A/N: Whew! Wow! Hey there everyone, I know it's been a ridiculously long time since this has been updated, but I've returned with chapter 2! Things have been crazy and hectic and I'm not sure why, but for some reason, the MM part of my brain decided it wanted to go on a year long vacation and is just starting to come back to me now. I'm so sorry I haven't been updating my older stuff in so long, but believe me when I say that I never stopped working on it. I literally have seven drafts of this very chapter on my computer, some of them long enough to be complete chapters, but I was never happy with any of what I had written. Before I could blink, Matt and Mello had shifted and changed on me, and, while they're not that different from the characters they were at the start of this thing, future plot points have been altered, and their personalities had to be tweaked a bit so it would all fit. I realized how these two were complete opposites from my normal fanfiction characterizations, especially Mello.
Anyways, I should stop rambling on and finally get to chapter 2. Some thanks are in order. Thank you to narni4eva, CabiidO, kaitouahiru, AlmightySponge, Darkness-Bride, Axiam, Melissa (Demon Hiei's Girl), romulus-girl, NothingFromNowhereImNoOneAtAll, demonlifehealer, Moot-kun, Living in a fantasy, twentyfiveraven, Xxyaoi-puppetxX, Daft Punker, Svadilfari, CenterCitizen, Myrah, I'm With Gameboy, naturally morbid, Nairo Xana and Jemmi, kurama'scrystalrose, Songbird Severine, Rosa Lui, Artificial Starlight, merichuel, Rem Gerere, and cheyjeevas for their reviews and everyone else who favorited or put this fic on their alert list. Really, I'm so thankful to all you guys, and I'm so sorry for making you wait so long. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

Remember, everytime you read and review, an angel gets it's wings (or finds it's flaming sword, whichever tickles your fancy).

Disclaimer: Death Note isn't mine. Talk to Ohba and Obata. They have greater imaginations than me.

Chapter 2 - Gavotte

I'm not the biggest fan of tea, though for some reason I always seem to get about 3 boxes of the stuff at Christmas time from people around the publishing house. Naomi has offered to take them off my hands before, but I've always kept them. 'In case I ever have company who likes tea,' I'd tell her.

Well, it probably wasn't the brightest decision, considering I never have company to begin with.

Even so, I'll drink tea on occasion, if I ever have a rather uninspiring night or if the house is too bloody cold.

And when Mello and I finally got back to the house, I decided that having a rather depressed musician-slash-murderer moping about my living room was simply another occasion that called for it.

"Want some tea?" I asked weakly as he practically collapsed on the couch. He always looked so small when he hunched over like that, especially when the lines of his body seemed to be hiding in the folds of my old clothes.

He scrubbed at his face with his hands for a moment and then kept them there, speaking into his palms. "Yeah, that'd be great."

"Right," I said, hesitating, nodding to no one in particular. Something about the atmosphere felt incredibly off, some gear in everything was loose and rattling and making a whole lot of noise, but where it came from was a giant mystery. In reality though, that noise was absolute silence, because neither one of us was saying anything of importance. The only noise in the house was the persistent hum of rain on the roof as storm clouds slowly rolled in."I'll go and put the kettle on then."

I walked stiffly to the kitchen, like some great force was trying to pull me back, telling me to stay and comfort him.

"What the fuck can I do?" I muttered angrily, slamming the kettle on the burner and turning the knob with a violent twist. I could have told him to get the fuck out, that he asked for a ride and got it, that I didn't owe him anything and he was damn lucky I didn't call the cops on his ass.

Without him, my life would be normal again. Quiet days spent at a quiet computer or typewriter. Quiet evenings spent with quiet dinners and quiet television. Quiet nights spent in a quiet bed with no one else.

Fuck, even the noise of rain on the roof was new to me, like he was the one giving it any sound at all.

I bit my lip and pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of my sleeve.

And then I realized I hadn't asked him what kind of tea he drank. I looked at the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and realized that I wanted nothing less than to face him right now, while I was still reeling with embarrassment at how lonely my pathetic little life had been just 24 hours ago.

I tried to distract myself by digging through the cupboards for my tea, I found a box of green tea behind the ramen, some sort of flowery herbal tea behind that. I stared at both boxes, frowning. There had to be more than just this. I knew they were probably all scattered around the kitchen, but something about this cupboard in particular was calling to me (something that sounded suspiciously like desperation). So I arched forward, standing up on the balls of my feet to stretch and grope around on the shelf and...there, behind a bunch of cans of soup was a dusty, unopened box of Earl Grey. I wondered if he liked Earl Grey, and then hoped to God that he did, or else he'd think I was an idiot for offering to bring him tea when I didn't know where the Hell I kept it in my own kitchen.

"The water's boiling."

I jerked in surprise and slammed my head against the edge of the cupboard shelf. "Fuck!" I hissed, slowly pulling out of the cupboard to rub at my head. In the other hand I clutched the Earl Grey. Next to me, the kettle was whistling shrilly on the stove.

How the hell had I missed it?

"Are you alright?" Mello asked from the doorway, looking a little concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, just..." I hissed again and realized that it was the whistling kettle that was responsible for my damned headache and finally took it off the burner. "Sorry, I got a little distracted." His frown deepened and his scar suddenly looked like some gloomy raincloud across his face. I felt this sudden urge to shoo it away. "Hey, look, I'll be out in a second with your tea, alright? Um, wanna watch a movie or something? I've got loads of them in the cabinet next to the TV. I don't know if you'll like any of them, I haven't watched most of them myself, but we can always get something on pay per view too. I don't go to the movies, really-" Oh God, someone please shut me up! "-and sorry about taking so long. I hope you like Earl Grey, because I can't seem to find anything else. It's been awhile since I've had tea and I-" My voice started spiraling into this nervous laugh but it cut off before it could get there.

Mello had stepped forward and taken my wrist in a tight grip.

"Just..." he began stiffly with an almost tormented look on his face. He bit his lip and loosened his hold on my wrist a little. He opened his mouth once, closed it, looked away.

I stood, frozen, terrified and touched in the same moment. The pounding of blood in my ears had replaced the shrill sound of the kettle.

"You...you talk about the stupidest things," he finally said after a silence that seemed to last years. He looked up at me again, and something just...broke. He started crying, taking a step back and suddenly slipping his bandage wrapped hand upwards, lacing his fingers with mine and squeezing hard enough to break my fingers. "You...fuck, you talk about the most pointless shit!" He sounded almost breathless, falling back against my fridge, never letting go of my hand.

"Mello..." I started, and then stopped again when he made a sharp noise that told me not to speak.

He tried to say something. He really, really tried, moved his lips to mouth the words but the sound wouldn't come. And I'm crap at reading lips, so I couldn't figure out exactly what it was. He grit his teeth and inhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his hand against his closed eye. My fingers began to go numb, but I didn't dare let go. Fear and some sort of unexplainable feeling of obligation urged me to hold that connection, to keep him grounded, to keep myself grounded as his emotions ran in violent torrents around us. "And...and you never, ever try to touch me!" he gasped. "You just...you don't fucking care!"

I wanted to tell him that I did care, but it seemed so impulsive and...well, I couldn't honestly say it wasn't a lie.

Also, I don't think it was what he would have wanted to hear.

All I could do was watch, confused, as he choked and cursed, seemingly trying to ride out whatever horrible storm my words had thrown him into. His whole body seemed to slump against the refrigerator, but his arm was rigid and deliberate. I couldn't move closer, but I couldn't pull away. He kept me at a distance, but just enough within reach.

And maybe...maybe that was okay. Maybe I could deal with that.

I frowned and looked away, staring down at the Earl Grey and listening to him cry.

For the next few days, there wasn't really any talk of when Mello would be leaving.

He never asked, and I never mentioned it. Part of me just sort of expected to wake up one morning to find him gone, along with most of my money and valuables.

I started cleaning out my den for him, so he could practice when his hands healed. I had never really used the room, except for storage. The room was loaded from wall to wall with old boxes and bins and an infestation of dust bunnies. It took me nearly half a day just to put a dent in the mess, but I estimated it would only take me another day or so to finish it up, just enough time for his hands to heal up.

Apparently, Mello couldn't wait that long to practice.

"I told you that you should have waited another day." I pulled another strip of bloody gauze back before dropping it into the waste bin beside me. "Damn, didn't it hurt?"

Mello shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Not really," he said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the kitchen table. "Just bandage it up again for me."

Not even a 'please'. Geez, he was demanding.

And yet, I had to remind myself that I was still doing what he told me to do. What did that say about me then?

It said that I was stupid enough to bandage up a spoiled brat's hands even after telling him that he would end up hurting himself if he tried to play his cello again too soon.

The lighting in the kitchen was far better than in the living room, so cleaning the cuts across Mello's palms was a lot easier than it had been on his first night here.

"Hold up," I murmured in the middle of dabbing at the re-opened wounds with rubbing alcohol. I took his hand in a firm grip and pulled it up close to my face. "There's still a piece of glass in here."

Mello's cheeks went a little pink. "Wondered what that was," he mumbled, slightly shamefaced.

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to keep a straight face. I felt a smug smile dancing at the corners of my mouth. Be firm, I reminded myself. Don't let him make a fool out of you. "I thought you said it didn't hurt."

"I said 'not really'," Mello snapped, weakly trying to pull his hand back. A little blood was surfacing where the small shard was still lodged, on the verge of dripping along his hand and off, onto the linoleum of my kitchen floor. "Jesus, would you let go? That fucking hurts!"

I released his hand, still trying to maintain some shred of control. "How long has it been like that?" I asked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He tensed, drawing his limbs in closer to himself, somehow shrinking back and puffing himself up at the same time. "I can handle myself," he said coldly, leveling his gaze at me.

It was that same sort of broken look he had given me when he told me that story about Beethoven and his father.

Wait a minute...

His father.

Something in this mess was finally beginning to make sense.

"Mello," I started, shifting in my chair. I tried to look away from him, but he had me completely ensnared. "Look, if...if there's something you want to tell me-"

"There's nothing I want to tell you," he said cooly and, just like that, the look was gone. All that was left was stony determination. "Where are the tweezers? I'll take care of this myself."

I leaned forward a bit. "But, the other night-"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I didn't miss the slight falter in his voice there. He knew exactly what the fuck I was talking about. His fingers flexed and twitched; they certainly knew what I was talking about. He looked sharply down at them. "If you're not going to tell me, I'll just find them myself."

He cradled the hand I had unwrapped with the other, which was still covered in bloody bandages, and marched out of the kitchen towards the bathroom.

I gave a miserable sigh and sank down in my chair, kicking lightly at the trash bin, scooting it across the floor.

Shit, I'd really screwed that up.

But I had only been trying to help. He had come to me, after all, asking me to bandage his hands again.

I couldn't tell where the line was, when I was trying to mend Mello's wounds and when I was ripping them open.

I blinked, my foot freezing mid-kick.

Maybe the whole problem was that I was trying to mend them at all, I realized, feeling ashamed. I mean, it wasn't as if I was his caretaker or anything. After all, he might simply walk out the front door at any moment and I'd be nothing but a shadow of a memory to him.

Mello's stay wasn't going to be long-term, so why should he listen to me at all?

I only sulked about in the kitchen for a minute longer before gathering up the rubbing alcohol and shuffling back towards the bathroom. One of us had to apologize, and it sure didn't seem like it was going to be Mello.

I saw he managed to find the tweezers; he had his hand laid out flat on the counter by the sink, looking closely at the small bit of glass wedged into a shallow cut. I leaned against the doorframe and watched him for awhile. If he knew I was there, he didn't show it.

His face was focused and calm, but the hand holding the tweezers was shaking too much for him to even properly grab the shard.

"Lemme help," I murmured, stepping forward.

"I've got it," he snarled, eyes burning. "I told you I can take care of myself."

I stopped just beside him and held my hand out, open and unthreatening. "If you try and grab it like that you'll just wedge it in deeper." He ignored me. I raised my voice a little the next time. "I want you to know that if you end up cutting some major artery, I'll have to take you to a doctor. I'm not going to sit here playing Operation with you until you die of blood loss."

He seemed to consider this for a second before begrudgingly handing over the tweezers. "Fine."

I took the tweezers, smiling a little too brightly, and patted the counter with my hand. "Alright, hop up then." He stared a bit vacantly at me for a moment before I realized it might be a bit hard for him to sit up on the counter without his hands. "Do you...need me to lift you?" I offered awkwardly.

"No, it's fine." He managed to get up, a little clumsily, using his arms and elbows. When he was finally balanced and settled and I had taken a seat on the toilet lid, he thrust his hand out to me, quite conveniently avoiding looking at my face.

Figuring out how to pull the bit of glass out was difficult; it was a little longer than I thought and it had gone in at an awkward angle. I had to turn Mello's hand at a few different angles before I could finally determine how to go at it.

Hell, I should be a surgeon.

I took a brief moment to consider getting a new job. Maybe I'd actually be good at surgery. It would certainly make me more money, not that money was exactly an issue. Dear old, dead Mom and Dad saw to that.

And those medical shows were all pretty cool too, like House and ER.

My hand stopped, the tweezers hovering just over the cut.

But what if I accidentally killed someone?

No, I don't think I could handle that. At least as a writer, I wouldn't be able to kill anyone. At least, not directly.

"Something the matter?" Mello said from above me.

I cleared my throat, groping for something to say. "I was just thinking about this whole arrangement," I lied, face burning.

Of all the possible answers, I had to say something like that?!

"Arrangement?" I heard more than saw his confused expression.

"Yeah, you know." I shrugged in what I hoped was a casual gesture. "I mean, you've been here a few days, and I know we haven't really talked about any of this stuff and I thought-"

"Look, I can leave if you want."

"-that maybe you could stay for awhile."

We spoke at the same time, and then paused. I looked up at him to see him looking back, his rather astonished expression mirroring my exact feelings at that moment.

"You...want me to stay?" I took a little solace in the fact that he sounded more curious than disgusted, but it didn't help much. How could I have even thought to ask him to stay? Really, how much of an idiot was I? He was on the run, wasn't he?

Oh, that's right, he was a murderer! How could I have asked a murderer to stay in my house? To sleep in my bedroom?!

"I mean, you don't have to," I mumbled, turning my attention back to his hand and clamping down on the glass with the tweezers. "But I just figured since you've already got your cello here-" I pulled back, the glass following. "-and I'm cleaning the den and all-" The shard slowly slid out. A slow trickle of blood began leaking out. Some gauze and a little pressure solved that. "-that you could just stay here for...awhile." Yeah, that sounded cryptic enough.

Mello said nothing.

For some insane reason, I felt my heart sink.

It was true. I wanted him to stay. I usually can't stand being around people, but with Mello, something seemed to just...fit. It was like he knew me better than I knew myself. He teased me, yes, but there was always something else behind it, something that felt like longing.

Call me crazy, but I think he was jealous of me at times.

And honestly, knowing that someone was actually jealous of my boring life made it a little easier to forget about just how mundane it was.

"Hold some pressure on that for me, would you?" I told him as I threw away the piece of glass and washed off my hands and the tweezers.

When I finally started to work on his other hand, he still hadn't said anything. It was when I was nearly finished with the appendage, unrolling bandages and gauze, that he finally said something.

"If...if you'll have me," he said, so quietly I almost missed it. There was a sense of fragility to his voice, as if he were afraid I'd suddenly declare it all some huge prank at his expense. "I'd really like to stay here." I faltered in my motions and felt my face flaring up with heat again. "Is that alright? I can pay you rent if you'd like."

"Don't worry about it," I insisted, rather gruffly in a poor attempt to cover up my rising demented glee. I jumped as I felt him touch the top of my head.

"You've got dust in your hair," he said, laughing a little. His hand brushed at the top of my head, flicking the dust away with gentle sweeping motions.

I was sure that my face was as red as a tomato now. Mello didn't exactly like me touching him, but he seemed to have no reservations about touching me.

I finished his other hand as quickly as I could, hunching over so he couldn't see how badly I was blushing. "There, all done." I stood and rinsed my hands off in the sink, shoulders drawn up nearly to my ears.

"Thank you," he said as I dried my hands. There was no fondness or anything like that in it, it was just a simple 'thank you'.

I offered to help him down but he brushed me off again.

When he hopped off the counter, he tripped forward and landed softly against my chest.

I hadn't even realized my arms had stuck themselves out to steady him until I felt him go stock-still. All I could see were his green eyes, wide and rather terrified, looking back at me. Our faces were close enough for our noses to brush.

Oh shit, don't think about that.

All the blood seemed to have rushed from his face, leaving him looking rather sickly.

"You alright?"

He jerked away from me, sticking a hand out to, once again, keep me at a comfortable distance. It pressed firmly against my sternum, pushing me further still from him. "Yes, sorry, I'm fine." I nodded dumbly and he maneuvered his way around me and towards the door. "I'm going to go put in a movie, okay?"

He had grown quite acquainted with my movie collection in the past few days. He was particularly fond of Amadeus. I wasn't sure if he had seen it before I met him or not.

I nodded vacantly again. "Burgers okay for dinner?" Fuck, why did my voice have to start cracking now?

"Yeah, that's fine," he said, forcing something that was probably supposed to be a smile but turned out more like a grimace.

Then he was gone, leaving me alone to calm my disobedient nerves.

When I went to bed that night, I still couldn't get the smell of him out of my nose, or the warmth of his breath off my face.

And I still couldn't shake this awful feeling that I had just made a very, very bad decision.

The nightmares of what I may have gotten myself into kept me up all night.

The next morning, I watched Mello put chocolate syrup on his toaster waffles as I wracked my brain on how to ask the questions that I was rather keen on addressing now that I was sure Mello wasn't going to simply disappear.

Mello liked waffles and chocolate syrup for breakfast, and chocolate poptarts, and chocolate muffins. Anything chocolate, he wanted it.

I preferred my waffles with a nice dose of Mrs. Butterworth. I wouldn't touch his chocolate soaked breakfast.

This whole living together thing was weird. Really weird. I felt like we should be acting all buddy-buddy now that we were roomies, but there seemed to be this huge chasm between us, a giant gap in knowledge that I struggled to try and see across.

We would have to stretch over that chasm, slowly work our way across.

Or maybe he wouldn't even be here that long. Even with this new settlement between us, it wasn't a complete certainty that he'd actually stay.

Still, I decided that I wanted to make that first stretch.

He had no reason to tell me anything about himself. So I would just have to tell him something about me. That should be enough, right?

"When I was little, I used to be super afraid of birds."

Mello stopped chewing all of a sudden, giving me a rather baffled look. He swallowed the food in his mouth and then smiled weakly. "That's...nice."

I jumped straight to the point a little too quickly, too eagerly. "What about you?"

"What about me?" He shrugged and took another bite of waffle. I watched the thick brown syrup drip off the corners and onto a little puddle on his plate.

Part of me thought he may have been feigning ignorance in order to distract me, or maybe discourage me.

No! I would not be swayed!

I put my fist down firmly on the table to prove my determination. Mello jumped a little, looking confused.

"Is there something wrong with the table?" he asked, the tines of his fork resting against his lower lip.

"Well, I mean, I told you something about me, aren't you supposed to say something about yourself now?"

He raised an eyebrow. "When did we agree on that?"

"Er..." I began, realizing that we hadn't ever agreed on anything like that. It had all been inside my own head. "It's polite is all."

"Alright. When I was a kid, I wasn't terrified of birds at all." He took another bite of his waffles, looking satisfied with himself.

I frowned at him, watching him stab at the last few bits of waffle with his fork.

"That's not really fair."

"It is true, though."

"But that doesn't tell me anything about you."

He put his fork down with a clatter. "Don't pretend that information has no value," he said, looking frustrated. "You telling me about your fear of birds is nice and all, but it really means nothing to me, okay?" He wiped away a smudge of chocolate syrup from his lip. I hadn't realized I'd been staring at it. "I appreciate you letting me stay with you, but if you're going to make me pour out my life story as some sort of payment, I think I'd rather stay somewhere else." His eyes were almost pleading with me.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to work out what he was telling me. "So...you'll only tell me what I want to know if I tell you what you want to know?"

"Those were the rules the first time." He began picking at the edge of one of his bandages.

That's right, we had done this before. I would just have to figure him out, one small step at a time. One question at a time, turn by turn.

Only if you're okay with the fact that you might not like what you hear.

I began feeling very nervous. I poked at my waffles, pushing them around in the sea of syrup surrounding them. What sort of question was he talking about?

"When we went to get your cello..." I stabbed at the waffles with my fork. "Who was that man who came out to the car?"

"His name is Roger." There was no reluctance in his answer. Maybe this would be easier than I thought. "He gave me music lessons when I was little. Now he arranges recitals and performances for me outside of the symphony."

"The symphony?"

"Stop," he said, holding a hand up between us. "I gave you my answer. Now tell me why you invited me to stay here."

I forced a laugh to cover up my total lack of preparation. "That's what you want to know?" Shit, I didn't have an answer for that one! "Why would you want to know that?"

"Stop answering my question with questions." He looked deathly serious all of a sudden, his lips pressed into a tight line. I glanced down at his plate and fork.

I saw what Mello could do with his bare hands and a public toilet, I had no desire to see what he was capable of with a fork and broken china.

"Can I just clear the table first?" I asked, meekly.

"No." I could hear in his tone that he would probably punch me if I decided to get up from the table now. The muscles in his arms flexed and I could almost see his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

"It...I..." I gestured wildly with my hands, like I was trying to grab the reasons out of thin air.

In all honesty, that's basically what I was doing.

"It's not all that complicated," I said, huffily. "I mean, you needed help, didn't you? You asked me for a ride, so I gave you one. You needed a place to stay, so I let you stay. And you haven't killed me yet even though you've had plenty of opportunities - and don't think that I haven't noticed all those opportunities- and before you came along I hadn't been able to write anything of worth in months and then I heard you playing and BAM! All of a sudden I can't stop!" I hadn't meant to let that part slip out, but there it was.

I felt humiliated, like some kid who just had his first crush outed to everyone.

Except that this wasn't a crush. Not at all.

Mello still just stared at me; he didn't say a word.

At least he didn't look upset anymore.

Actually, he looked confused.

An odd sort of silence fell between us. I finally dared to reach over and take his plate as I began to clear the table.

"So there it is." I stood up, watching him carefully. I was still afraid he might try and hit me. As I walked to the sink, I saw him touching the edge of his scar out of the corner of my eye, tracing along it's edge, over his cheek and back towards his ear.

"What happened to you?" I asked. He gave me a confused look and I gestured at my own face. "You know...the scar."

And then...he smiled. Not a normal, happy smile, the kind of smile that those insane supervillains always wear in those cheesy action movies. The kind that says "I've got a few screws loose and a knack for getting out of a straight jacket."

"It was an accident," he said, though his words felt empty, as if it were a phrase he kept hearing again and again, one he was expected to recite to people. "One of my father's friends got a little careless."

His father? Oh God, I felt sick all of a sudden. I noticed his hands were tight and shaking against his thighs.

"Ah, hmm, I'm sorry to hear that," I told him stiffly, and turned to the sink before I could start backtracking and saying what I really thought. I didn't want to hear about his father right now, I didn't want to know any more about what happened to him. I really, really didn't.

I busied myself with the dishes, hoping I could scrub off this horrible feeling crawling under my skin, that Mello's smile would disappear into the thick, white soap suds.

When I turned to grab a towel from across the room, Mello was right there in front of me.

"Jesus!" I exclaimed and leaned away from him. I heaved a sigh as my wet and soapy hands, raised up near my ears, dripped water down my wrists and onto the floor. "Don't scare me like that."

"You scare too easily," he spat, looking annoyed. "Why did you ask me to stay here?"

"I told you already."

He took a savage step forward, bearing his teeth. I felt my back slam against the counter's edge, heard his hand land flat on the counter behind me. "It's insulting the way you look at me," he snarled. "The way you try to pretend it never happened."

I shrank back as far as I could, honestly frightened for my life now. "I-I know it happened, I just don't know why."

"You think a jury would give a damn?!" He leaned closer, which seemed almost impossible. He was as close as he could be without actually touching me. "I killed him, I murdered him. He yelled at me to stop, and I ignored him. It's murder, plain and simple."

I wouldn't even look at him. My hands were up in defense now more than anything else.

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"I killed my father."

I risked a glance up at him; his expression was murderous, but there was something else there too, something soft and desperate.

"You killed your father," I recited, hoping I sounded just as robotic as he had before.

"I murdered him."

"You murdered him."

His grin was twisted and broken, almost sad to look at.

"Then look at me for what I really am and ask me to stay here."

I looked at him. He still looked the same. Still terrifying and lonely.

And that loneliness was enticing, it sang with something in my own blood, pulsed with the same rhythm, craved that same touch.

"Stay here with me," I murmured. "You..." I felt my throat go dry and swallowed before continuing. "You killed your own father and I want you to stay here with me."

I'd love to say that living with Mello was an easy thing to acclimate to, since his demands were really simple:

1) I wasn't to touch him unless he allowed me to, and if I had to, I was supposed to ask first.

2) All answers were repaid with answers.

Our little games of twenty questions went smoothly. I managed to learn what his favorite brand of chocolate was, that he had a puppy when he was 4, and that he once dreamed of being a meteorologist. There were other questions I wanted to ask him, and maybe he would have answered if I did, but I felt like there was another set of unspoken rules between us. Don't poke at open wounds. There were obvious sore spots in Mello's past, clearly marked off by the way he would call an end to our back and forth whenever the subject of his mother or that kid we saw back at Roger's place came up. Most of the time, we could just call an end to our game and go about as if nothing had happened.

But, there were times when it wasn't easy to live with him at all.

The exact definition of touching was incredibly fuzzy, because most of the time, Mello seemed to be the one initiating the physical contact.

He crawled into my bed twice over the next week. He woke me each time and asked, and I let him. The first time, he left while I was deep asleep. The second time, I felt his fingers pressed to my own, tip to tip, for a few minutes while I pretended to sleep.

He put his arms over my shoulders while I sat at my desk, leaned against me when we passed in the hall, and teased me about being a "pervert" whenever he got me flustered.

Really, was it my fault that he knew just how to push my buttons?

He had a sparse wardrobe by the end of the week, a few of my old sweaters and long-sleeved shirts and two pairs of jeans. The jeans were just the right length but he still had to use one of my belts to get them to fit.

He learned that I liked video games, and I learned that I should never have told him that.

If there was one thing I took to heart over the first week of living with him, it was to never challenge Mello in anything, whether it be fighting over the remote, or what we'd have for dinner, or even Mario Kart.

He was definitely quick-witted and his arms were deceptively strong, able to put me in a headlock with almost no effort. And then, of course, there were less direct methods of fucking with my head, methods that he tended to use whenever we were planted in front of the TV, locked in a dead heat in a game of Halo.

It always went the same way, and that night was no different.

"Shit!" I cursed, leaning forward slightly, practically on the edge of the couch, back hunched and shoulders tense. "Come on, Mello! Give me a break!" My character ducked behind a tower of crates to hide, narrowly avoiding a shot to the head. Mello's man was setting himself up to snipe me the moment I emerged.

Beside me, he was chuckling darkly. My heart sped up and I swallowed thickly. Was I really that nervous about losing to him? "You're the self-proclaimed 'master of videogames'," he teased. The couch cushions shifted beside me. "Surely you could hold your own against someone like me." His voice was already dropping in pitch, down to a soft and flowing tone that just sounded so nice coming out of his mouth. "I mean, come on, I've got injured hands, after all."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He was making his move!

He was creeping towards me. If there were anytime to try and escape, it'd be now, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to escape him in the game, or here on the couch.

Still, the issue remained that I was pinned down and I had to think of something before he really did drive me insane with his breath against the side of my face.

So...I faked a high pitched whine, one that was supposed to tell him that I was more focused on him and not the game. The moment I saw that grin out of the corner of my eye, I darted out from behind the crates and made a dash for the next room where I wouldn't be so vulnerable.

"Risky move."

SHIT! His fucking mouth was practically against my ear! He was leaning into me!

I squeaked - yes, squeaked - and jolted forward. The controller slipped from my hands and I scrambled to grab the cord to pull it back, but it was already over. My character had stopped in the dead center of Mello's line of fire. By the time I had regained control, I was gone, sprawled out over the concrete while Mello was congratulated on his perfect assassination.

"I win again," he sang, reclining back on the couch, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"You fucking cheated," I muttered, trying not to look him in the face. I could just imagine how red my cheeks were.

He was already entering his initials into the high scores.

MBK.

I chewed on my lower lip, silently wondering what the B and K stood for. Maybe...Bartholomew Knox? No, Benjamin Knight.

Mihael Benjamin Knight...

"You're the one who acts like a teenager who just found his first porn magazine," he said as he triumphantly watched his initials flash in second place on the high scores. Thankfully, I still held the top spot, though I haven't come close to beating that score since I managed to get it.

Just got lucky, I suppose.

"Wanna go again?" he asked, a suggestive grin on his face.

The flush on my face darkened and stood from the couch. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?" I was in such a damn hurry to get out of the room. I could already feel my body turning against me and if I didn't get out from under Mello's gaze, eyes sparkling with a humor that most definitely wasn't innocent, this would probably turn into one of my most mortifying memories.

Mello scoffed loudly. "Elders? What the fuck are you talking about?"

I gave him a curious look before I passed into the kitchen. "Well, aren't you-?"

The phone chose that moment to start ringing, and since I was already in the process of trying to escape, I chose the lesser of two evils without even thinking about it. I grabbed the ringing phone as if I were sinking on the Titanic and it was the last buoyant object left in sight.

Guess that makes me a coward.

"Hello?" Damn, I hated that I sounded so out of breath.

"Jeevas, tell me why I'm staring at my mailbox and your manuscript isn't in there."

Oh, fuck. This night just kept getting better and better...

"N-Naomi!" I said a little too loudly. "How nice to hear from you!" I tried laughing and ended up sounding like some whimpering dog.

Honestly, if this were face to face, I'm sure she'd be holding a shotgun to my head just like Ol' Yeller.

"Matt, I'm serious," she said, her voice quiet and even. Naomi never yelled, she was always calm whenever she spoke. It was almost scarier than having her yell. "You said you would have the first half edited and mailed to me by the end of the month. If you can't get your act together, Soichiro is going to -"

"Hey!" I chimed in indignantly, turning away as Mello ambled curiously into the kitchen. "It is not the end of the month! It's only the 27th." I must be fucking brain dead.

"Matt," she said, firmly, in a tone that allowed for nothing but full and undivided attention. No, she didn't have to yell. I could feel the force of her anger coming through the phone line, this unbearable heat against my cheek, pricking and scalding my skin and knocking my self-esteem down another few pegs. "I already gave you a month-long extension. I covered for you during the last three editor's meetings, but I cannot do it anymore." Somewhere in the middle of her rant, she slid into this hopeless tone, as if she were a wife who was pleading with her husband to get off his ass and fix the fucking sink, or sweep out the garage, or take the kids to soccer practice. "Aizawa and Ide have been standing up for you at the meetings, but Soichiro isn't going to buy it much longer. Matt, if you keep this up-"

"I know, I know," I pressed, trying to calm her down. It always seemed to be a hopeless endeavor, but at least she'd know I was being serious about all of this. "I'm sorry. Please, if they threaten to move your clients to Matsuda because of me, I'll take the blame. Really, I'm sorry." I heard her sigh heavily and took that as a sign to continue. "Look, I promise I'll have it done. I can hand it to you at the Halloween party, okay?"

"This is the last time I'm doing this for you, Matt," she warned. "Next time, you're going to have to explain yourself to Soichiro on your own." She paused for a moment, as if considering whether it was a good idea to say anything more. "It might be smart for you to show up to the next few meetings so that it actually looks like you're involved in all of this."

My stomach suddenly dropped into a black hole that I didn't even know I had in my abdomen.

"I...I can't," I struggled to say, glancing over at Mello who was currently munching on a slice of cold pizza. I saw him look up from the cardboard pizza box resting on the stovetop, meeting my eyes for only a second before I looked away again.

For some reason, I felt ashamed of myself. Was it really fair to be doing this? Was it fair to myself to look after someone who didn't really need to be looked after? Was it fair to Mello to saddle him with the knowledge that I was putting my job at risk for him? Was it fair to Naomi to burden her with so much stress?

Mello apparently read my expression with absolute clarity. "You don't have to baby me," he muttered quietly, leaning back against the stove. He crossed one leg in front of the other and I couldn't help but stare for a moment.

He just looked so goddamn elegant like that, in my mess of a kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of my sweatpants, eating cheap and, most likely, stone-cold pizza.

Oh yeah, he was fucking graceful standing there.

"Who was that?" Naomi asked.

Damn, she was sharp.

"Just a friend," I insisted.

"A friend?" Her tone said she didn't believe me. And why should she? Coming from me it sounded like a bald-faced lie. I didn't have friends, much less any that I would invite over in the evenings.

"Listen, I'll try and make it to the next meeting. Just send me an email with the dates. I'll have the manuscript for you at the Halloween party, I promise. Bye!" I hung the phone up as fast as I could and then slouched against the kitchen wall. Finally, after wallowing in my own shame for a few moments, I turned to face Mello.

I expected him to look amused, ready to taunt me some more about getting my ass handed to me by my agent.

I wasn't expecting him to look so...disappointed.

"My agent," I explained, smiling weakly. "I may have to go to a meeting sometime this week. You can cook up whatever is in the fridge or I can leave you some money for pizza or something."

"Whatever," he said with a shrug. God, his tone of voice was like a twisting blade in an open wound. "I'll be fine." He gave me a stern look and neither of us spoke for what felt like hours. When he finally spoke up again, his words were like a punch in the stomach. "You're not doing yourself any favors, running away from things all the time."

"Like you're one to talk," I muttered.

Shit, he looked hurt. He went rigid in anger, but the look in his eyes told me that what I had said hit on a nerve I probably shouldn't have prodded.

I should have fucking apologized, but the selfish brat in me kept my mouth shut.

"I'm going to bed," he snapped, striding out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom.

And when I finally went to bed a half an hour later, I saw him lying stiffly in the futon with his back towards me.

I knew he was doing it to spite me, because the street light would have been right in his face and no one can honestly sleep like that.