+Epilogue+

April 27, 2010

9:55 p.m.

Matt here. If someone had told me beforehand that bullet wounds and broken bones took THIS long to heal, I might've stayed handcuffed to that bed…

It's been almost three months since the adventure, three of the longest, most boring months I never wanted to imagine. Getting my arms shot up in thirteen places really wasn't a great idea, now that I think about it. I mean, it's not a great idea anyway, but it turned out I shattered both major bones in my left arm, so I'd had it in a cast ever since we'd escaped. Having shattered bones in your arm isn't fun on regular terms, but for three straight months now I hadn't been able to use my left hand at all…which tragically meant I'd had to endure without playing a single, solitary, fucking video game. Zero. Zilch. None.

I am losing my mind.

Of course, trying to explain this to Mello gets me no sympathy, just a lot of insults and head shaking. At least he hasn't been yelling at me nearly as much as he did when I was at my n00b-pwning best. So at least he's been in a semi-not-psychotic mood since I was injured, but I'm bordering on full-blown drooling lunatic. I've had to settle for playing the games on my new cell phone, since they only required the use of one thumb. I also had wicked scars on my temple and on my neck from getting grazed with bullets there. It goes without saying that I couldn't walk too great either, as I'd taken about three or four bullets to each leg. No broken bones there, at least, but a shit-load of pain and almost constant cramps made up for that. Even if I wanted to get up and try walking, Mello had pretty much told me I wasn't ALLOWED to. I'd been in bed almost exclusively, which wouldn't have been a bad thing if it were in a different context.

I get no sympathy from Mello on that end either. Shocking, right?

Currently today, I'm still as previously mentioned: bedridden, bored, and going insane… Oh, and don't forget horny. The one bit of good news: I never have to get dressed past my underwear or leave the house…but I could stay locked up in the dark half-naked anytime. I'd rather not have all the layers of bandages, broken bones, antibiotics, and atrophied muscles to go with it. At least it isn't as bad as the first two weeks, when I'd been constantly doped up, delirious, and getting pumped full of stolen blood. I'd lost almost half of mine so since we left Tokyo I'd pretty much been half-conscious or less for weeks, just trying to get my strength back. I still had scars in the bends of my elbows from all the IVs.

I sighed out a cloud of smoke, staring out into the condo we'd taken up residence in just outside the city limits in Chicago. We'd snuck out of Japan in Donne Sever's private jet, posing as cargo with me high on morphine and strapped to a gurney soaking up blood from baggies. We were trying to get as far away as we could as fast as we could. The building had been built over 20 years ago, so it wasn't popular real estate. Perfect for us. We had the whole seventh floor home to ourselves, and even though there were two master bedrooms on each end, Mello had set up a bed for me in the living room near the kitchen and second bathroom, so my wounds and needs would be easier to tend to.

Thoughtful, except that with me as an invalid he'd taken over the decorating himself, so I was sharing the living room with three hulking black-lacquered bookshelves piled with morbid novels, Classic literature, Bibles in several languages, research materials, poetry, notepads, and files…haphazardly bookended with various styles of skulls—some ceramic, some glass, some pewter. The corner behind me had been turned into an eerie Catholic shrine for a statue of the Virgin Mary, whom he'd surrounded with red and black tapered candles in gaudy, jagged holders. There were wrought-iron sconces for more candles on the walls, and crucifixes of all shapes, colors, sizes, and styles nailed all over the place. The living room furniture was red and black zebra patterned with red velvet accents to match the heavy drapes over every window. The walls were painted alternating black, red, and gold. There was also a nifty replica of an iron maiden in the far corner—at least, I kinda hoped it was a replica.

Of course, he had his favored style of armchair made of polished black leather off to one side by the marble fireplace, the mantle of which held more Catholic icons, pewter figurines, and a coffin-shaped incense burner. The rest of the furniture was fancy, Gothic, and antique done in dark wood or lacquer, and the flooring was a checkerboard pattern. Any empty space was arranged with candles, incense burners, ornate crosses, or idyllic statues of saints. Many of the walls had Classical religious paintings in thick, elaborate frames.

There was an especially graphic version of the "Pieta" hung directly above my bed in a rosewood frame that had strips of ragged black velvet hanging over it. Mary was cradling Jesus' bloody body on the ground after the cross had been taken down. I wasn't sure if it was supposed to mean something to me or not, but he would never tell me if I asked anyway. It had been enough hell trying to convince him to hang some of my stuff, but we finally compromised when he said he could hang the wall scrolls because they looked classy enough.

I sighed again. We'd been living together in our new place all this time, but so far all I'd been able to do was lie in bed and recover, play Tetris, maybe Pac man, or God forbid Bejeweled, smoke, watch satellite pay-per-view or late-night porn...

It was boring, sure…but all things considered, Mello had taken a much bigger risk. He'd intentionally had his name written on a page of the Death Note just to test his theory, a theory I'd inadvertently given him by commenting on how useless names were to a person. So essentially it was my fault, which made me feel REALLY great. But without telling him, I'd run my own name through the program also, so now we'd both changed our birth names legally, but it hardly mattered. We still called each other by the same old preferences we'd been dubbed with at Wammy's. Of course, in order to own this place we needed aliases, so officially I was Liam Isaac, and he was Michael Cain (both of which were his idea). I had vowed never to tell him my new real name, just as he swore to me he'd never tell me his.

Not long after we'd left Tokyo—and our lives—behind, it was announced that Kira was relinquishing his powers and leaving the fate of mankind in the hands of man itself. Immediately after, the mass killings of criminals by heart attacks ceased entirely, and gradually, things had been returning to their normal, chaotic, decaying state of rolling consistently downhill. Sure was ironic, but at least we didn't have to worry about being spotted and slaughtered by someone with Shinigami fucking Eyes anymore.

Of course there was still a lingering Shinigami-type problem, since every so often Mello would get these random chest pains. When I'd finally worked up the guts to ask him about it, he'd told me his theory. He deduced that the power of the Death Note was so strong it consistently attempted to finish the job it started back in Tokyo that night, but it just couldn't because that was against its fundamental rules. It never gave up though, and apparently he'd have a heart condition for the rest of his life because of it, one that no amount of pills or surgeries would affect. If he ever changed his name back, he was sure he'd drop dead. Good thing he wasn't planning on that anytime soon.

One thing we knew for sure: Near had defeated Kira in the end…and he couldn't have done it without our help. That seemed to be adequate enough consolation for Mello, and he'd assured me it was and there was no need to speak of it again.

But still I wondered…which really wasn't good for my health. I mean, he'd only spent just about every waking moment of his life that he could remember battling to be better than Near, but in the end, at the last minute, he'd decided to fake his own death instead so he would be free of everything. I'd done the same, but I hadn't been looking that far ahead… My only thought when those crazy Kira-humping bastards started firing was that I had to find a way out of it so I could make it to the checkpoint and call Mello. Beating some guy on the street over the head and stuffing him in the trunk hadn't been the plan, but I figured if I got caught I could blow the car and fake my way out of it. The getting shot to hell part, I was only partially prepared for. I figured being extra careful and wearing a bulletproof vest would be enough, but I was wrong. Too late now.

I hadn't even been able to set up my bedroom yet, so all my stuff was just piled in boxes in the empty space. I knew Mello's bedroom was ten times as Gothy and creepy and Catholic as the rest of the house though. I suppose, after all, that looking around and seeing all this eerie, dark religious crap made me kinda happy, because it meant Mello intended to stay here for a while. Back during the whole Kira episode, he hadn't bothered personalizing the places we stayed because he knew they were all temporary and might have to be abandoned at the drop of a hat. He'd gotten onto me enough about needing to take all my game systems everywhere. He seemed to be at ease here, as much as THAT was possible.

I have to admit, ever since we'd left Tokyo, Mello had been crazy docile with me. He was still pitiless and mean-spirited and condescending, duh, but at the same time, whenever he tended to my wounds, he was really calm and quiet and (it's weird to say), but he was kinda gentle. If I made any wisecracks, he would usually slap one of my injuries just to teach me a lesson, but otherwise, he was actually very attentive of my needs. Well, all except the one I really, REALLY wanted him to pay attention to…

Lately, he'd been spending a lot of time gone away doing Mafia business. Ever since Kira had vanished, criminal activities had been steadily rising again, and he'd gotten a few calls from random contacts asking him to return as Boss of his old gang. He conducted operations long-distance most of the time, but every so often he went to video meetings and other stuff, making sure his men were back in line and making money efficiently. He was the brains of the operation, but he never went in person, and never showed his face or revealed his real voice, just to be safe, so I suppose he was a kind of "L" in his own way. Only a select few of the original gang members were still alive, and they had no idea what he looked like now, and the rest were n00bs, so he was safe from the police and from Near. I knew Mello felt more comfortable when he had underlings to order and smack around.

I heard a key rattle in the lock and checked the time after I tapped the ash off the end of my cigarette. It was about 10:30 now, the time he usually got home after dealing with the Mafia. I could hear the rustle of a plastic bag once the door opened, and I could hear him talking on the phone with someone.

"No, you need to fucking take control," he was griping. "I know thinking is difficult for you, Dmitri, but try it for just a second. If you let them keep beating him in the face, what will you get out of it? How do you think a man with a broken nose, shattered jaw, and no teeth is going to be able to tell you what you need to know—finger-painting with blood? When you torture a hostage, start with the fingers first! …Yes! Then the toes, shins, knees, and keep working your way up! The face last, got it?" He snapped his phone shut and sighed irritably before he exited the hall and walked into the kitchen where I could see him from my supine vantage point. "Idiots," he scoffed.

"Trouble with the kids?" I asked.

He scoffed again. "KIDS is right. Every time I have a conference with them it's like babysitting a fucking kindergarten class. I really have to shape them up after Kira's reign."

I took a drag and then exhaled. "Turned into a bunch of pussies, huh?"

"That, and since about 98% of the previous members were killed, the syndicates are made up of mostly new recruits—and they are intolerably moronic."

"Good thing they got you then," I remarked.

He hadn't even glanced my way yet. I took the time to look at him while he was distracted by his bag of groceries. He slid his large designer sunglasses off and set them on the counter, revealing the scarring on the left side of his face. Even though it was completely healed over now and all the pink had faded, he still always covered it in public. It was kinda strange, in a way. Knowing Mello, you'd think he would wear a blemish like that like a proud battle trophy, but instead, he was unknowingly self-conscious. I almost liked that about him. It seemed so…human.

He still ran his fingers over it every once in a while, but he didn't ever notice it. I did, but then again, I noticed most things about him. Like how he'd left his hair to grow out, in an effort to hide his face even further. It was now almost touching his shoulders, and I liked how it flipped out a little at the ends when it was this length, like it did when we were little. He maintained that he was trying to keep a low profile, seeing as how we were dead and all, but I knew his ulterior motives even better than he did.

My hair had gotten longer too, but for some reason Mello insisted that I stay well groomed, and he would trim my hair and make sure I was clean-shaven. He'd say it was because he didn't want me looking like a dirty hobo when he had to stare at me in the living room every day, but I wondered... It was like he hated the fact that anything about me was different—like I was being disobedient because I was injured and out of commission. He really didn't like not being in control, even down to the length he was used to seeing my hair.

I watched him casually brush a golden lock behind his ear and then start to put food away. "What do you want for dinner?" he asked.

"You," I replied, unable to contain myself.

He paused and exhaled stiffly. "Are we really going to have this argument again?" he grumbled. "I'm beyond tired of it."

"I don't see what the big deal is," I muttered, letting my head flop. "Just a blow wouldn't hurt me… I'm almost healed anyway..."

"Do you want pork or beef?" I opened my mouth but he held up his hand. "And I swear to God if you make a dirty joke out of that I will punch you in your broken arm."

I sputtered my air through my lips, shot down. "Fine…both. I'm starving." Looks like I wasn't getting lucky tonight either.

"You had plenty to eat for lunch."

"That was for lunch—which was like eight hours ago."

"I left you some snack bars."

"I told you I don't like them. They taste like tree bark."

"They're good for you—and you need a constant intake of vitamins after losing that much blood. I don't want to hear it."

Same thing every time. "…I'm still starving."

"Fine, I'll make both. Do you want peppers or tomatoes with your pasta?" He got a skillet, pot and cutting board out.

"Both."

He shook his head and started a pot of water boiling, got some veggies out of the fridge, and then came around the counter, removing his snakeskin jacket on his way to his bedroom. He disappeared inside for a few minutes, and then came back out with his hair tied up and his biker gloves off. He was wearing a leather vest that buckled down the front with a fishnet shirt full of holes beneath it. His skin-suctioned leather pants laced down the sides and his belt was black with studs. His belt buckle was silver and gaudy with a design of a skeleton with wings on it. He'd been wearing the same pair of shoes lately—pointy leather boots with metal crosses on the heels.

Since I'd accidentally broken his old rosary, he'd saved the crucifix but he hadn't restrung it with new beads for some reason. Instead, he just attached it to his wallet chain. He had a different rosary now, one strung with black beads and red crystals with an Egyptian Ankh charm instead of a cross. I think it was symbolic to him or something, but I couldn't ask.

God, was I seriously fucked up for thinking he was sexy as hell? Eh, who cares? I liked to imagine him getting hit on at the supermarket by single dads or college guys, and then tear them a new one and watch them scamper away when they realized he was a dude. He was just so fucking pretty at a glance that I couldn't blame anyone for being distracted by him, but I wished I could be there wherever he went, watching without seeming to, craving his every move.

He went back to the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the block, starting to chop up the vegetables and such. There was a painting of a skeletal Virgin Mary with a skeletal angel descending to her on the wall beside the fridge, and below that a mural of a Sacred Heart, extra bloody style. Where did he find all this crap?

I exhaled through my nose and re-slumped, just listening to him working in the kitchen. I tried not to keep thinking like such a selfish bastard. This was usually how our days were: he'd wake and check my bandages, change them if necessary, then make sure I was fed and medicated. Then he would feed himself, read the paper, and have some tea before he checked in with his contacts to see what work he had to get done. He would leave all day to make various criminal dealings, since he always had something to take care of lately, and then on his way back he'd run errands. As soon as he returned he'd feed and medicate me again, then make sure my wounds were clean and freshly wrapped. He really was very attentive of me (he just wasn't very nice about it). I was grateful, sure, but if I ever mentioned it he got all pissy. And I really just wanted to be with him, like, together…more than just for a few hours when he shoved food down my gullet and tended to my injuries.

Once he had things cooking, he left the kitchen and came into the living room. "You aren't even watching television?" he questioned, raising his one remaining eyebrow.

"No point," I muttered.

"What are you moaning about now?"

I sighed. "What's the point of watching TV? It's been three months but all they talk about is 'What happened to Kira?' 'When will Kira be back?' 'Kira's just taking a break.' Blah, blah… And I can't play any video games… I mean, I could probably figure out how to play one-handed, like maybe hop back and forth between the keypads, but it's just not the same… If I can't pwn, what's the point? And all this time playing the games on my cell is starting to get to me. I think I've finally gone off the deep end, Mello. I'm seeing colored geometric blocks everywhere, and Ms. Pac Man is starting to look hot. I'm pretty sure I'm insane."

"And I'm pretty sure you're a whiny bitch," he snapped, and flipped on the TV, flying through channels until he found a random crime drama. "There. Occupy yourself."

"Or YOU could occupy me," I said hopefully.

He tossed the remote at me and it slapped me in the chest before I managed to grab it. He stood over the bed with his hand on his hip and grimaced down at me. "You just aren't going to give up, are you?"

"C'mon, man… I've gone without any action for all this time… Aren't you going crazy too?"

"Yes, but only from listening to you." I was on the last few drags of my cigarette. "And I can't believe you're still going through two packs of those fucking things a day. As if your lungs didn't take enough damage already. Not to mention they're fucking expensive." He swiped it from me and snuffed it out in my full ashtray on the bedside table.

Here we go again. "Hey, if YOU were in my place you'd be even worse, man. You won't let me get outta bed, you're never home, and even when you are you just treat me like a sick dog. Why don't you gimme a break—"

He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over me, slapping his hands down at either side of my head. "Shut up." I stared up at him, at his sharp, dark eyes focused on mine. "Do you really think this is a picnic for me either?"

I blinked. We were barely apart, the tip of his nose nearly touching mine, his lips close enough to torture me every time he breathed. "At least you have function in all your limbs," I breathed, still frowning apprehensively.

"For the record, I told you to stay out of it."

"…I didn't want you to do it alone."

"I know!" he barked, but then he shut his eyes and took a breath. He always did that. When he started to get seriously upset he would stifle himself—something he NEVER used to try to do. Was he trying to spare me? Why? Because I was hurt?

Was it really so impossible for him to feel guilty? Once upon a time, I would say yes. But now…

"Look, I know it hurts," he said, "but the bullet holes should be healed in less than a month. I'm not sure about your arm, but it'll be at least a few more months before you can use it—"

I lurched forward, pressing my lips to his. His eyes snapped back open, glaring, but he didn't pull away. I lifted my good hand and slid it to cup the back of his head, eagerly searching his mouth with my tongue. We'd kissed every once in a while, but never for very long, and not like this. It was almost as if he was afraid I would break. Was he really so guilty? To hell with that. I'd rather break both my legs and my other arm than go without touching him any longer.

I'd waited most of my life to be able to touch him this way, to crush him so close he could never see anyone else again. I'd coveted him like a spoiled brat for as long as I'd known him—and I'd wanted to fuck him ever since the day I knew what that meant. He was always the brightest icon of my waking world. I couldn't tell him, but that was also part of the reason why I left Wammy's all those years ago: I knew if I stayed any longer I wouldn't be able to contain myself. And I was sure that if I let something happen, he would never forgive me. I had to leave, put distance between us, or else I would've lost control around him eventually.

I wasn't sure how much he could guess, but I was almost positive he would never know—or understand—how much he dominated my thoughts, like a hot poison that ate away everything else.

He withdrew after a while, his tongue sliding free, and ran it across his pink lips absently, leaving them wet. Shit, I wanted him.

"Mello," I breathed, almost hoarse, and started to run my fingers over his scars. He simply shook his head. "No, I'd rather break every bone in my body. Don't walk off."

"I have to. Your supper is burning."

"Rather have you," I insisted.

"I've told you, no," he stated, hardening his gaze. "Not yet."

"Well, when?"

"Not yet," he repeated. He twisted free of my grip and stood, walking away. All I could do was stare at his glorious ass in those pants and mope. He returned to what he was doing in the kitchen, and about fifteen minutes later he brought me a full plate of food on a tray. He included my antibiotics, vitamins, and pain medication on a napkin. "I refilled your prescriptions today so make sure you keep taking them on time. And don't skip on your vitamins." He sat at the bar to eat his own food, glancing over a book as he did.

I stared down at my plate, which looked amazing, but I suddenly didn't want it. He wouldn't buy me junk food or candy or any kind of salted snacks period, and always made me perfectly balanced meals. I couldn't drink soda or coffee, just orange juice, water, and milk. I also had to take several kinds of vitamins in addition to my prescriptions, and all I could snack on between him making my meals were these unholy fucking oatmeal fiber bars. If I could, I would pile every single one of them in a bonfire and dance around it in Indian feathers. It was like he was trying to baby me, even though every time I complained about something he cruelly cut me down.

I sighed and shoveled my food in with my one good hand, not pausing until it was all gone. Then I popped the pills with some water. After that I slumped again, lying back to stare at the ceiling.

I really didn't know what to make of things anymore. Not that I ever really have. We'd changed our names, faked our own deaths, escaped Kira, started our lives over, and I had no more idea about him than I did before. Everything he did was so contradictory. Like how he bitched about me smoking but still bought me cigarettes (of course, they were the cheapest ones he could find, not the brand I preferred). Or how he'd been the one to suggest starting our lives over together, but then hardly ever talked to or touched me.

What did he even consider me? Was I really just a sick dog? Or maybe just a project to keep him occupied after abandoning his life's mission? Maybe just an outlet for all the guilt he couldn't stand to contain? Or maybe all three. I guess it didn't really matter, but I didn't have anything else to do but lie around and think. Was he my boyfriend? I almost laughed out loud. He would break my other arm and probably my neck if I ever called him my boyfriend.

I turned my head to watch him eat at his own pace, slipping each morsel into his mouth and chewing slowly, the same way he did with chocolate. I couldn't see what he was reading, but I could only guess it was something morbid and darkly poetic. Sometimes I wished he would just come home, angrily tear off his clothes, and ravage me like there was no tomorrow, like the last time—when we really THOUGHT we might be dying. If he only knew the ways I plotted for him to subdue me, break me down, make me beg. I'd be no more than another of his tortured hostages…starting with the small things first…and then working his way up until I was battered, helpless, and supplicating in his presence.

I liked my illusion of power when he let me top him, when his body gave way underneath me, but I would give anything to hear him demand it again, with that deep, cruel hiss of a voice. He had no idea how he possessed me. I sorta kept it that way, always mouthing off with sarcastic remarks and playing it casual, but that was just automatic for me. Deep down, under every layer of hair, flesh, and blood—I wanted to be forced into submission, struggling for air, beaten and bloody at his hands. I wanted to be on the floor licking his boots, and on my bruised knees making him sneer down at me and snarl selfishly for more. I wanted him to want me in the worst ways possible.

I sighed loudly. Am I really, REALLY that fucked up? Guess so. Not like he wasn't. I knew if things were different—if he wasn't so alienated in his mindset of human intimacy—then he would probably be a much more sick, demanding lover. I could picture him standing over me in an SS Uniform with a whip pretty easily… But whether it was his messed up childhood, or whether it was just his nature, that wasn't him. And if I hadn't been injured so critically, things might've gotten somewhere in the past few months… Maybe we could've been fooling around, getting used to each other, opening up in new ways… But that wasn't the case.

When he was done eating, he picked up all the dishes and washed the kitchen quickly. "Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

"Beer." He poured me some milk and brought the glass from the kitchen. He didn't make it out before he stumbled, splashing milk from the glass and catching himself on the counter. His hand flew to his chest and he bared his teeth. "Mello!" I sat up abruptly, hurting myself a little, but I leaned forward. "Are you—"

He shook his head and stood straight again, taking a breath. "It's nothing," he stated. "I'm fine."

"Your heart?"

"It only happens every few hours. It's already gone."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Don't worry about it, like I said." He cleaned up, poured me more milk, and handed it to me. I chugged it and he put the glass away. After that, he brought a chair over to my bedside and then gathered up the usual materials to change my bandages. "I'll change these and let you get some sleep." I sat up again and pushed the sheet away. He snipped away the tape and then unwound the gauze from my arm, unveiling the circular knots of wounded skin. He lightly smoothed his fingertips down them. "How badly do these hurt?"

"Not bad," I answered. "Kinda like really bad bruises."

"That's good. Your tattoos will be warped once these finally heal."

"Yeah, I know… Nothing I can do about it." I hadn't exactly been sober when I got them, and what they meant to me was easy enough to tell, though he never mentioned it. They'd just been a vain attempt to hold onto the way he made me feel in the years we were apart. Kinda sad when you think about it, but like I said, I wasn't exactly sober.

He cleaned them off before he followed with alcohol and then ointment. "How about your left arm?"

"Not as bad as a couple weeks ago, but it hurts when I move it."

"You had a compound fracture in both major bones. You'll be lucky if you can still do anything useful with that arm."

"I know… As long as I can mash buttons I think I'll live."

"I knew you'd say that." He pulled the sheet further down, exposing my thighs, where the rest of my bullet wounds resided. He lifted me carefully by one knee at a time and unwound the gauze there. After that, he inspected the marks. I only had three or four on each leg, since mostly the bodyguards had been aiming for my torso. Bigger target, and I got the feeling they weren't pro killers, just hired muscle, so trying for a headshot hadn't been too important as long as they emptied their clips. Good for me, I guess. Still, I had deep muscle damage. "How about these?" he asked.

"Not as bad."

"…You're sure?" He placed his hand on my right thigh, the one closest to him, and my whole body flinched when skin met skin. Something seemed to come over him then, in his eyes. They narrowed and my chest got tight seeing it.

"Uh…yeah…"

"So no pain at all?" He rubbed his fingertips in a circle around one of the marks, forcing me to wince in dual reaction. His fingertips continued, circling a higher one, and then higher, grazing beneath the very bottom edge of my boxer shorts.

"Ah…. A little…" I admitted.

"…So when I do this…" He clasped his hand flat to my inner thigh, his palm pressing the highest wound. I felt my breath escape me in a stutter. "…Does it burn? Sting? Throb…?" My mouth fell open and I couldn't find any words. I think I just kinda stammered some weird sounds. Was this really happening? Christ, please don't let me be asleep… "What's that?" His hand slid higher, his fingers scraping inside the leg of my undergarment, only inches away from touching my groin. Shit, it felt like miles!

"Maybe…it burns," I exhaled. I could feel heat start to pool in the area, centering in a terrible, raging need that quickly manifested itself. He didn't seem to notice I was becoming erect, or else he pretended not to.

"That's all?"

"It throbs…some," I nearly gasped.

"Oh?" He stretched his fingers to let the tips of his nails trace down my pelvis, coming so achingly fucking close to touching it—but not quite. "Maybe I should do something about that."

"Yeah, you should," I blurted.

He had his upper body craned over me and one knee on the bed, but he stopped just then. "Did I ask for your opinion?" he demanded lowly.

That sound just made it worse. "No," I said quickly, desperate to keep him in this mood, wherever it came from. "No, I, uh…"

"You should ask nicely," he said, removing his hand from the leg of my boxers. My stomach caved in and I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out in protest.

"Please," I breathed.

He chuckled once—that devilish little laugh that could only mean his brain was full of horrible things. My whole body seemed to get smaller—except my dick—and the hair on the back of my neck was crawling down my spine. "That's a little better." He placed—just placed—his hand on my cock, staying outside the fabric. I jerked my head in the pillow. "But I think you can do better than that."

"Uhn… Please, God, Mello…don't stop."

The edge of his mouth twisted up into a wicked grin, and then he rubbed me back and forth, slowly, making me lose my mind. Everything else seemed to get darker and further away except for him. He was godlike, always hovering above me, always requiring worship from those lesser than him.

I was painfully hard in seconds, so he just scooted further onto the bed and hooked one finger in the hem of my underwear. He pulled it down, revealing my erection, and then took his time running a single fingertip down the length. I groaned in torture, which only made him smile wider. After a few tormenting seconds he bent down and ran his tongue over, and I swear the anticipation would kill me any minute. He continued once I let out a staggered moan, using his hand now too.

Just how long had I fantasized about Mello touching me this way? Everything about him sent hot shivers down my spine and made my hair stand on end. His rough, probing grip, his invasive tongue, his demanding, unforgiving voice… God, I was pathetic in his presence. All I ever wanted to do was tease and taunt him until he lashed out, punishing me with his rule, crushing me underneath him. Ever since he'd gotten over the shock of my advances he'd pretty much been on a path of making up for that, and only allowed my dominance when he was tired or in a particularly kind mood. Of course…those occasions weren't often, but I really was fine with that. And with my being an invalid at the moment, I really didn't have any choice.

Still, ever since I'd gotten the idea to try something with him, I hadn't let it go. I buried it for years, cramming it into the furthest, dustiest corner of my head. I'd tried so much to forget it, especially after leaving Wammy's, but when he showed up again out of nowhere asking for my help, all grown up, looking like that…the idea started to surface again, and wouldn't be ignored. I'd had to shove it aside for years, knowing he was focused, lethal, and far more dangerous than he'd ever been. His fuse had shortened substantially, and his reactions had increased in violence. If I wasn't careful, I knew he would shoot me in the face. So I waited…for just the right time…

Still can't believe it worked.

He was gliding his mouth up and down my shaft, rolling his tongue in circles every time he made it to the tip. Christ, what the hell had he been doing—studying? Because he obviously hadn't been practicing. He just couldn't stand to be anything below excellent, no matter what. He teased and licked until I was a feverish heap of tense muscles and euphoric brain cells, and then he pulled away.

"Shit!" I groaned. "Shit, shit…!" He sat back in his chair with a glide of the tip of his tongue over his lips, watching my lower body spasm uncomfortably. He just crossed his legs and leaned his chin on his hand, smiling. "Why…?"

"Just to teach you a lesson," he replied.

"…You aren't seriously gonna leave me here like this, are you…?" I whimpered.

"Maybe I am." He extended his leg to nudge against my swollen member with the toe of his pointy boot. "Maybe that's exactly what I'm going to do."

"You can't," I argued.

"Oh? You're going to order me around?"

"You can't, Mello," I insisted.

"Tell me why."

"Because…I'm an invalid…and you should be nice to me."

"Try again."

"…Because I've been wanting to fuck you every minute since we moved here but you've barely even touched me. We were supposed to start over... If you ditch me now, I think I might die…"

The corner of his mouth tweaked upward. "Only one of your arms is broken, you know," he mentioned. "I think you can take care of the problem before you expire."

"What…? You mean you…?" He just smiled a little more menacingly, still resting his chin on his propped fist, watching me. I was in hell, and he just teased at me with his boot again, making my whole body wince. "Mello…"

He propped his heel on the edge of the bed and waited again. "I like to watch you squirm, it motivates me. Get to it."

I could feel heat rising in my skin all the way up to my eyebrows, but I bit straight into my lip and lowered my good hand between my legs. He smirked, lowering his eyes to watch me touch myself. Damn him, the evil, tyrannical bastard… He knew exactly how to humiliate me, to beat me down without ever laying a hand on me, and God it made me hot. I was so pathetic, and he knew it, and I couldn't stop it—and I enjoyed it, and he enjoyed the fact that I did. I could never hate him, no matter how he treated me. And he knew that too. I manipulated myself as he watched, unable to hold back the shockwaves of pleasure from showing in my face. He was reveling in every minute of it, just taking in the sight until my entire body stiffened tightly, ready to burst, and he shot out his hand and snatched my wrist, stopping me.

"Oh…fuck…" I groaned.

"Not so fast… If you're going to learn a lesson, then this needs to last longer."

"You're an asshole…"

"Yes, but haven't you told me repeatedly that you like it?" He stood, unfastening the buckles down the front of his vest and then removing it. His hand went to his belt buckle next and so many shivers were bolting up and down my spine that my back started aching. He removed his boots and pants, crawling onto the bed after to straddle me, just in his fishnet shirt and rosary. It wasn't difficult to notice he was hard too, but I could hardly stand to look away from his face as he loomed over me, teasing my erection with his.

"It's no fair," I accused, trying to speak through my groans.

"What's no fair?" he questioned, a devious smile still spread on his lips.

"Whenever I tried to tease you or take my time, you got mad and told me to get on with it, but here you are torturing me instead of just fucking me."

"You don't call the shots unless I say, remember? And this isn't for your pleasure—it's to remind you of that." He pulled his hair tie free and I immediately reached up to grip a handful of it.

"I wish you'd leave it up so I can see your face," I managed to say as he spread himself over me.

"That's exactly why I don't."

"I know." I kept a fistful of his hair in my grip as he lowered his head close to mine, close enough for me to smell the lingering chocolate on his breath. He still ate it, but not nearly as much as he used to. He only had one every other week or so, I guess trying to move on from that part of himself. I'd been trying my best to cut down on smoking, but with me lying in bed all day unable to snack or game, it was pretty much impossible.

Mello ran his hands upward from my stomach to my chest, making pressured circles there while he rocked his lower body against mine at the same time. I urged him closer, needing to kiss him, taste him. He drifted as if he might comply, and then suddenly curled his fingers under, scraping me with his black nails and making me grunt open-mouthed, only inches from his crooked grin. I couldn't tell if I was bleeding or not because he reached one hand down and started to stroke both of us together in unison.

"God," I sputtered, and twisted his long hair in my fingers, almost digging against his scalp. It felt amazing, but… "Mello…I don't wanna come this way."

"Now you're complaining about this too?" he demanded, still inches from my lips.

"No, it's just…" I yanked him abruptly to me, hurling him into a kiss that he tolerated before I withdrew, focusing my gaze. "I wanna be inside you."

He blinked, his brow creasing and his eyes narrowing. "You shouldn't strain yourself that much," he argued.

"I'm already strained," I insisted. "I'm strained every time you walk by, every time you look at me. I'm going insane just lying here, I really am. When you said we could start over, I thought…"

He released his hold and pressed both his hands to either side of my shoulders. "You thought what?" he questioned, his brow still slightly furrowed. His hair curtained most of his cheeks and his ears, curling softly against his neck.

"I thought… I dunno, exactly…but I thought maybe you'd stop…keeping me at arm's length. I thought maybe you'd let your guard down, finally…"

He sighed, sitting up and brushing his hair back. "First of all, I just wanted you to heal. Everything else should wait until then, but you just won't shut up. And don't you think I've had my guard down all this time? Here I am, tending to your every need, like a fucking slave, and you don't appreciate any of it. All you do is find more things wrong with it." He was starting to sound angry, but he wasn't yelling, which was good so far.

"I appreciate it," I protested. "I just… After everything that happened, everything we lived through…I'm seeing things in a new way. Now that life has a whole new meaning I'm feeling really greedy. I want you all the time. I want you more than ever. And I have noticed you changing, little by little. I notice everything about you, Mello, no matter what you think. The only thing I've ever really paid attention to all the time was you. But after getting shot to hell by those fucking lunatics and nearly choking on my own blood, I'm even more selfish than before. And you're everything I wanna keep to myself."

He exhaled through his mouth and glared down at me. "So what is it you want, exactly? I don't know what the hell you expect if none of this is good enough."

"I just don't want you to push me away ever again," I said. "We're both dead, so we're all we got. This isn't short-term anymore, this is for good. This is for real."

"I know that," he snapped, shutting his eyes. "I know, and I haven't gotten used to the idea yet, alright? I never anticipated an outcome like this, with an actual…positive outlook on the future. I was ready to die that day…until they reported you'd been gunned down on the news. After that…Kira felt insignificant. I threw everything away, forsook my victory, and ran to find you. I'm just… I'm still disillusioned from it all. I can't separate myself entirely, as much as I try. I planned on being alone, so I need…time to adapt."

"Hey," I whispered, grabbing hold of his arm. "We got time, remember? We got all the time in the world."

He chuckled briefly, shaking his head. "I suppose you're right. We do."

"Let's just…take our time then. We don't have to rush anymore. We actually have the rest of our lives to look forward to. For once…I'm thinking ahead."

He leaned back down. "Took you long enough."

He adjusted his position, grabbing hold of my cock and guiding himself down over it. I clamped my teeth together and moaned through them. Jesus, it felt amazing to be in him again after so long. He bared his teeth with a hiss of pain and then began to sway his hips over mine, pumping us together and apart, boiling my blood. I clasped my hand against his thigh and he grabbed onto my shoulders, thrusting steadily, concentrating. I tried to maintain my composure, but the more he grinded me, the more I spiraled out of control.

I sat up swiftly, throwing my arm around him, grabbing his ass in one hand and moving him over me. "Matt," he barked, "lay back down."

"Don't need to." I buried my mouth in his neck, licking and sucking his marred flesh, making a wet trail down to the scars on his collarbone. "Need this. Best medicine."

"Idiot," he muttered, but he went along with it, our motions blending together, his nails hooking in my hair and my skin, his voice deepening, stuttering with his heavy breath. I tugged at his fishnet shirt, lifting it, and he peeled it off. I was free to explore his chest with my tongue, making him shudder and gasp. I loved those sounds just as much as I loved his cruelly mocking tone.

"God, you've only made it worse by being so fucking sexy lately," I said into his skin.

"Stupid," he stated.

"You still can't take a compliment…"

We came at about the same time, unclenching our muscles and sagging against each other. I leaned too heavily on my left arm and a blinding pain shot through it, making me flinch visibly. "That's why this sort of thing is a bad idea until you're recovered," he snapped, taking himself off my lap.

"I'm fine," I grumbled. "My own fault."

He opened his mouth to say something but then doubled over, clapping his fist to the left side of his chest. "Shit," he hissed.

"You okay? I thought it only hit every few hours." I put my arm around him.

"Apparently, it also happens when I'm under intense mental or physical stress."

I shouldn't have, but before I realized I was saying, "Heh, INTENSE physical stress, huh?"

He shoved my arm away with a scoff. "Jackass." He straightened and smoothed his air. "Well, this should shut you up for a while."

I lunged my arm back around him and pushed our lips together. "Maybe for a while, but it won't last." He snarled at me for a moment and then sighed irritably and met my eyes. Suddenly he threw me down on my back, pulled my underwear back over me, and then draped the sheet across my body. His lips were on mine and then gone so fast I couldn't reciprocate.

"Get some sleep," he ordered, and collected his clothing. "I'm taking a shower."

"…So I'm just supposed to wallow here in my own filth?"

"You wanted to fuck, now deal with the consequences. I might sponge you off when I get out, if I feel like it." He walked off.

"What happened to babying me?" I called, but I heard his door slam.

I sighed steeply and sank into the mattress, smiling to myself. Things would be rocky and awkward for a while… We still had a lot of adjusting to do in our new lots in life. We weren't balanced on a razor's edge, in danger of dying any minute, barreling towards a singular objective with no time to spare. Now, we actually had the rest of our lives to live. We had time to get used to what we'd become, and what we were still becoming. We had time, finally, to figure things out, and make something of what we had. We could live like semi-normal human beings…for the first time.