of bed and opens the window, gasping as Mello's face comes into focus under the streetlights. The ruby reds, hot emeralds and golds of the electric night carve a horrific monster in a familiar face. Marred with blood, so much blood, an acute panic seizes Matt as he ponders what if this boy before him is dead, what if this is just a visitation from a fading ghost.
But the shaky hand that reaches out to his shoulder for balance is real. And the body that collapses into his arms is solid, firm. Mello's breath labors against his neck, as he whispers a raspy 'help me' before surrendering to unconsciousness. Later, Mello will deny having ever said that last part but for now, his plea compels Matt into action. He lays the limp form on the moth-eaten bed and surveys the damage of this broken boy.
Bruises, all up and down his arms. Swollen lips and probably a few broken bones. His face, as Matt had quickly noticed earlier, is painted with the sickening color of his own blood. Deep, hideous gashes broke the once flawless complexion. He would never look the same.
But it won't matter if he doesn't live, a chilly voice reminds Matt. The phone on the counter remains untouched, the number for an ambulance remains undialed. Mello is here because the hospital is the last place he would wish to be found at. Whoever he is running from now—and chances are he is definitely running—would no doubt look for him in a hospital.
Matt goes to the kitchen sink and dampens a towel, gently cleaning the wounds. The injured patient winces subconsciously but does not stir further. The would-be doctor is careful in his activity, cautious. You only came to me because I am the end of the barrel, he thinks dryly
Even knowing this, he takes care of him. Not out of friendship, they still after all these years were not friends. Or the poignant childhood they shared, which was more bitter than worthy of nostalgia. Matt takes care of him because this is what must be done. This is his role.
To be the one to pick up the pieces when Humpty Dumpty falls. No matter how many times he slips from his perch, from that brick wall that stands so high, Matt will be there holding the band-aides.
He shakes two pills into his clammy palm, Vicadin probably, and gobbles them down. The bathroom door is ajar; Matt pretends he doesn't notice Mello's half-naked form standing over the sink as he passes through the hallway. Mello doesn't notice the difference of Matt's observation or not, because he's too busy staring in the mirror. Not really at himself, but at some distant point, the future maybe, or perhaps the past. He's scrying for the answers for why his life has turned out like this.
He's always one step ahead of me. The scarred reflection is taunting him, reminding him of what has gone wrong. Every mistake made, every flaw that is counterbalanced by his opponent's strength. I'm running as fast as I can and he's still ahead of me. He doesn't feel the pain as his hand turns to fist, shattering the mirror. Shards of glass tumble onto the bathroom floor. He strikes again and again, no longer even aware of his own actions.
"Holy shit, M, stop!" At the sound of the glass breaking, Matt pushes the door open and catches his arm in mid-swing. His grip tightens until Mello reconnects with the present moment, slightly startled to see the panic in Matt's expression. "What's wrong with you?" Matt yells, and this too surprises Mello.
He had never heard Matt raise his voice.
What's wrong with you. . .
Everything. Everything in the world is wrong with him. Matt, everything's wrong with me. Mello wants to apologize for the mirror but his mouth is unaccustomed to such words, so 'I'm sorry' is replaced with a dead silence as he turns away.
"Stop right there!" Matt shouts and Mello freezes, his back tensed. "Look at your fucking hand, I don't need you bleeding all over the place. Again."
They both recall the last several days. Mello would move about the apartment, too anxious to remain still, tearing his stitches and bleeding all over the place in the process. Matt had spiked his milk with sedatives just to get him to calm down enough to sleep.
Leaving behind the shards of the broken mirror, Matt goes to fetch the first aide kit. Neither of them speak as he cleans the cuts, bandaging Mello's right hand. Mello drags his hand away at last and when he tries to apologize for the second time, his words come out in a snarl instead: "I don't need your help."
Mello says a lot of things he doesn't mean. It comes with his personality and most of whom spend enough time around him grow to accept this conversational side-effect. Matt, who has known Mello longer perhaps than anyone else, was nonetheless insulted by these words flung. It's not the first time Mello had said it, but it was the first time it really struck Matt.
"No, you don't," Matt replies with a sharp bitterness, "You just need a few spectators, right?"
Neither of them say anything, so Matt picks up a few of the larger shards of the mirror and carries them to the garbage can in the other room. Mello follows him, eventually speaking slowly, "he knew my name."
"What?" Matt asks, realizing that this was one of those tangents he was going to be expected to follow.
"That Japanese copper," Mello answers thoughtfully, "Yagami. He knew my name. My real name."
Mello leans against the wall, continuing, "he was holding the notebook and calling me by my name. How fucked up is that? Can you believe how close I came to dieing? He was a cop alright, but he would have killed me."
"You don't know that," Matt answers, but Mello shakes his head.
"No, he was going to. After I had held his daughter hostage, I think he would have done it," Mello says, firmly confirmed that he his mortality had nearly been stolen away.
"Why are you bitching about this now then? You're alive, aren't you?" Matt asks, frowning. He reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the counter and lights one. Mello is surprisingly quiet, perhaps thinking of how best to reply.
They can both feel it. The change. It used to be different between them; a closeness that bordered on brotherhood. But it all changes when Mello blows up at him, curses him for being an inadequate accomplice. When he stormed off that day, I thought it would be over for sure. Mello makes the promise that he would find someone who could be more helpful than Matt. Yet here you are. Guess the mafia ain't as glamorous as you thought it would be. Matt could rub it in, but he holds his tongue—it is obvious enough that Mello's pride is severely damaged, more so because he has the physical scars to remind him now.
"Matt. . ."
"What?"
"Come to Japan with me."
Neither of them are comfortable in the Land of the Rising Sun. Arriving in Narita, there is an immediate unease in Matt's expression as they step off the plane. He looks over at Mello, who is much better at hiding his anxieties and finds some relief that he too is slightly bewildered.
Mello, with his striking blond hair feels the pressure of curious gazes as they walked down the back streets of the red light district. This loss of anonymity is startling so he draws his hood so shadows lick his features, trying to erase himself from the eyes of onlookers.
Matt knows this is where it would all end. Here. On this tiny little island. It's like a premonition, but one he can't avoid. It's got to be like watching a horror movie, knowing that the monster is right around the corner, screaming at the character not to go any further, and deaf to the audience, the character moves straight into the trap. This is just like that.
Only ten times worse.
Matt raises his hands, cocking a playful smile as he stares at the people holding their guns poised straight at him. He tries to work his boyish charm on them, but these aren't normal people. They don't react in the normal pattern. They are fanatics.
No, zealots.
It's all been just a game. He thinks it's game over, off to jail. Only too late is he in realizing that it's not game over, it's Game Over and there are no redoes. The engine of his motorcycle is still roaring, but the sound is dulled under the rain of bullets.
So this is what it's like to die, he thinks to himself, closing his eyes.