I do not own Death Note. I do not own anything, except the order in which I have chosen to place these words.

This is an "If Matt and Mello had caught Kira and not died" thing, although that does become apparent later on.

This is my protest at Matt and Mello's deaths.

When I was eight years, four months and six days old I fell in love.

Of course, I was only a little over eight years old. I didn't even understand the concept of love. But I did understand what angels were, and I knew I'd found the most imperfect, evil angel to exist. I also knew I would follow him anywhere and do anything for him. Yes, him.

When I was ten, I got it, which was a lot sooner than most of the kids at Wammy's. Love is one prospect which geniuses cannot grasp; most of us are just too… smart I guess.

Maybe I escaped because I spent so much time trying not to be a genius. I skipped classes; I slept, or gamed in the ones I went to. I was still third. Now that's some mad skills right there.

You are, I expect, growing bored with my ramblings. Sorry, it happens. I can't stay on-track with anything that isn't a computer game.
Mello… he was my angel. And a hellish angel he was too. His was a reign of terror at Wammy's. Terror that was directed at anyone and everyone that wasn't Mail Jeevas.
He didn't need to bully and threaten me, he'd already won me over, and he knew what I would do for him. He knew what I wouldn't do, which was a much shorter list, in fact, it consisted of precisely one thing- nothing. There was nothing I wouldn't do for him. Love tends to be completely crazy like that
If he was so horrible to everyone else, why did I love him?
I love Mihael Keehl because of something that happened when I was eight years, four months and six days old.
That was the day I arrived at Wammy's. Or, to be a little more precise, the night I arrived at Wammy's. At that time I had been an orphan for roughly twenty-three hours, and I wasn't sure how I felt about it. my parents hadn't been very fond of me, unless it was as a punch bag, but when Roger showed me into the room I would share with Mello I couldn't hide my tears.

Roger had warned me that Mello wasn't always nice, and my surprise was tangible when the blonde hell-angel had wrapped his arms around me and stroked my red hair, whispering words of comfort. So that was when I knew- everything was going to be all right, because Mello had promised it would be. I trusted him with my life, and with a hell of a lot more besides.
When I stopped crying Mello had cleaned the salt water from my cheeks, combed my hair and given me one last, gentle hug.
'My name is Mihael Keehl, but I'd prefer it if you only called me that when we're alone, everyone calls me Mello.'
'Mail Jeevas.' I told him. 'But I like Matt more.'
'Matt it is then.' Mello hugged me again. 'Now, let's go get some food.'
We had walked together to the dining hall, eaten together, and had our first conversation.
'Did you bring anything from home, Matt?' Mello asked, smiling.
I shook my head. 'They told me I couldn't have my Gameboy.' I had sniffed.
'It's okay. I'll get you a new one. I promise.'
'I'd like that.' Mello was, I decided, clearly some sort of god.

That night when I had woken at two in the morning, screaming, shaking and covered in a cold sweat Mello had very calmly pushed our beds together and held me. I fell asleep in his arms, and when I woke up the next morning he combed my hair again and walked with me down to breakfast.
When I returned to our room that night there was a brand new Gameboy on my pillow with a note saying "I promised, didn't I?"

It took me two years to realise that the unwavering loyalty and pure, unadulterated adoration I felt for Mello was love. It took two more for me to realise that that made me gay.

Every night from then on one or the other of us would wake up, screaming, and the other would push his bed over and hold the first until the morning came.
Each morning Mello would comb my hair and walk with me down to breakfast.
We were soon known as Matt and Mello, the inseparable pair, the puppy-like sidekick and the blond tsunami that terrorised everyone, everyone but me, the little redhead that followed him everywhere.

When I was thirteen years, ten months, three weeks and two days old I had my first kiss. That was a pretty important moment for me for two reasons. One is, I assume, pretty obvious. I mean, even emotionally retarded, sheep like, Near would get why a first kiss was important to any human. The other is because my first kiss was with Mello.
It all happened very quickly, I had been going in a field trip for psychology class, and would be away for a whole day. For the pair of us to be apart for more than three hours at a time was unusual.
I had gone up to our room that morning, to say goodbye to Mello when he kissed me.
I looked at him, told him I'd see him soon and he just put his fingers under my chin, tilted my head up and kissed me, with more tenderness than anyone but me could have believed he could have managed.
'You had better come back, Jeevas.' He had told me, before kissing me again.
I paid less attention than usual to my psychology teacher for the entire trip. In fact I paid less attention than usual to anything. I didn't even touch my DS, or the Gameboy Mello had given me five year previously, which caused more than one person to question my health.

On the following Valentine's day I received a card, written in Mello's meticulously neat handwriting- the only thing that was ever any sort of neat when it came to Mello- saying simply "I love you, Mail Jeevas, and I hate to break it to you but you've got me forever. All my love, Mihael."
Mihael also received a card, under his pillow that evening. "Right back at you." Was all I wrote. It was all we needed.
That night we did one hell of a lot more than kissing.
Near calmly informed us the next morning that we had scarred him for life and he would never be free of the mental images we had created through our moans and cries.
Of course, that had the pair of us well and truly out of the closet, and, while homosexuality was almost the norm at Wammy's there were a few people who made jokes at Mello's expense. Those people soon found their previously latent homophobia corrected with a fist to the face.

When Mello left it only seemed natural that I go too. We didn't even have to talk about it. Since that night when I was eight years old we had had an unspoken agreement. Where Mello went, I, Mail Jeevas, would follow, whether he wanted me to or not.

I think that, in my top five best days in my life the day Mihael caught Kira came in at number three.
'Matt! Matt I've fucking done it! We've done it, and we did it before that damned sheep!' Mello cried triumphantly.
'You mean… you found him?' I had asked, shock filling me.
'Yeah. Some Japanese guy called Light Yagami. L suspected him for ages too, but couldn't get proof, but I've found it, damn it! We did it!' Mello had been practically dancing with joy.
'Mihael Keehl, I love you so, so much.' I told him.
'I love you too, Matty.' Mello said seriously. 'I honestly couldn't have done it without you.'
'No, you'd have died ten times over by now.' I smiled. 'I know that makes no sense.'
'Hey, Matt?' Mello asked, with that smirk I adored. 'Shall we rub Near's face in it?'
'Well, you did just break a lifelong tradition of coming second to him. Told Interpol yet?'
'They knew before you did.' Mello looked sheepish.
'It's fine.' I meant it. We had done it; we had pulled through with nothing more than some scars, a few bad memories and criminal records longer than my highest of high scores.
That was the day when our crazy-ass lives went back to normal.
Days number two, four and five have already been accounted for.
So, you may be wondering what day number one is. But then perhaps you are not as much of a nosey bastard as I am.
Regardless of whether or not you want to know I am going to tell you.
Day one is two days, to tell the truth, however when placed together they form a memory that will be with me forever.
The first part is the day when Mello, my firmly unromantic Mello, took me to dinner, got down on one knee and asked me to marry him.
When the gorgeous blond in tight leather who you've been screwing for the last thirteen years asks you to marry him, you do not say no. especially when that blond is Mello, and you are his exclusive property.
Anybody with a brain should be able to work out the second part.
It is, of course, the day we got married.
Near, Roger and a surprising number of Wammy's inhabitants were there to witness our union.
I was, of course, the one who walked down the aisle to Mello who stood at the altar, waiting. After all, I was the closest thing our relationship had to a woman.
We had a chocolate wedding cake, a range of chocolate based desserts and normal food for those who didn't have a bizarre addiction.

In the five decades I was married to Mello there were so many moments I'll never forget, even though now, at seventy-eight I forget most things. Certain moments will stay with me until I take my last breath, and re-join my husband.
I'll never forget the day I came home early to find Mello wearing a dress and dancing, or the time we adopted a puppy and Mello insisted on naming it Rawliet, despite my protestations that that was probably disrespectful to the dead.
Nor will I forget the day two years ago when I saw Mello's face for the last time, before they lowered him, in a little wooden box into a hole in the ground.
I won't forget our last conversation, where he expressed his irritation that I, the chain smoker, would outlive him, or the way that he kissed me softly, told me he loved me and asked me to stay with him until the end when he finally did pass away.
I haven't got long left before I die too. The cigarettes have finally caught up with me and I'm refusing treatment. It's a waste of money, not that I'm so old I'm unable to hack my way into large sums of that.

I had Mello for a lifetime, and if there's another life after this then I'll have him then too.
One lifetime will never, ever be enough time with someone like Mello.

Truth be told, with someone like Mello, forever wouldn't be long enough.