A/N: My first Matt/Mello fic, and a contest entry at that! I've really made an effort to structure this well (Parallels! My favourite!), give it a theme and meaning and all that. I planned and everything. This took me a lot of time, and I hope it shows. Enjoy!

Stranglehold

"What's your name?" asked the young, red-haired boy crouched on the large, green sofa, staring intently at a hand-held console.

"Mi – Mello."

The sitting child dared a glance away from his screen to study the newcomer. A boy of about eight was standing in the doorframe awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself. He had straight, honey-blond hair and dark, haunted eyes. He was slight and small; tensed and ready to bolt.

"New name, huh?" asked the first child, putting his Gameboy down on the coffee table, plastic thunking against the polished wood and making Mello's wide eyes snap towards the source of the noise. He nodded slowly, straw-coloured locks falling into his scared face, and the red-head stood up, offering him a small hand, "I'm Matt. I'm seven."

Mello shook it tentatively and murmured a quiet, "Hello," before quickly letting go again as if skin on skin contact could burn him when maintained for too long. Matt flopped back onto the cushions behind him, taking console in hand once more, and patted the seat on his left. Cautiously, Mello sat down beside him, fingers twisting in his lap, and smiled a small, hopeful smile at his new friend.

Matt grinned. His eyes danced with childish innocence, naivety sparkling in the bright irises. It was a breath of fresh air to Mello; even after only eight years, he'd had the time to forget what laughter sounded like. Matt was joyous and infectious, hurling trust at Mello and lassoing him into an unbreakable friendship, a lifeline thrown into Mello's stormy past, pulling him back from the brink of insanity. He'd never felt so safe in all his life.

"I'm exhausted," Matt declares dramatically, flopping heavily onto a cheap cream settee.

Mello shoots him a look from the window. "Diddums," he mutters with a sneer.

A cushion flies through the air and hits the back of his head with a soft fwump, making him turn around and glare at the teen lying sprawled on the other side of the room. Matt smirks a lopsided, cheerful grin and Mello growls, stalking over the carpet, expertly picking his way through a tangle of wires in the process, towards his attacker.

With a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth, he looms threateningly over Matt, who merely laughs, grabs his collar and hauls him onto the couch, crashing their lips together as he does so. Mello winds a small hand into Matt's thick, red hair, slight fingers pulling gently, angling the teen's head to his advantage.

Matt's mouth stretches into a wide smile, breaking the kiss, and he steals another chaste taste of Mello quickly, pressing their foreheads together and softly running a hand over Mello's cheek.

"I bloody love you, you know that?" he murmurs, brushing stray lances of blond out of Mello's face and reaching in to close the small distance between them again.

Matt's brown eyes were wide and frantic as he slammed the door shut, standing in front of the handle and spreading his slender arms out, crucifying himself on the wood, cold metal jabbing painfully into the small of his back. "Don't, Mel, you can't -" his voice was cracking, vocal chords torn by panic and fear, "- just, stay."

Mello shot a warning look at his friend from underneath a thick, blond fringe. "Get out of the way, Matt," he said calmly, tone wavering only slightly upon uttering those four letters that tumbled so readily from his mouth, like poetry.

A red head shook violently, and Matt clamped his teeth down on his trembling lip. "Please, Mel," he tried.

"Move," Mello snapped, quick temper getting the better of him. Matt remained where he was, blocking the handle from Mello's impatient, snatching fingers and Mello yelled, "MOVE," jerking himself towards his unflinching friend, but the younger man still refused, eyes shining with desperation. Mello stamped his foot and sharply looked away, attempting to bite back the tears that were threatening. He always got too emotional. "Stop being an idiot, Matt. Let me out."

"I don't want you to leave," choked the teen against the door, striped chest heaving shakily, "don't leave me, Mel, don't do that." A single tear slipped down his cheek, clear as glass and just as fragile, and Matt locked his pleading eyes on Mello's, silently begging.

The blond slammed a palm against the wall, stilling it, covering up evidence of his heart's weakness with frantic physical strength. He grit his teeth, set his jaw and growled, "I have to." His head tilted to look at his friend, spread eagled against the door and distraught, "You know I have to do this."

Matt's head jolted left to right in quick, blind denial, shaking a couple more tears from his gleaming eyes like dead leaves off a branch. They flew over his cheek, splashing and shattering on a sharp chin, chiselled jaw jutting out in defiance. He was beautiful when he cried.

Mello's chest felt like it was about to explode. His lungs screamed at him to choke and gasp in air as the twisted rope of love and pain wound around his neck began to blur his mind. When he tried to pull himself past Matt, through the door and away, the noose tightened painfully, anchored solidly as it was in the red-head.

It was hard to breathe, but Mello knew it was either leave, right then, or breakdown, stay and destroy himself slowly, bitterness and self-disgust eating away at him over the years. He pushed the fragile red-head out of his way and Matt went skidding to the floor, colliding with the wall as a tangle of slender arms and legs. Mello wrenched the door open and sped out, unable to look back he was so afraid his heart would burst or his legs fail him, leaving his friend crumpled in the corner, alone.

A strangled sob twisted itself from Matt's cold lips and he stayed where he'd been thrown, five thin fingers wound in his vibrant, blood red hair, other hand clutching at his stomach as he rocked. He felt physically sick; broken and wounded. Abandoned.

Mello recoils. "What?"

Matt props himself up on his elbows and frowns at the blond on top of him. "I love you," he repeats simply.

"Well, shit, just say it again why don't you?" snaps Mello, agitated, extracting the hand knotted in Matt's hair and running it through his own.

A nervous expression skitters across Matt's features and he shifts anxiously on the cushions. "What's the problem?" he asks, keeping his eyes on Mello warily.

Mello pulls away more, yet still stays sitting on the teen's chest, and laughs disbelievingly. "The problem?" he repeats, almost hysterically, "I haven't seen you in five years, you arrive yesterday and already you're talking about love?" He spits out the last word with obvious distaste, as if it insulted him to think that people were capable of doing anything other than hurt each other.

"Yeah, Mello, love." A small part of Matt relishes in the danger that flashes in Mello's eyes upon hearing the word, and he reaches out a hand to clasp Mello's arm. "I don't work without you, Mel," he practically whispers, offering an explanation for his offensively wanton use of such a profound term.

Mello ignores him and slides off of the striped torso he'd been straddling, turning his back on Matt.

A silver-haired man approached the silent figure sitting alone in the dining hall. He pushed a plate of toast gently towards the teen, smiling warmly. "Eat, Matt," he reasoned, eyes twinkling with concern.

The red-head didn't look at him, merely stared with dead eyes into space, as if trying to count the dust particles dancing through the air, illuminated by the afternoon sun streaking through a high window. He didn't speak, nor did he move, but his message was perfectly clear:

"No."

He was painfully thin, razor sharp collarbone jutting out from underneath striped cotton. Catch him in a breeze, loose clothes blown so they were hugging his bones like a second skin, and his ribs were clearly visible, countable. Once snug jeans now only just clung to angular hips, spidery legs seeming ready to snap.

Roger sighed; he would come round with time. Nudging the plate of heavily buttered toast encouragingly once more, he left the statuesque boy to his thoughts.

He'll come round.

--

A large, imposing man approached the silent figure sitting alone in the darkened room. He flung a file stuffed with papers at the young boss, grimacing with obvious disgust. "We have a rat in our midst, Mello," he stated bluntly, eyes flashing dangerously.

The blond didn't look at him, merely took a delicate bite of chocolate, the sharp snap it made as it split cleanly amplified ominously by the silence surrounding him. He didn't speak, nor did he read the file, but his message was perfectly clear:

"You know what to do."

He was lean and powerful, small yet perfectly formed muscles reaching out from underneath glossy leather. Catch him in a rage, tight fabric stretched so that it hugged sinew like a second skin, and his shoulder blades were clearly visible, knotted and poised. Once clean-cut hair now only just revealed his darkened eyes, honey coloured strands constantly rough and choppy.

José leered; he wouldn't last long at the top. Looking at the file pointedly once more, he left the solemn man to his chocolate.

He won't last long.

"Fuck," Matt swears under his breath, and begins to reason with the blond. "Look, Mel, I thought we could just – I don't know – pick up where we left off, I guess." He sounds upset.

Mello shakes his head, golden threads of sunlight burning brightly as they fall with the motion. "How?" he asks quietly, futility creeping into his tone.

Matt's eyes flare with anger as he quips, "I don't know, do I? You're the one that left, not me. You're the one that killed this." The fire in his voice smoulders and he breathes in shakily.

"I know," admits Mello, still not looking at the teen, "I know." He bites his lip and kicks the floor, guilt squeezing any trace of conviction from him.

An uneasy silence settles between them, each grappling with thoughts and feelings they don't fully understand, trying to make sense of them frantically. Matt breaks it: "I need you, Mel," a quiet invitation to blissful ignorance, to leave everything unresolved and volatile, that Mello accepts, approaching the couch once more.

He plucks the goggles from Matt's head and resumes his previous position, dipping down to lightly kiss the teen's smoke-tainted lips.

"I need you," Matt murmurs as Mello attacks his jaw-line, "I need you."

A cold wind bit at Mello's face, icy fingers of air running down the back of his neck, and he shivered. His straw-coloured hair had been blown across his face, and he relished in the slight warmth it provided, hanging his head so that the strands could brush his frozen cheeks.

He waited, standing on the corner of the street as if expecting someone. He knew he was there, somewhere; Matt had never been very good at covering his tracks.

A flash of red in the corner of his eye confirmed his suspicions, and he looked obviously behind himself at his hopeless tail, smoky eyes finding their target immediately.

After a moment of stillness, Matt emerged from behind a pillar with a resigned shrug of his shoulders, stepping into plain view and weakly holding up his hands as if to say, "You got me."

Mello snapped around completely, drinking in the sight of a friend he thought he'd lost. Matt was thinner, if possible; gangly and awkward as ever. There was a hollowness now in his eyes replacing the joy that had made Mello feel alive for the first time all those years ago, but his trademark attire hadn't changed: bold, crimson hair still vibrant, long sleeves still striped, heavy boots still present, although a pair of goggles now sat snugly in a nest of red atop his head.

"I noticed you last week," Mello jibed, throat tightening.

An apologetic grin was all he got in return, and Mello grappled with his mouth in order to form a sentence that could articulate the kaleidoscope of emotions rushing like electricity through his mind. Failing, he turned again, leather clad back to the red-head. He brought a Hershey's bar out from one of his pockets and unwrapped it calmly.

"I'm glad you came," he said at last into the bitter cold, still not looking at his friend, and took a mouthful of chocolate.

Matt looked up from scuffing the pavement with his foot and saw Mello begin to walk away. "So am I," he muttered to himself, before following the blond out of the street.

Whispers and gasps ghost past cheeks, cool breath skimming over burning skin. Where fingertips brush, nerves tingle like fire. Mouths collide and tongues tentatively begin to dance, a slow passion kindling itself between the two, and they break apart before the heat consumes them completely.

Butterfly lights touches from Mello's lips trip down Matt's neck, and when their path meets striped cotton, it is simply removed and they resume.

Matt, in turn, presses kisses into Mello's hair, slightly trembling hands slipping from small shoulders to glossy leather, finding a zip, clasping it with slender fingers and drawing it down towards his abdomen.

They shed their clothes and drop the unwanted garments onto the floor, allowing electricity to jump over their bare skin, passing freely between them.

Mello raises his head once more and brings his mouth to Matt's, hovering deliciously close for what could be a lifetime before Matt bites at his lower lip, brings them together and forces him to clinch the deal.

As the kiss deepens, their bodies entwine, limbs entangled and torsos pressed together by an insatiable desire to touch, to connect. Matt sinks, dragging Mello down with him, and shivers his impatience.

Static blared from every direction, a fuzzy, terrifying cacophony of grey screens and hissing earpieces.

One computer retained its display; the one computer not reading and presenting data, but receiving and collating it. Two green words blinked at the bottom right-hand corner of the screen: No Feed.

Matt sat, frozen, surrounded by white noise. His ears rang from the sudden explosion of feedback that had almost deafened him, and while he had been cursing and throwing earphones to the floor, the screens on every side of him had switched from clear images to worse than blank. Blank meant a glitch; static meant broken.

He grabbed a headset, inspired by terror, and held it to his face, asking shakily into the small microphone, "Mello?"

No reply.

His breathing was slow and shallow, as if he were scared the air rushing from his lungs could bring his suspended disbelief crashing down around him.

"Mello?" he demanded, louder this time, hoping the blond simply hadn't been listening.

Still no answer.

A sharp gasp made him shudder, and he covered his face with his free hand, hiding as much of himself as possible from his worst fears.

"MELLO," he screamed down the defunct line, trembling violently. Mello was dead. They were all dead. Every one of them killed.

Abandoning the computer station, Matt left, aiming for the warehouse. He wouldn't believe it. He couldn't.

In the back of his mind, he heard the explosion again and again, unbidden images of charred flesh and twisted bodies forming, taunting him.

"You can't be dead, Mel," he breathed as he pushed open the large doors, exiting into bright, L.A. sunlight and heading towards the nearest car, smashing his elbow through a window, wrenching open the door, finding the keys and speeding away in a cloud of dust and screeching tyres.

Matt's hands race over Mello's perfect body, drinking him in - mapping him out - through the feel of his skin beneath shivering fingertips. Matt pushes up, away from the couch and into the kiss, craving more of Mello's exquisite taste. Matt clutches at Mello's back and pulls him closer, desperate for reassurance that he wouldn't leave again.

Mello's touch isn't rough enough, his kiss not hungry enough, his grip not tight enough. He seems distant, and Matt longs to swallow him completely in this one moment, feel the blond allow himself total surrender to desire. He teases and provokes, desperate for a reaction, desperate to ignite that spark that would bring Mello crashing into the present, force him to let go of the past and invest himself in the right here, right now, even if only for a second.

Want and need scream in Matt's mind and he echoes them in the only way he knows he can. Into thick, honey-blond hair, next to Mello's ear, he whispers, "Fuck. Me."

The lack of reaction sends a shard of ice stabbing through Matt's chest and he feels a hot tear roll over his cheek. Please, Mel.

Mello hears a small sob escape the teen beneath him, feels a small splash on his arm.

Matt was crying.

Rubble.

Dust and rubble and smoke. Mello coughed, chest heaving, and he blinked open his eyes. Bodies. Broken bodies lay strewn over shattered stone, lolling uselessly.

He brought a dirty hand to his face, gingerly placing fingertips on raw flesh. It felt bloody and hot; burned. The contact hurt, so Mello hissed in pain.

Unfocused eyes roved over the destruction around him. There was no structure left, only haphazard piles of brick and stone and twisted metal. Small fires were still glowing like beacons amongst the chaos, the smell of scorched wood and flesh hanging heavy in the air.

He felt dizzy, stomach spasming as the world span. He could see the sky, and the clouds, and looked down to see legs and blood. Concentrating on feeling, he realised with a jolt of agony that his left leg was crushed, crimson pooling on the dusty floor. He saw white bone jutting from a mess of red. Acid broiled in his gut and he turned his head and wretched, the fumes and the smells and the sights overpowering.

There didn't seem to be any way of standing up, and Mello smiled lazily, looking up at the clear blue expanse above, sunlight happily blinding him.

He was going to die here.

Sharply drawing in another gasp of air, Mello flopped his head to the side, vision blurring, horizon sliding in and out of focus.

A faint roar in the distance broke the ringing in Mello's ears, and he noticed a trail of dust flying closer and closer. The crunch of tyres on sand and gravel was familiar and welcome. As spots danced in front of his eyes, Mello heard the slam of a car door, the pounding of boots against dirt, frantic shouting, the clatter of disturbed rubble.

He strained his eyes wide, desperate to sharpen his view of the world. His mouth opened and closed, voice cracked. A small croak escaped his chapped lips as he grappled with his consciousness. "Matt?"

The clicking of pebbles drew nearer, and Mello looked towards it, directly into the sun. It hurt his eyes, but he kept them open. A hazy shadow of a figure appeared, silhouetted against the white of a blurred sky.

"Mello?"

Ferocity sears through Mello's body, the will to dominate, to control at least one part of his piteous life, intoxicating in its strength. Tearing their mouths apart, he assaults Matt's pale throat with savage bites, tongue working and sucking the soft skin until it bruises, leaving his mark on the teen.

Upon feeling the change in Mello's stance, the shift of his position, the tensing of his muscles, Matt chokes out a sigh of relief. He rolls his hips, and Mello growls, taking a hank of red hair in his tanned hand and yanking back Matt's head.

The teen groans in delight and arches his back, chest heaving with his ragged breathing. He writhes and squirms, arousal almost painful, Mello still pulling back on his hair and rendering him incapable of doing anything other than wait.

With agonizingly slow movements, Mello snakes an arm down between them to find Matt's leg, deliberately ignoring both their desperate needs for release, running his hand over an almost concave stomach, then a smooth, taut thigh. He kneads the muscle and Matt's breath hitches.

"That's a stupid plan, Mel. I won't do it."

Matt was sitting on the cheap, cream carpet, leaning against a sofa with a laptop balanced on his legs. Wires criss-crossed and tangled over and around him, various electrical items attached to them scattered within a two metre radius of him. A filter tip dangled from his mouth as he shot an incredulous look up at his friend.

Long, articulate fingers stopped tapping at keys and were brought to his lips, delicately removing the cigarette and stubbing it out in a dish on a nearby coffee table. He twisted it slowly, glowing red tip burning brightly before dying into ash, and blew smoke from his mouth, tendrils of grey swirling and snaking over cherry pink flesh, then dissipating quietly.

Mello shot an irritated look back at the red-head, bristling at the insult. "It is not, and you will."

Sceptical eyes again lifted away from the screen in front of them, looking up through thick, brightly coloured hair at the blond. "Kidnap? You think kidnap is a good plan?"

"It's the only thing we can do," explained Mello, running his hands through his hair, tousling it to new levels. The recently acquired scar on the left side of his face burned an angry red, caught in the slats of light slicing in past the blinds, and he glanced anxiously at the ceiling.

Matt caught Mello's eye and looked straight into it. He saw the frustration at being beaten by Near yet again, the need for revenge against L's killer, the fear for their lives, the determination to do this with or without the help of his friend, the desperation at his doom to come second constantly, the raw hunger of competition. He saw it all, and more. He saw it and understood.

Gaze returning to the screen in front of him, Matt resumed his typing. "Alright then," he agreed quietly, "We'll do it."

Roughly and without warning, Mello loops his arm underneath Matt's knee and jack-knifes it against his chest. He hisses and lifts his head up to meet Mello's, lips crashing as Mello plunges himself into the red-head.

A sharp gasp of pain escapes into the kiss as Matt feels Mello stretching him, tearing him, filling him. It hurts, yet he pushes down, begging for more. Blinding pain means he can ignore reality, not see the hopeless situation they're in.

Mello moves, friction burning them both, and Matt winds his free leg around the blond receptively. He pulls out, deliciously slowly, then slams back in.

The pace quickens, sweat-slicked bodies rolling in and over one another, inseparable. Matt raises his hips to meet Mello's halfway, angling himself perfectly and feeling Mello hit that tiny bundle of nerves with earth-shattering force.

He moans heavily, body trembling, the feral noise driving Mello wild. The blond pants and buries himself deep, climax spilling into the teen who only feels ecstasy and sees stars, his own release pumping freely onto their bare skin.

A stillness is born from the frenzy of only moments before and Mello sinks, exhausted, to join the teen on the cushions.

Matt fingered the smoke bomb in his left hand, right gripping the steering wheel of a red sports car. Mercedes. Nice.

He drove, swiftly, and saw the building, his target. A moment's hesitation - pale fingers reluctant to relinquish their hold on the black explosive - before it was hurled from the window.

Speed. The car flew away as quickly as it had arrived, bringer of confusion and threat. Guards took chase, Mello took his chance.

In a mirror, Matt saw the motorbike pull up and a distressed, dark-haired woman clamber on. Fool, he smirked, and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The engine roared, and sirens behind him blared.

The hunt was fast and unforgiving. Car and bike, as adeptly driven as they were, couldn't avoid the swarm of police that closed in from every direction. Time to split.

Matt caught sight of a flash of black swerve down an alley, patrol saloons too slow and clumsy in trying to follow piling up in its wake. Alone again. He wrenched the wheel in the opposite direction, hurtling down another road.

An onslaught of lights – red to blue, red to blue – attacked his eyes and he cursed in shock upon seeing the wall of vehicles he had unwittingly driven into. A trap. He ground his foot down on the brakes, and the tyres squealed their disapproval. As he came to a halt on the sidewalk, armed officers encircling him, his mind raced. Caught.

His hand reached for the door handle, and he stepped lightly onto the pavement, boots crunching. Arrogant. Arms raised in mock defeat, cigarette dangling nonchalantly from his grinning lips, he opened his mouth, drawing in breath, ready to talk his way out of trouble.

Guns. The click of a trigger, the crack of a small explosion, the glint of a bullet. Silver sped, flew through the air and lodged itself in his torso. A gasp; no air.

He looked down, eyebrows raised in surprise, and saw blood leaking from his chest, a virulent crimson stain growing on his shirt. The street seemed to slow, stretch and warp, as his eyes raced wildly, terrified. He tried to breathe, but only the gargle of flooded lungs escaped him. Drowning, dying.

The cigarette fell from his lips as his mouth opened in comprehension. Oh. His arms dropped, world distorted, and he scraped five useless fingers from collar to abdomen, smearing them over the open wound in utter disbelief. Pain.

As he collapsed, dancing through the air on his way to the floor, he dimly registered his brain shutting down. Tunnel vision. He crumpled, red head hitting the gravelly ground hard, eyes wide and glassy. Lifeless.

A truck drove past, driver disguised from watchful, law enforcer's eyes by a delivery boy's uniform. Blond hair, dark eyes.

Matt saw nothing.

Mello saw Matt. He continued on, unobtrusive and unsuspected, head turning to look at the limp body for as long as humanly possible before he disappeared around a corner.

He clamped shut his burning eyes – Forgive me – and felt a tight rope close around his chest, windpipe constricted. Why should he keep breathing when he no longer had a reason to live? Choking, crying.

Focus. Reaching the first designated stop, he made the woman strip, dumped her clothes and clambered back into the driver's seat. He felt clumsy and numb, deadened fingers fumbling with intricate keys, trying to start the engine. He swore and thumped the dashboard. Focus.

The truck revved into life and he sped away again. They had a plan. He had a plan. Neon lights blurred outside the window into blinding tracks through the night. His mind reeled at the image seared into the backs of his lids, etched into his nerves and tissue and soul, his very being scarred from the sight of Matt, dead on the street. Dead.

Panic. He was alone. His breaths came short, sharp and desperate, fear enveloping him in an airless prison. Focus.

Focus. A warehouse loomed in the distance, and Mello drove haphazardly towards it, skidding to a halt, truck tipping and wobbling precariously for a second, then righting itself once more. Breathe. Phase Two. Matt would be proud.

He sat calming himself in the cab for a minute before having to begin dealing with the scantily clad woman locked in the back of the truck. Twenty seconds too long.

A jolt, pain shooting down his left arm, and his heart stopped. He tried to suck in air, lungs screaming, "OXYGEN." Vision swam, limbs relaxed. Bitch.

Comprehensive thought fluttered away, and Mello only registered the crippling pressure on his ribcage. Panic. Dying.

He felt blackness all around him, heard nothing. It was all-consuming and terrifying. Dizzying pain rang through his being. Focus.

Matt.

Blond head lolled against the steering wheel, hair smothering his face. Dark eyes stared lifelessly into an abyss invisible to the living.

…Boom.

Reeling from the dizzying high they'd reached, Mello merely flops down beside the spent teen. He reaches out and laces his fingers through long, slender digits, racing heart slowing back to a gentle rhythm.

Matt's chest rises and falls slowly, calmly. Mello squeezes the hand he's holding tight and breathes, "I love you too," quietly into Matt's shoulder.

The red-head doesn't respond, and Mello shifts to see his face. Vermillion hair and alabaster skin contrast brilliantly, as vivid and shocking as blood stained snow, and no less disturbing. His lips are parted, steady breaths rushing over swollen flesh, and his eyes are closed, lids fluttering delicately.

He is asleep.

Mello sighs and rests his head on the arm of the couch, unconsciousness tugging at the corners of his mind. I do, he thinks as he stifles a yawn and relaxes into the cushions, hand remaining firmly clasped around Matt's loose grip.

I swear I do.

…

Any good?