When We Were Young.
XO'MagickMoon'OX
A/N: First DN fanfiction, whoo! It's a Christmas present for my dear friends, Bunny and Cassie. :] Gosh, sorry it's so freaking long -___-;; I hope you guys have time to read it. :D*shot*
Mm, yeah, so, warnings: Yaoi, MattxMello, and some bad words. Mello needs a bar of soap for that mouth.
It's a bit sad...but Matt and Mello had a sad story, so I guess that's okay.
~*~*~*~
Listening to: Akon, Right Now (Na, Na, Na) -- it makes for very sad background music T__________T
~*~*~*~
Oh yah, and for those of you still waiting for updates... ehhehe, *runs and hides* Sorry it's taking me so long. I just finished my college apps, and after that I was working on this (and I still have three more Christmas-present-stories to write -_____-;;) But I will get back to work on my other fanfictions asap.
And so, on with the sadness! I mean, story.
It was snowing that day, the world a landscape of washed-out color, a rainbow wrung dry. Nothing particularly spectacular for a winter afternoon. But Matt wasn't gazing out the window to observe the weather; rather, he was focused on the sleek black car parked in front of Wammy's House, puffing exhaust into the cold air.
His Gameboy sang a little electronic song in his lap, but he ignored it as people climbed out of the car. He recognized Mr. Wammy by his gait and stature, despite the wide black umbrella over his head. But the smaller figure beside him, less than half Mr. Wammy's height, a mere stick of a child… a rich, new mind, ripe for cultivation? A smile tugged on Matt's lips.
The chauffer followed with what Matt assumed was the new kid's bag, a meager dark lump. They were like a funeral procession, all dressed in black, white ground below, gray sky above, and then—a flash of honey-blond. Straw-spun gold.
As they disappeared below the windowsill, Matt stared a little longer at the swirling white world outside. Then, he tapped a button on his Gameboy and sank back into virtual oblivion.
---
"You're in my seat," Matt said.
He was pinned with two points of blue light, gleaming beneath a flat blond fringe, and paused, startled.
After a moment, the new kid took a languid look around the window seat, which he had so thoughtlessly occupied. "Is your name on it?" He had a faint accent, one that made Matt think he was talking around a mouthful of peanut butter. There was also a sarcastic tinge to his voice that gave Matt a little more pause.
So he tried for a smile, showing he meant no harm. "Maybe," he said, and parked himself next to the new kid. "I'm Matt."
"Is that your real name?" The sarcasm had given way to bitterness.
Matt's smile caved a little with understanding. "They gave you an alias."
"I don't know why." The kid drew his legs to his chest; his bare toes overlapped each other and curled under, seeking warmth, his arms folded over his knees. "What's the point?"
"We're geniuses," Matt said.
"Yeah, so? Do you think Albert Einstein wasn't his real name? Or Leonardo da Vinci? Adolf Hitler? Why can't we keep our names?"
Matt just shrugged. "So what do they call you?"
The boy sighed into his arms. "…Mello."
"That's a weird one. No wonder you're upset."
"Yeah, thanks."
---
Mello soared to the top of his classes so quickly that Matt felt whiplashed. He was closest to Mello of all the other kids—which wasn't really saying much. They saw each other daily; they met at the window seat that overlooked the main entrance, where Matt had first seen Mello on that unspectacular snowy day. They took meals together. They had classes together. They ran into each other at the library.
But what else could Matt say about his relationship with Mello?
Mello was sharp, as sharp as his clever eyes suggested. Of course, everyone at Wammy's House was clever to some degree—clever, cunning, quick, incredibly intelligent. That's why they were there. It was an orphanage, yes, and they were orphans, but they were orphaned geniuses. Matt wondered about Mello's past: What had happened to his family? He must've just lost them, to have come so recently.
So they were all geniuses. But Mello stood out. He was different. He was, well…
"Damn it!"
Matt jumped.
"Mello!" the librarian hissed from her desk. "Language!"
Mello didn't apologize, didn't even blink. He just tightened a fist overtop the piece of paper he'd slammed on the library table. Matt tilted his head, peering at the paper, a trigonometry test, which was marked with a big, red A+. Frowning in confusion, he glanced up at Mello, who was still fuming. "What?"
Mello jabbed his finger at the smaller, but just as red number beside the letter grade. 99. "One point," Mello growled through gritted teeth. "That bastard—"
"Mello!" the librarian trilled.
"—beat me by one point."
Matt didn't have to ask: He knew Mello was talking about Near. Near, who was two years younger than they were. Who was the top student in a school of geniuses. Who was always five steps ahead of Matt and one step ahead of Mello. Who drove Mello absolutely mad.
It made Matt happy. He smiled, then laughed, unable to stop, as Mello's frown deepened. "What's so funny?" he snapped.
"N-Nothing…" Matt giggled. He stood from his seat and rounded the table, taking Mello's small hand. "Let's go play Tekken."
"It's always video games." Mello rolled his eyes but didn't fight as Matt led him out of the library, down the hall, to a playroom. Gray light filtered through the heavy curtains, dusting the rich brown and terracotta colors, casting everything in a shade of silver. A few kids milled about, but Near's white shape was nowhere in sight, much to Matt's relief.
He crawled to the PlayStation and grabbed the controllers, tossing them to the couch opposite the TV. Once everything had whirred to life, he hopped onto the couch next to Mello. "Just pretend that my character's Near, and kick my butt," he said.
Mello grinned. "You're going down. Hard."
---
"What are you going to ask for for Christmas?"
Mello looked up from his book, Grimm's Fairy Tales, and blinked at Matt. "What?"
Matt took the seat next to Mello at the library table. "It's almost Christmas. What are you going to ask for?"
"We get Christmas presents here?" Mello seemed skeptical.
"Well, yeah, a couple." Matt laughed uncertainly, fiddling with the scrap of paper in his hands. "Why're you so surprised? You've celebrated Christmas before, right?"
Mello shrugged, thumbing the corner of his book. "Not really."
"Why? Was your family Jewish or something?"
"I've had a lot of families."
Matt frowned a little more. "What do you mean?"
Mello sighed, as if the conversation had just become very boring. "My real parents died when I was little. After that I was moved around different houses. Different families." He paused. Then, "I had a Christmas dinner once… there was a lot of food. And we went to Midnight Mass. They gave me a scarf for a present."
"Oh." Matt crumpled the paper in his palm, as if trying to hide it. "Uh… where are you from?"
"Slovakia." Mello's accent, which he'd almost completely lost during his month at Wammy's House, fell heavily on the name.
Matt smiled. "That's cool. I've never been outside of England. What's Slovakia like?"
"Cold."
"Oh."
They lapsed into a small silence, filled only by the whisper of pages as Mello continued to thumb his book. His eyes slid to Matt's balled fist. "What's that?"
Matt started, looking suddenly sheepish. "Uhm, well, it's…my Christmas list." Before Mello could respond, he rushed on, "See, you can make a list of things for Roger and Mr. Wammy. They'll buy some of the things for you."
"Hmm…"
More silence. The whispering pages stopped.
"I want chocolate."
Matt laughed. "That's it?"
Mello smiled, a small, quiet smile. "Yeah. That's it."
---
Mello snapped off a bite of his chocolate bar; he'd gotten a whole box for Christmas. He and Matt were sitting back-to-back on their window seat while snow drifted just outside the window. Little musical beeps tinkled over his shoulder as Matt played with his new Gameboy Color. Mello remembered Matt's face as he'd opened his present earlier that morning: sheer, unbridled joy. He'd tackled Mello with a hug, even though Mello hadn't given it to him. He was just so happy.
Mello smiled to himself.
"Hey, Mello, did you notice?"
"Hm?" Mello tipped his head back against Matt's.
"L didn't get a present."
Mello stilled. L, the elusive, bizarre, brilliant young man, Mr. Wammy's star pupil. Godly, untouchable—their idol. Floating around the orphanage like a specter. No one really talked to him; they were too afraid, too intimidated, hardly ever indifferent.
Mello remembered: L had been sitting on the arm chair that morning while they opened presents; no, he'd been crouching, hunched in that gargoyled way of his, sucking on a candy cane.
Mello hadn't noticed at the time, but now that he thought about it, Matt was right. "Maybe he didn't ask for anything."
Matt snorted. "And he's the one who needs the most."
"Like what?" He already had intelligence, renown…
"Socks, for starters."
Mello nearly choked on his chocolate bar, laughing. "Socks?"
"Haven't you noticed? He never wears any. His feet must get cold." Matt tapped away at his game.
"Einstein never wore socks," Mello pointed out. "Neither did Jesus."
"Yeah, but Jesus didn't live in Winchester, England." Tap, tap, tap. "It was too hot for socks."
Mello laughed and shook his head.
---
"What's this?"
Matt, fisting the hem of his shirt, glanced back to where Mello was leaning over the dresser. A red-beaded, silver chain winked from the corner of the mirror, draped across the glass like an afterthought. "It's a rosary," Matt said as he pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside. "My mum gave it to me."
"Hmm." Mello prodded the rosary's charm: a small, silver crucifix. "Was she religious?"
"I guess so. We went to church a lot, her and me and my dad. But I never really got what the priest was talking about." Matt tugged down his pajama shirt.
Mello tore his eyes away from the rosary. "Are you religious?"
Matt shrugged. "I guess so. I mean, I believe in God, and I celebrate Christmas." He hopped onto his bed. "I don't pray much though. I don't know what to say. I guess I should check up on my parents, ask how they're doing…"
"Are they dead?"
Matt nodded. "They're in Heaven. I think. At least, that's where they're supposed to be." His eyes drifted to the rosary; it winked again when he tilted his head. "I… I feel safe, you know."
"Safe?"
"Because of the rosary. I feel like it protects me." Heat rushed to Matt's face as the words left his mouth—he sounded so ridiculous—but he barreled on. "I know God's always supposed to be watching me, watching everyone, but I feel like…like my parents watch me too. Because of it. Through it."
Silence.
Then, Mello said, "That's…kinda stupid."
Matt curled his fingers into the bed sheets.
"I mean, it just sounds stupid." The mattress dipped with Mello's weight. "But it makes sense."
Matt glanced sidelong at Mello. "Yeah?"
Mello smiled, but his eyes were stained with pity. "Yeah. Perfect sense."
---
The bedroom door creaked open, wresting Matt's attention from his Gameboy. Only one person ever entered so completely uninvited. "Where have you been?"
Mello didn't respond right away: He just closed Matt's door behind him. His grin was all dirty little secrets, and Matt wasn't sure he wanted to know.
"You didn't meet me to play Mario Kart," Matt continued, uncertain, uncomfortable with the quiet in the room. "And you weren't at dinner, and…"
"I was with L," Mello said. His grin widened to reveal straight, white teeth. "God, Matt!" He jumped onto Matt's bed, bouncing, settling, staring at the ceiling.
A furrow appeared between Matt's eyebrows as he peered down at Mello. "You were…with L?"
"Yes." Mello nodded. "I was talking to him. And—he's brilliant!"
"Well, yeah—"
"He's abso-freaking-lutely brilliant." Mello rose to his knees and grabbed Matt by the shoulders. "I mean, we all know he's 'brilliant,' but…he's…brilliant! He knows so much about…everything—and, and it's not even that. He's not like some walking encyclopedia. The way he thinks about the world and analyzes everything perfectly, nothing escapes him, he's…he's omniscient—"
Matt relaxed, and a laugh dropped from his lips. "Really, how brilliant is he, Mello? I don't think you're making your point."
Mello shook his friends shoulders, rattling him, which only caused Matt to laugh more. The crazed gleam in Mello's frost-blue eyes, the blazing passion, the utter excitement—it thrilled Matt to the marrow of his bones.
"Matt…" Mello sighed, unfurling his fingers and sinking back on the bed. "I want to be just like him."
And then, there was ice in Matt's veins.
"I want to be just like L."
No… Matt shook his head, but Mello didn't see.
"I'll be better than Near."
You already are.
---
"I figured it out."
Mello rolled his head in the grass, molten gold melting into green. "Figured what out?"
"Why we have aliases." Matt stared up at the hazy autumn sky for another moment, and then he met Mello's eyes. "It's because names are dangerous."
Mello snorted before he could stop himself. "Dangerous."
Matt frowned slightly and averted his eyes back to the sky. "I'm serious. Names are dangerous business. You can wield all the power in the world against someone when you know their name."
"Hmm…" Mello traced Matt's profile, the haphazard brown bangs over a smooth forehead, down, then up the incline of his nose to the rounded tip, across the swells and dips of his mouth… "You get an A for hypotheses, F for supporting details."
"Well," Matt huffed, "think about it. Our names are what we…are. 'Hi, I'm Matt.' 'My name is Mello.' What if Albert Einstein hadn't had a name? 'So, there was this really smart guy who didn't wear socks and came up with the theory of relativity.' Generations down the line, people would get tired of saying 'there was this really smart guy who didn't wear socks,' and then he'd be 'this really smart guy,' and then, 'this guy,' and eventually all you'd have is 'the theory of relativity.' It'd be like Einstein never existed. But because he had a name, because he was somebody, we know that Albert Einstein came up with the theory of relativity.
"So," Matt continued, "when you have a name, you exist to the world. Amon… Anominity…"
"Anonymity?"
"Anonymity, right, is the key to nonexistence. And I guess, for a place like this, with all us genius children, with L—the ability to not exist…is an important one. Mr. Wammy, and Roger, are trying to protect us. Or something."
Mello blinked. He absorbed Matt's words, let them sink into his skin.
Matt continued, his voice softer this time, "You know what really scares me?"
"What?"
"Remember when we watched that film about the Normandy Invasion? And the camera zoomed out over that cemetery, the one in France, with the hundreds of white, cross-shaped tombstones? And they said there were 307 unknown soldiers buried there. All those white crosses, for unknown soldiers. I mean, those soldiers were people. They all had names, just like you and me and everyone else, but now it's like…they never existed, not as who they were. Now they exist as dead soldiers, but not as…Robert, or Jacob. Matt or Mello or—"
"Mihael."
Matt turned his head. "What?"
"My name," Mello said, slowly, as if he didn't know the words, "is Mihael Keehl."
"Nice to meet you, Mihael." Matt smiled, small, private. "I'm Mail Jeevas."
---
Matt glanced at the clock on his bedside table. The electric green letters taunted him, 11:43 PM. He sighed, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes, and then blinked at his notebook, which was much too close to his face because it was resting on his knees, and his knees were drawn to his chest. And his spine was curved into the mattress, his chin tucked against his collarbones—this was how people got scoliosis. But he was warm under Mello's blanket and too tired to move.
"The noble gases," he said.
They'd been studying since dinner. Almost six hours. It was ridiculous. But Near had beaten Mello on their last Chemistry test, and Mello refused to let them rest until he could recite the periodic table in time with his heartbeat.
Matt hated Chemistry.
And Mello was not answering his question.
"Noble gases, Mello." Helium, Neon, Argon… "Mello?"
Matt rolled a little, peering around the side of his notebook, past his shins. He saw tousled blond hair, a hidden face, a chest that slowly rose and fell. With a groan, Matt forced himself to sit up.
Yes, Mello was asleep.
"Son of a bitch.." Matt dropped his notebook beside the bed, thump. Mello was curled up on the end of the bed, his own notebook cradled to his chest. As Matt took in the picture, a smile appeared on his lips, unbidden. He leaned towards his friend, brushing aside the stray golden strands to reveal the face beneath, all fine lines and gentle angles. Sometimes, Matt thought Mello was too pretty to be a boy. Sometimes, he wished Mello were a girl.
Because then, maybe, these feelings wouldn't make his insides squirm.
---
"He's been gone for over a month."
Matt paused in his channel-surfing. "Who?"
"L." Mello took the remote and flicked to the news. "Haven't you noticed? He left, and he hasn't been back for over a month."
Matt shrugged. "Probably working on something big."
"Obviously." Mello rolled his eyes, like he was dealing with an especially dense child. Matt tried to sink into the couch. "Isn't it weird that he's been gone for so long?"
"Well, I think he's just generally weird, so this really isn't too surprising…"
Mello raised an eyebrow at Matt, elegantly condescending. "Do you care?"
"Of course," Matt all but snapped. Of course he cared, just not as much as Mello did. "I just don't, you know, worship at his feet, so…"
"Fuck you," Mello said, shoving Matt's shoulder.
Matt laughed a little.
"A recent outbreak of mysterious deaths has captured the attention of Interpol—that is, the International Criminal Police Organization," the anchorwoman said. The boys fell silent, while the other children continued to chatter, unawares. Mello turned up the volume. "The deaths have all been by heart attack and seem thus far to be occurring amongst criminals—accused, imprisoned, freed, or otherwise. Interpol suspects this is all the work of a single person, a serial killer, who has come to be known as 'Kira.'
"According to our sources, the Interpol has enlisted the aid of the world's top detective, who goes only by the initial 'L'."
"L!" Mello jumped up, remote in hand.
"We will be following this story as it progresses. Until then…"
"Well," Matt muttered, "there's your answer."
"Matt…" Mello wafted back down to the couch; Matt feared he might float away. "He's helping the Interpol track down a serial killer. The Interpol—the world's criminal justice organization. 186 countries are asking for L's help!"
"Yeah," Matt rolled his eyes, but Mello didn't see. "He's bloody brilliant."
---
One day, it just clicked.
Matt was watching as Mello gnawed on his pencil and fisted his hair, eyes narrowed at his homework. If Mello were any other genius, there would be no gnawing, no fisting. Maybe narrowed eyes.
But they would never burn so brightly.
Mello was human. He was so utterly, tragically, beautifully human, and Matt loved it. He believed that Mello's raw intelligence was equal to, if not greater, than Near's. But Mello had something, what he considered a weakness: He had a heart. Twisted, perhaps, black, maybe, but a heart nonetheless. That heart was a snare to his intelligence; it tripped his brain up sometimes, misguided him, tricked him. So Near always beat him.
Near was like L. L was eccentric, but ultimately mechanic. Pale-skinned and cold, with bottomless black eyes, they were unreadable, ancient manuscripts written in a dead and buried language. They had no expression. They were enigmas.
Matt could admire them for their brilliance, but he couldn't love them as fellow humans.
Mello… He was every bit as intelligent; he was a genius too. But he had warmth. He had honeyed skin and golden-blond hair and blue, blue eyes. He yawned, sneezed, snorted, sneered, coughed, sighed, groaned, laughed, smiled. His muscles knew a thousand and one expressions; his eyebrows furrowed; his eyes widened and narrowed and crescented when he grinned; his nostrils flared; his mouth curved, coiled, contorted. Whenever he was close, Matt imagined he could feel Mello's pulse in the air. There was life in him.
He was gorgeous. Sometimes, Matt couldn't stand it.
"What are you looking at?"
Matt blushed and averted his eyes, riveting them on his own homework. "Nothing."
Everything.
---
"God damn it!"
Matt jerked as Mello slammed the drawer; the whole dresser rattled, their reflections trembling in the mirror.
"God damn it!" Mello shrieked again, his eyes screwed shut, his knuckles white as he gripped the dresser's corners. "GOD DAMN IT!"
"Mello, what happened?" Matt's hand hovered over Mello's shoulder, but before he could decide whether or not to lay it down, Mello had spun and stormed to another corner of the room. He ripped open the closet—the one they shared now, as roommates—and started pulling clothes out.
"L's dead."
Matt froze. "What?"
"L's fucking dead," Mello said, slamming the closet. Jeans, pants, shirts, sweaters, black, garnet, gray, dark, dark blue, littered the floor. "Fucking L is fucking dead!"
For a moment, Matt couldn't believe it, couldn't breathe. "H…" his voice cracked, "How? How?"
"Kira! Kira killed him." For the first time since he'd barreled into the room, Mello looked at Matt. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Matt thought he saw a sad redness around Mello's eyes.
"Kira…" Matt shook his head. It couldn't be true.
"He promised me," Mello hissed. "He promised me he'd find Kira and cut off his fucking head."
Not in those exact words, Matt imagined.
Silence filled the room, swelling, smothering. Matt still couldn't breathe. This couldn't be possible. L couldn't have lost to Kira. L always won. He didn't die. He couldn't die, it wasn't possible—
Mello had produced a bag, the same ratty black duffel Matt had seen the chauffer carry in that first day. Kneeling, Mello started gathering up his clothes, folding them carelessly and stuffing them into his bag.
"What are you doing?" Matt asked.
"I'm going to find Kira and cut off his fucking head."
"Did…" Matt licked his lips, "Did L choose…?"
"He didn't choose either of us. He died before he could choose." One of the shirts ripped as Mello shoved it in. "Fucking idiot."
"So what happened?"
"I gave it to Near."
"You what?"
Mello stood and tossed his gaping bag on the bed. "Roger wanted us to work together," he said, his voice thick with distaste. "I can't work with that… that…" Mello growled, thrusting his fingers into his hair. "God damn it! See, this is why Near is always better. Because he doesn't do this, this," he gestured wildly to himself, "he doesn't lose his head. God forbid he ever lose that precious head."
Matt argued, "That doesn't make him better—"
"I can't beat him!" Mello went to the dresser and started throwing the drawers open. "So I gave it to him. I'm not going to work with him. I'll find Kira on my own, and cut off his head with my own ax, my own fucking guillotine."
Matt stared as Mello ferreted around in the drawers. And then, it hit him:
Mello was leaving.
"I'm coming with you."
Mello pinned him with a sharp look. "No."
"Mello—!"
"Not yet." Mello shut the drawers, his arms laden with random little things, socks, underwear. As he packed the stuff with his clothes, he murmured to himself, "I need a gun."
Matt raked his fingers through his hair. "I need a smoke."
He stared at Mello's back.
This wasn't happening.
Just like L wasn't dead.
Matt turned suddenly, desperately, grabbed his rosary off the mirror, and marched to Mello's side. "Here."
Glancing down at Matt's hand, Mello almost laughed. "What?"
"Take it."
"Matt—"
"I swear to God Mello," he shoved it at Mello's chest, "take it."
"I don't ne—"
"MELLO!" Matt's eyes burned something terrible; he nearly bit through his lip trying to stave off the tears. A deep, wavering breath, and he said, "Just take it."
Mello recoiled slightly, noticing the severe crease between his friend's brows, the twisted expression. "Matt…" Sighing, he took the rosary and slipped it around his neck. The silver winked. "Happy?"
No. "Yes."
Mello watched Matt a moment longer, and then he zipped his bag. "I'll call you. I have to figure this out on my own first."
Matt nodded.
Mello slung his bag over his shoulder and went for the door.
"Mello—"
"Hm—the fuck—?"
Matt caught Mello's wrist, pulled, drew him in, captured him. He could feel Mello's heartbeat against his chest, like the ticking of a time bomb. Time. No more time. Matt held him tighter; he never wanted to let go. Never. Forever. Always. He breathed Mello in—bitter chocolate and sweet warmth and gunpowder and stardust—and breathed out tears, and he didn't try to hide it. What did it matter?
Mello remained very still for a small eternity, watching in horrified wonder as his best friend broke down. Then, he caved; his muscles unwound, his limbs unrolled. He wrapped Matt up in himself, tucking his chin over Matt's shoulder, molding, morphing, amalgamating. The rosary grew hot between their bodies.
Mello let go. "I'll call you." He hiked up his bag strap and, with a final nod at Matt, slipped out the door.
"…Fuck." Matt fumbled for his cigarettes. He found them in his pocket, along with his lighter, and he went to the window, pushing it up so hard that it shook the frame. It took him a couple tries to get the cigarette lit because his hands were trembling. As he leaned out the window into the night, he tried to convince himself that he was choking on smoke, that it was ugly, black tar pasted thick along the back of his throat that was making it hard to swallow, and that it had nothing to do with the wetness on his face.
---
A year later, Matt moved out of Wammy's House. Things had changed too much, too quickly, and too irrevocably. L was dead. Near and Mello were gone, and there was no telling when, or if, they'd come back. Matt hated being so suspended. Frozen in constant anticipation. Stuck at the top of a roller coaster, a knot of anxiety lodged behind his ribcage, not knowing when he was going to…just…fall.
Not to mention, he was the smartest in the orphanage again. His grades may not have reflected it (why study when there were bosses to beat and experience points to gain?), but he knew it when he talked to the other kids. Sure, they knew all the nation's capitals and could solve calculus problems in their sleep and give you a thoughtful, in-depth analysis of Hamlet's major themes—and they could do it all in your language of choice—but they couldn't carry a conversation like Mello. Maybe it was a fault of Matt's, that he just couldn't get the other kids, that he couldn't click with anyone as well as he could with Mello.
Whatever the case, he couldn't stay at Wammy's anymore. So he moved out.
He rented an apartment in London and found work at a gaming company (with Roger's high recommendation). He made sure Roger had his most up-to-date contact information, just in case Mello ever came looking for him. It was the only proof anyone had that Matt still hoped Mello would come looking for him.
After a few months, he'd settled into a comfortable rhythm. He smiled and laughed, bitched and moaned, yawned a lot first thing in the morning when he got up for work, stayed up late tapping away on his laptop. He partied and went out on the weekends with his friends and more-than-friends. His first girlfriend was a pretty young woman four years his senior with straight blonde hair to her shoulders.
Matt remembered one day, when he made the offhanded suggestion that she cut it a little and get some bangs.
A week later he told her that it just wasn't going to work.
---
"I'm coming to get you. Be ready."
The line went dead, but Matt didn't put the phone down. It wasn't even warm against his ear yet, and the conversation was over. The conversation had never begun. Mello hadn't bothered with pleasantries, no 'Hey, this is Mello. Remember me? I know, it's been so long. Three years with no contact whatsoever… no phone calls, emails, letters—sorry about that. Haha, I bet I had you really worried, wondering if I was even still alive. I'm really sorry, man. But listen, I need your help…'
But Matt wouldn't have wanted that; he hadn't expected pleasantries. Mello's life had to be anything but pleasant right now. How could he expect Mello to spare petty gestures? No, he hadn't expected pleasantries. He hadn't expected the call in the first place, so pleasantries would have really thrown Matt for a loop. He might not have even believed it was really Mello.
Matt trembled as he finally hung up the phone. His heart was racing. Mello was… He was alive, and he was coming to get Matt. He was… 'Be ready.' Was he coming now? There had definitely been a sense of urgency, of immediacy in his tone. But, now? Did he really expect Matt to just pick up his life and go? To leave everything behind, his job, his friends, his home… Matt scowled.
Of course he did.
He expected it because he knew Matt would do it and…Matt knew he would too. He'd been waiting for this day since Mello left; there was no way he'd refuse. The job, the friends, the apartment…they'd just been something to occupy his time. He'd left Wammy's House under the pretense of getting out, moving on, letting go, when, really, he'd been waiting all along.
Matt had his bags packed and ready when there came a knock at the door.
Bracing himself, Matt turned the knob and pulled.
Nothing could have prepared him for what stood on the other side.
It was Mello all right; the eyes were unmistakable, as was the chocolate bar pinched in his grasp. But his hair was longer, more unkempt. He was taller, broader. His face had lost its boyish curves—as well as half its healthy skin: Matt stared at the dark scar that spider-webbed from the bridge of his nose, over his left eye, and down the side of his face.
Somehow, he was still beautiful.
"What the hell are you wearing?" Mello asked.
Matt smiled and wanted to cry. He didn't know if Mello was referring to the orange-lensed goggles on his head or his fur-lined vest. "Back at you," he said, eyeing Mello's black leather pants. They fit him too well.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Mello's mouth. "You ready?"
Matt grabbed his two bags, one with his clothes and personal things, another with his gadgets. He slung the first over his shoulder as he flicked off the lights, closed the door, and locked it behind him.
He looked at Mello. "Ready."
---
Matt stared out their window at NYC's blazing lights; the stars were invisible, just blackness stretching forever across the bustling city.
Mello was on the couch, engrossed in his laptop. As Matt turned his attention to the blond, he noticed Mello's pallor, the faint purple ring under his right eye. He was going to kill himself trying to find Kira before Kira ever got to him. The scar was proof enough, though Matt had no idea where it had come from.
The computer beeped. "Piece of shit," Mello swore under his breath, pounding on one of the keys. "Matt, come fix this."
Matt sighed and perched on the couch arm next to Mello. He took the laptop, but instead of fixing whatever hang-up it had, he closed the lid.
"Matt," Mello growled in warning. "What are you doing?"
"You need to stop." Matt set the laptop on the coffee table.
"Stop?" Mello was incredulous. "Stop? I'll never find Kira if I stop—"
"You'll never find him if you don't stop. Have you seen yourself lately?"
"I'm not trying to win a fucking beauty pageant—"
"You're going to break, Mello." Matt shoved himself off the couch to stand before his friend, his face caught halfway between anger and fear. "You need to rest, or sleep, or fuck, I don't know, get laid, but do something other than spend another second on that computer—"
Mello laughed. Matt didn't know how or why, but he laughed. And he kept laughing. Matt thought he'd finally cracked. "Wh-What was that third thing?" he asked between hiccups.
Matt frowned, confused. "What?"
"Did you tell me I need to get laid?"
"Well… you know." Matt shifted uneasily. "Having sex is supposed to relieve stress, and it…makes you feel better. Releases all those hormones, like endorphins, and stuff…"
Mello shook his head, still smiling. He was silent for a moment, looking down it his hands, which were laced between his knees. Then, "I missed you," he said, quietly.
Matt looked away and folded his arms, as if in defense. "Yeah, well. I missed you too."
They lapsed into more silence.
The couch cushion dipped as Matt took a seat. "How about we just talk tonight."
Mello glanced sidelong at Matt. "What d'you want to talk about?"
"Well, I don't know, how about the last three years of your life?" Matt smiled wryly. "They have to have been more exciting than mine."
Mello sighed and leaned back, rolling his head to the ceiling. "See, I got involved with the mafia…"
---
"Matt, I'm going to tail Mogi to Japan. Follow me right away."
"Huh, Japan…?" Matt's eyes widened behind his goggle lenses. "Seriously…? Mello—" The line went dead.
Damn it… Matt slammed his phone shut. He couldn't believe those bastards! He'd been given one job, to watch Mogi and Misa Amane, and he couldn't even do that. They'd tricked him! Him, second to Mello, third to Near, fourth to freaking L. He was smart. He was brilliant. How had they tricked him? He felt like an idiot. What was worse, he'd let Mello down. They weren't kids anymore; he couldn't afford to let Mello down. There were worse things to suffer now than cold glares and silent-treatments.
He blamed his video games. Games had redos, start-overs. Game characters had multiple lives. They could sustain ungodly amounts of damage and keep going; there were always healing potions, health points. There were save points. But it was all virtual, metal and wire and data and pulsing currents of electricity. It wasn't real. It wasn't flesh, bone, blood, oxygen, H20. Living, breathing, feeling, thinking, loving, hurting. Games didn't do that.
This wasn't a game.
If Mello died on account of Matt's carelessness, Matt would never…
"Damn it." He didn't have time to bitch about it. He had to get to Japan.
Japan.
His Japanese was rusty, at best.
He didn't see this going very well.
Mello… He sighed as he started packing up his things, tugging cords from outlets, shutting down laptops. I hope you know what you're doing. Because I sure as hell don't.
Then again, he'd never known what he was doing when it came to Mello.
"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;" he said under his breath, "And therefore is wingèd Cupid painted blind."
---
Their new apartment was in Tokyo. It was nicer than the one in New York, but Matt knew it would never be a home, either. They seemed closer than ever to Kira; Mello was twice as on edge in Japan as he'd been in America. The TV was always on when they were at the apartment, sometimes showing Kira's Kingdom, usually showing NHN's News 6, where Kiyomi Takada preached Kira's will. Matt didn't always understand it, but Mello seemed to have a good handle on the language.
One night, when Matt returned from the local Lawson convenience store, Mello was missing. His laptop was abandoned on the table in the living room, and the TV was playing some catchy commercial tune. Matt set his shopping bag on the kitchen counter and called, "Mello?"
A beat, and then, "In here."
Matt followed Mello's voice to the sparsely decorated, white-walled bedroom, where Mello was sitting on the bed, nibbling on a chocolate bar and staring out the window.
"What're you doing?" Matt stepped out of his boots and padded over to the bed, pulling his goggles down around his neck.
"Thinking." Mello snapped off a bite of his chocolate.
"About what?"
"We're going to kidnap Takada."
Matt started. "What?"
Mello didn't look at his friend. "You heard me."
"Wh—"
"She's obviously in contact with Kira. We're going to kidnap her. She's the key to Kira." Mello peeled the silver wrapper back with his teeth. "Don't you get it? This hunt is nearing its end. As I get closer, so does Near, and so do the NPA and 'L,' that phony, lying son of a bitch. I have to make a move. It may be my last chance."
"Don't you think this is a little…drastic?"
Mello cut a glare at Matt as he dug his teeth into his chocolate. Swallowing the bite, he said, "No. It's wholly necessary. I've given it a lot of thought."
Matt sighed.
"I…" To Matt's surprise, Mello set his chocolate bar aside. "I…need your help, Matt," he said, his voice hushed. "I need you to believe in my plans."
Matt lowered his gaze. "I do. I trust whatever you decide to do."
Mello looked up.
"I trust you," Matt said.
Mello stared for a moment and then choked out a dry laugh. "Fucking idiot." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and put his face in his hands. "I don't know if I'm making it to the end," he said.
"What are you talking about?"
"I might die."
Matt's heart clenched at the thought. He steeled himself and said, "But you've always known you could die. Since the day you left the orphanage, you've known—"
"I've always known I could," Mello said, "but the closer we get, the more likely it seems." He sighed between his fingers. "I don't want to die."
Suddenly, Mello seemed very, very small. Matt bit his lip, sitting down beside Mello. "You won't die."
Mello raised his head, blond hair curtaining his face. He laughed again, harshly. "You're just saying that."
Matt knew he was. "We're battling for control of the world, Mello. It's practically war. We all knew this when we started. You, me, Near, L—we knew we might have to sacrifice ourselves—"
"No one sacrifices himself," Mello grit out. "People are sacrificed, but no one sacrifices himself. L didn't want to die. L didn't plan on dying. Even Jesus Christ begged for his life before the end!" Mello touched his face, traced the mottled skin around his left eye. "That night, the night the mafia headquarters blew up, when Chief Yagami barged in and addressed me by name… he knew my name, my real name, I thought I was going to die. I knew he had to be bluffing—I don't think he'd ever even killed a man—but I kept thinking, What if…? All he had to do was write my name down, and I was dead. That's all, just my name, and he knew it, and he saw my face—he was looking right at me—I was fucking terrified, I—"
Matt grabbed Mello's hand. It was a reflex, an automatic response to the throb in his chest. He hadn't been there that night. He'd had no idea what Mello had been going through that night. It wasn't his fault, but he was never going to forgive himself. By all rights, he should have been there. He was Mello's best friend. He loved Mello.
He was in love with Mello.
"Matt…" Mello stared down at their hands, but Matt used his free hand to tilt Mello's head back up. Then, he leaned in and kissed him.
Mello tensed; when his fingers tightened in Matt's hand, Matt seemed to come to his senses and jerked back, blushing fiercely. Mello sat, wide-eyed, his lips parted in wordless awe.
"I… shit, I'm sorry." Wrenching his hand out of Mello's, Matt made to get up, but Mello seized his arm and pulled him back down. Matt's heart thumped heavily against his chest, and he wouldn't meet Mello's eyes as Mello bore a hole in the side of his head. Matt was torn between hitting the blond and running far, far away; fight or flight. He preferred the latter. This wasn't Mello's fault; nothing was ever Mello's fault. It was all Matt's fault, because he was stupid, stupid and foolish and he could never measure up to Mello and they were all going to die anyway, they were all just spiraling down a path of no fucking return, and—
"Fuck." Mello grabbed the back of Matt's head and smashed their mouths together. Matt gasped. It was perfect, so wonderfully violent and angry and hot, just what he'd expected from Mello; he saw suns explode and galaxies form; colors burst out of nothing, bells tolled in the distant recesses of his mind; the world turned a million times, trees sprouted and grew, stretching their skeletal, spindly fingers, reaching for the sky as it faded to black.
They toppled over. Matt hovered over Mello, touching his beautiful, beautiful hair, the straw-spun gold that he loved so much. Mello tasted like chocolate. Then Matt kissed his ear, his neck, his collar—his lips met cold-turning-hot metal, which didn't surprise him, because Mello wore a lot of metal. But this made him pause, for a second, and then he was hooking his finger in the zipper of Mello's shirt, dragging it down, baring his chest, and—there.
"You still have it."
Mello glanced down through lines of blond hair. "Yeah…"
Matt traced the silver cross that hung off his rosary, and a smile curved his lips. "Do you always wear it?"
"…Yeah."
Matt pressed a kiss to the warm skin beside the glinting, red beads.
"I don't know if God's always with me," Mello exhaled a shaky breath, "if He's ever with me, if He even exists, but I always felt like…you were with me. Because of it. Through it." His head lolled to the side, revealing the scar that crept down his neck; Matt could see it continue down his chest. He wanted to kiss every inch of beautiful, marred skin, and wondered if Mello would find it weird. Mello murmured, "I always felt a little less alone."
Matt leaned up for another kiss. "What about now?"
Mello raised his arms, twining them around Matt's neck, pulling him down, keeping him there, wanting to never let go. "I…" he stopped, and his mouth moved, though no words came out; he couldn't find the right ones; there were too many, he couldn't choose, he just, "I need you."
Nodding, Matt tangled his fingers in the rosary and guided Mello upright so he could push Mello's shirt the rest of the way off. Then, he lowered his head to Mello's neck, down his scarred shoulder.
And Mello didn't seem to find it weird at all.
---
"Are you ready?" Mello swung onto his motorcycle, watching Matt for his response. They had to be in this together; Mello couldn't do it alone.
Matt nodded and unlocked the red Toyota parked innocently outside their apartment. The sky was cast in bright orange, blended with a dozen different pinks and golds as the sun set over Tokyo. Matt opened the door and tossed his gun onto the passenger seat, but before he could climb in after it, Mello said, "Matt?"
Matt peered at Mello over the sleek, gleaming hood. Why'd Mello have to get a red car? It reminded Matt of blood. "I'm ready," he said, but he was lying. He'd never be ready for something this daunting, this dangerous. They were kidnapping Kiyomi Takada, Kira's spokesperson; she was as heavily guarded as the U.S. President; she was the right-hand woman of a supernatural serial killer. This was suicide.
But it didn't matter how Matt really felt; he had to say what Mello needed to hear. There could be no more doubt, no more hesitancy, because there was no going back now.
Mello nodded. Whatever expression his face had been making was hidden by his helmet. Matt could see some of it in his eyes: determination, ambition, strength, purpose, but, beneath all that, fear.
As he looked at Mello, a life flashed before Matt's eyes. It wasn't his life, or anyone's life; it was a life that would never exist. The road had forked and they'd picked this path, the one in which Mello spent years trying to beat Near, tracking down Kira, joining the mafia, going up in flames, at once risking his life and fearing for it. The one in which he dragged Matt along, because Matt would always follow him, and they both knew it. The one in which Matt knew how to shoot a gun and drive a car at breakneck speeds, though he'd never, ever once wished he could.
They'd never get to go down that other path, the one in which they left the orphanage, moved into some apartment together, got jobs and made friends and dated—not each other, at first, but eventually, it would come to that, Matt knew for certain now. The one in which they smiled, laughed, fought, cried, kissed, breathed. The one in which they stayed up late into the night, talking about nothing, about everything, making love (though Mello would never call it that, and Matt would laugh every time). The one in which Mello didn't bear that scar, and the one in which Matt only knew how to shoot a gun in his video games. The one in which they grew up and grew old together.
That was the life that flashed before Matt's eyes. It was the life they'd never get but so completely deserved.
Mello's motorcycle roared to life.
Everyone deserved a life like that.
Matt got into the car and started the engine.
It wasn't fair.
Matt glanced out the window, and almost started to find Mello staring right back at him. The orange light shone in his blue, blue eyes, and Matt knew that if they were going to stop this, now was the chance. This was the only opportunity left; he could jump out of the car, pull Mello down off the bike, slap him hard, kiss him, and demand an end to this madness. This was the only opportunity left, and—
Mello sped away from the curb.
Matt put the car in drive and followed, his taillights streaking red through the quiet, humming air.
---
"It is with great sorrow that I announce the passing of one of our very own colleagues. The police have identified one of the bodies found at the scene as NHN's Ms. Kiyomi Takada. A two-ton truck and a motorcycle were also found in the ruins of the burned-down church. Investigators suspect gasoline was used to start the fire. Identifying of the other body, which is believed to be the abductor, proves much more difficult…"
Fin.