Gratitude
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any of its respective characters. However, I do own Layla Levandi and the writing seen here. Please do not use them without my permission.
Warmth.
That's what Mello feels like currently, his arms trapping her waist in a cage of flesh and bone. It feels too good to be in his embrace as rain splatters down over them.
"I hated when you left." Layla murmurs, her lips pushing against the warm skin of his jawline.
It feels strange to be back at Wammy's House, back again in the rain, and Mello pulls her hands up to his lips for a moment before releasing them.
He pulls her against him, brushing his hand against her damp hair, while he stares up at the steel cross that looms on the peak of the house. His lips move against her hair, perhaps a silent prayer.
It hadn't exactly been planned to come back to the House, but a few months after the killing of Lucky Lady, Mello had felt uneasy. Mello had simply wanted to feel safe, or, to be more honest, he had wanted Layla to be safe. It was sort of a reprise of sorts, if only for a little while.
It had felt strange coming back to their childhood home, their innocence. Mello had almost felt shamed, as if he were returning prodigal son, but that was ridiculous, there was no longer a father to return to.
However, Roger had welcomed them home, watching uneasily as Mello fingered his gun, not out of cruelty, only instinct.
There were new children in the orphanage now, new successors. Mello almost felt bad for them, realizing slightly that they would not have L to look up to, only a hollow, white zombie who truly would feel nothing for them.
However, it was still early in the game, and they still could enjoy the frivolities of childhood before it was replaced with bitter rivalries and stark hatred.
"Mello," Layla murmurs, her face now pressed against his chest. "It's cold...it was cold that day too."
"It doesn't matter." he states, because he doesn't want to remember the way she clung to him back when he left the House. He doesn't want to remember the warm taste of guilt that flooded his mouth when he kissed her.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the curtain flutter and he backs away from her, not wanting to prolong any of the feelings between them.
"We should go inside," he says, "get dry."
She nods and they make their way through the dampened grass and back into the House, Mello's hand clasping hers lightly.
It's late at night now, and Mello is grateful that the children are sleeping. Ever since they came back to Wammy's, the children regarded him as an enigma, boys nudging their friends carefully to go and speak to them, while the girl's tittered amongst themselves when he would smile at them. Silly things, that they will remember with bitterness once the real training begins.
They walk down the darkened hallways into the library, which has largely remained the same since they were children.
"You taught me english here." Layla says softly, going to sit at a table that is closest to the window.
Mello stands sheepishly against the wall, recalling his adolescent years spent with the little Estonian girl he has always harbored feelings for. Then, he shoves the feelings to the back of his mind, where they belong.
Her coming to Wammy's is only a convenience to him, it should have never become anything more.
Thrusting his back off of the doorframe, he makes his way over to her.
He looms over her a moment, arms crossed and gaze predatory, like a starving wolf. Thin firm hands go to rest on her shoulders, and he leans down to devour her.
As always, her lips go up to meet his own, warm and needy, too fucking innocent, always too innocent. Little girls should know not to trust the wolves, and he isn't even wearing a sheep's wool.
That's what makes her so moldable, so easily shaped. She is deep down, a good girl hiding beneath leather pants and Marlboro cigarettes. After all, he has been shaping her since she was seven years old, although sometimes he's not sure why.
As always though, when he feels the warm flesh of her fingertips on the scarred portion of his face, his kiss softens. His whole demeanor softens, and he hates it.
For some reason unbeknownst to him, he can't be cruel to Layla when they kiss like this. He can't bring himself to shove her away or bite roughly at her lip. He can be cruel to her when he's angry, he can hit, scream, and tear her feelings in half, but not now.
He slips his hand up under her tank top, pulling it off and separating their lips, only for an instant until the offending material is removed. Her breathing quickens as his fingers seek purchase against the edge of her hips, teasing around the slight elastic of her panties that is peeking above her pants.
Then, she purrs his name, those simple two syllables in her low, throaty voice that nearly make his knees buckle.
She teasingly shifts her knee against his crotch and he nearly loses it, nearly whimpers, but he catches himself while she begins to remove his jacket and vest.
Mello smirks at her and leans down, nipping her lip sharp enough for a moan to slip from her lips.
When the lights to the library suddenly flicker on, it takes Mello almost ten seconds to realize that something is wrong.
"I certainly would hope we raised the two of you better than this." a reedy voice creaks.
Without warning, Mello nearly falls in his attempt to cover Layla, who is now shirtless, and under Roger's invasive glance.
"What the hell, old man?" Mello barks, reaching for his coat, which is hanging off the edge of the table and wrapping it around Layla's shoulders.
She kind of looks like she wants to sink into the ground, and is covering her face with her hands.
"Do not use that language with me, Mello." Roger says.
Mello grumbles several Russian obscenities underneath his breath as he pulls his vest up over his shoulders, while Layla is frozen to the spot, her eyes pointed downwards at her toes.
"Come with me." Roger murmurs.
A moment later, they are sitting in his office, Mello glaring at the old man with remarkable annoyance while Layla sat next to him fiddling with a lock of her hair.
Mello has been in this exact chair too many times to count, mostly for fights or disobedience, however, he would never have imagined he'd be sitting back in this chair now, Layla still at his side.
Ah, how easy childhood has fallen in his lap again.
"Mello," Roger begins slowly, rubbing his temples.
For a moment, Mello can see where age has worn him down and an apology is on the tip of his tongue, but then he glances at Layla's pale pink face and his sympathy hardens.
"What?" Mello snaps, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back into his chair with a rigid defiance. "Afraid we'll get something nasty on those desks of yours?"
"Mello." Layla murmurs, her voice barely audible.
Wordlessly, Mello reaches into his coat pocket to hand her a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She looks at him questioningly before lighting up a stick and inhaling sharply.
If this bothers Roger at all, he does not say.
He taps his spider-like fingers together and seems as if he is considering what to say, after a moment, however he sighs.
"I realize...the library has some sentimental value to you both."
That alone makes Mello jump. Sentimental value? How can he see through the two of them so clearly?
"But," he continues, "That is no excuse for...fornication...in this house.
"What?" Mello sneers, "Afraid that one of the kids were going to walk in? We aren't that loud."
"No." Roger replies shortly, making Mello's eyes widen. "It's merely about your lack of respect...do you think L would think highly of this?"
For a moment, Mello feels that sharp white hot rage creep into his chest. It is so like Roger to bring up L while they are here, knowing that L is the only person Mello has ever really respected.
"...No one knows what L would think highly of, now would they?" Mello snaps, his fists clenching at his sides.
"It has always been about your lack of respect. You simply have no common decency. And you-" he says, glancing over at Layla, "You had such a future ahead of you. I beg you both to think clearly about your actions and how they affect others."
"Look," Mello says with an air of forced casualty, "You want us to go? Fine."
Mello stands, and for an instant, he is fifteen again and the pain of losing L is sharp on his mind.
"Come on Layla." Mello murmurs.
Sheepishly she follows him, only sparing Roger one last glance before closing the door behind her.
An hour later, Mello is removing his vest from his shoulders again, this time in a small hotel room as Layla lounges lazily on the bed behind him.
She can tell just by the way his shoulders tense that the conversation with Roger has really bothered him, maybe, just maybe even hurt his feelings too.
Teasingly, she trails a long nail down his spine, before perching on her knees so that she can hug Mello's waist.
"You aren't upset," she says softly, "are you, Mihael?"
Long ago, she had discovered the use of his given name was an easy way to get him to open up to her, and she tried not to abuse it, too much anyway.
"No." he states blankly, sitting on the bed and unbuckling his boots.
In a somewhat childish fashion, Layla throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. Unfortunately, he does not smile. It's so hard to get him to smile most days.
"Well," she says after a moment, her head resting on his shoulder, "I'm glad...I'm glad to be with you."