Hello, my lovelies! I promised you all a shorter piece with Matt and Mello, and here it is--enjoy! But first, a small warning: if you haven't read my longer piece, then you will not be familiar with a couple of OC's that will be wandering through the flashbacks (which are, once again, provided by the skillful, too-good-to-be-writing-on-my-fanfic. Just Funning). It shouldn't hinder your enjoyment of this piece, though. And now a second warning: this is rated M, and contains violence, bloodshed, implied drug use, language, and intense sexual situations--you know, the good stuff. And there might even be a happy ending to it all. So I say again--enjoy!
Oh, and yes--I do not own Death Note or any of its characters. I merely use them for my own (sordid) amusement:)
"Love, Hollow Points, and the Big Easy"
Chapter 1: The Big Easy
"If you go looking for hot water, don't act shocked if you get burned a little bit"-- opening line from "Catch Hell Blues" by the White Stripes.
Matt
The sidewalks simmered in the late afternoon heat, hot enough to fry a cracked egg. A light breeze blew in every now and then from the great Mississippi, teasing the temples and stroking the skin with its light, cool touch--a touch that was there one moment and then gone again, leaving the city's inhabitants all high, dry and lethargic, like dull, creeping crabs washed up on a hot, humid beach. Pedestrians meandered, slow and thick as sugared molasses, along the sizzling, trash-lined streets, fanning themselves with anything that came to hand--newspapers, pieces of cardboard, fliers that proclaimed: Come visit Bourbon Street! We're so Jazzed that You're Here! The thermometer was making a steady--but sure--crawl into the triple digits, and the bold, white flowers of the majestic magnolia trees were practically melting off their stems, like sweet vanilla-flavored taffy, or subjects in a Salvador Dali painting.
A red 1965 Mustang coupe slid across the intersection of Esplanade and Decatur, its engine revving at a low, seductive purr, its high, shiny paint job as fresh as the painted lips of a French Quarter prostitute, the gleam of its finish like sex on wheels. It cruised, as easy and unhurried as the people on the streets, down the road, passing the French Market, the Bazaar, and eventually the Cafe du Monde with its sweet, heady scent of fresh baked beignets and cafe au lait. The boy inside the car rolled down the window and mindlessly flicked a cigarette out the side, taking in the sights and sounds of the city around him, his tired eyes scanning the crush of determined tourists. It was too, too hot by far, and he was having trouble focusing, the joint, sharp edges of hunger and lack of sleep stealing away his energy and drive, leaving him as limp and loose as a lost rag doll--drooping, like the magnolia flowers, across the hot, sticky interior of the coupe's cherry licorice-colored leather seats.
The blare of an angry car horn snapped Matt back to immediate attention, and he swerved the wheel into a hard left, barely missing a green Camry in the other lane. Fuck, I need to wake up, he thought. And this whole driving on the other side of the road shit is for the birds. Matt fumbled around on the passenger seat for the pack of Marlboro's he'd thrown there earlier; he grabbed it and stuck another cigarette between his lips, using the (miraculously) working lighter from the dash to light it. I have to stay focused, he thought. But focus was hard coming--he was suffering from the jet lag-induced delirium of an eight hour flight, not to mention the seven hour-plus drive he'd made straight from Atlanta to New Orleans. He was pushing himself, and he was starting to feel it, to see it even: he was pretty sure that the waves of heat he saw coming off the concrete were a little wavier, a little blurrier, than they needed to be. What he needed was to stop and rest.
But he could not rest.
Matt reached over to the radio and cranked up the volume, using the moaning wine and screech of electric guitars as a kind of auditory caffeine substitute. A low throbbing bass thumped through his bones, rattled his ribcage. He would stay awake. The Mustang bumped along the outskirts of the French Quarter and people turned to stare, catching random scraps of the loud music filtering from its open windows:
I found my heart
In a pawn shop, baby
You took me for dead--
Dead--
I am way past tales
I'm bored and I'm crazy
You took all my good love
And you gave it all away
I've been on the backstreet
I'm all alone
I've been on the hotseat
I'm gone--I'm gone
Sweet little love of mine
Take all you can
I'm your pawn shop lover
I'm you pawn shop, broken-heart man
With all your good looks
I still have nothing
Breaking the whip on my back like a man
I still have nothing
Take everything you want
Take all you can
I'm your pawn shop lover
I'm your pawn shop, broken-heart man. . .
Matt turned off onto one of the side streets, gliding right into the very heart of the French Quarter, and found himself confronted with a seemingly never-ending row of stately, picturesque buildings lined with lacy-looking, wrought iron balconies. It was like he had driven into a time warp. Beautiful gated fences lovingly embraced Gone With the Wind-esque buildings, some of which had horse-drawn carriages parked out front. Matt blinked and slowed the Mustang to a crawl. The city really was beautiful, in an old-fashioned, run-down kind of way. Decadent. The Big Easy, everyone called it. Mardi Gras central. The birthplace of Jazz.
Yes, Matt could definitely picture Mello here.
Matt had lost track of his quarry shortly after arriving in Atlanta. Or rather, shortly after the headline declaring the death of Atlanta crime boss Herbert Lancaster had hit the papers. Mello. Matt wasn't a fool. He might have been naive about Mello's methods in the past, but he'd had time to mature, to grow up, to come to terms with what his former lover was all about--namely, that of cutting a bloody swath through the top ranks of the criminal underworld. Conquer and devour. He'd had more than enough time to study, to learn about Mello's modus operandi--hell, he was a veritable expert on Mello, an authority, probably more so than any operative currently working in MI-5 or even the FBI. Herbert Lancaster had been viciously gun downed at point blank range with hollow point bullets fired from a 9 mm Sword Cutlass--Mello's favored method of dispatch. His signature was unmistakable, as well as the probability of his next mark--which, if Matt understood his quarry as well as he thought he did, would undoubtedly be New Orleans mafia head Augustine Meadows.
Mello might be hunting Augustine Meadows, but Matt was hunting Mello. And he was beginning to catch up.
Matt's own computer hacking skills were more than useful when it came to tracking his prey: he knew most of Mello's aliases, he knew his bank account records, he knew when he had arrived in Atlanta. Mello's first order of business there had been to purchase a Ducati motorcycle from a dealership with a fake ID and bank card. After that--and Lancaster's assassination--he had promptly disappeared from all electronic surveillance. Like a wandering blip on the radar screen, he was there and gone again. Well, he would have to resurface some time. And Matt would be waiting for him. Like a panther in the dark, black and electric, just waiting to pounce.
But Matt wasn't the panther in this scenario--Mello was. He was dangerous, untamed. Wild and beautiful. Fearless and frightening. It had been how long now? Almost four years since Mello had walked out of Wammy's House's doors, leaving Matt behind, never to look back, never to return. It was four years on, and Matt was behaving like a man completely and utterly obsessed, caught in the delusional grips of a fever, the mercy of an unshakable sickness. For that was what Mello was to Matt: a gilded sickness, a fantasy-fueled obsession. Long ago, at the tender, innocent age of fifteen, Mello had broken his heart, and he had never gotten over it. Oh, he should have gotten over it. He had tried, so, so many times--unsuccessfully--to get over it. He'd taken other lovers in an attempt to erase that beautiful, fierce visage from his mind, but it never worked. Oh, those other lovers had been near perfect on paper: they were tender, they were loving, they were thoughtful. They came at him with their limitless questions, their eternal concern: Are you okay? Are you alright? Are you happy? And all he wanted to scream back at them was: shutupshutupshutupshutup! He didn't want their concern; he didn't need their concern. What he really needed was--
--his hair yanked back roughly from his scalp, and Mello arching over him, in him, his hands gripping the headboard for leverage, the wood thonking wantonly against the wall. The whole house was going to hear and Matt didn't care, he was crying Mello's name like a catechism--pleading, whining--edging closer, closer--
Matt pushed his yellow-tinted sunglasses up over his head and rubbed violently at his face--tried to rub both sleep, and that memory, right out of his mind. Mello. The tempestuous, leather-wearing blond had ruined him for all other lovers, and Matt should, by all rights, have loathed him for it. For that, and the pain he had caused him when he had up and left without telling him. He should have stopped caring right then and there. Any normal, sane person probably would have. And what was Mello now? A stone-cold killer, a hit man for hire, and any sensible, level-headed person would want to run as far away from that as possible. Mello was undeniably dangerous. Any fool could see that. And yet Matt still wanted him--wanted him with a longing that burned a hole down deep into his soul. Even after all this time, even after all that pain, he wanted that sense of danger, that wildness, that irrational unpredictability--he would never stop wanting it, not until the day he died. For without it, Matt felt hollow inside, like a shadow of his former self, a mere speck. He wanted--he needed--to have Mello back.
And if he had to travel across seas and walk across scores of dead mafia bosses to claim him, then so be it. . .
"If you really want some hot water, I can help you find it, oh-oh yeah!" --second line from "Catch Hell Blues" by the White Stripes.
Mello
The hotel Villa Convento stood in the middle of the French Quarter, a tall, brick creole townhouse of crumbling, majestic proportions, its wrought iron balconies baking like metal burners on a piping hot stove. This once proud building was also rumored to be the former House of the Rising Sun, one of the most notorious brothels in all of New Orleans. And standing on one of these balconies, its view overlooking the Quarter's sun-drenched rooftops, stood a figure decked out all in black, leather pants clinging stickily in a not unattractive way, one motorcycle boot hooked into the metal runner at his foot, his wary, cat-like eyes scanning the streets below. In the narrow roadway underneath him was a bakery, with a delivery truck backed up to its entrance, and all around that was the scattered, leftover trash from Mardi Gras which had taken place just a few weeks earlier. Everywhere, on the ground, from the limbs of trees--even hanging from his balcony--were beads, beads, beads: their cheap glittery plastic glinting in rainbow hues of green, gold, and violet, winking like grains of glass flung into a dirty sandbox. Mello took his foot and dislodged a strand from the balcony's metal frame, sending the faux gold pearls straight into the gutter below. In the far distance, some Dixieland Jazz played, sending its upbeat, brassy sounds of horns and saxophones floating up to his ears. Mello closed his eyes, listening to the music, feeling the drip of sweat spreading, crawling down the back of his neck. It was hotter than hell, and only about to get hotter--for he had a party to go to that night, and it was one that was going to involve blood, violence, and a whole lot of bullets. So much for Southern hospitality.
Mello glanced back through the open french doors leading into his room to the deceptively innocent-looking guitar case lying on the floor. That case was going to be his V.I.P. ticket to the party happening that evening--namely, a private shindig that was being thrown by Augustine Meadows at his Garden District mansion in honor of his daughter Julia's sweet sixteen birthday. And how sweet it was gonna be. He'd paid the bass player of the unfortunately monikered band Stereophonic Fruits--the band that had been booked to cover the gig--five thousand big ones to fuck off for the evening. That, and to conveniently recommend Mello as his last minute replacement. He was going to be showing up with the band, case in hand, making his passage through whatever security was there a complete and total breeze.
That case was packed with enough weaponry and ammo to start his own personal blitzkrieg.
Stashed beneath the oh-so-hip Warwick bass guitar in a hidden compartment were three Berettas, a small .22, a couple of butterfly knives, and several rounds of hollow points. Nothing too outrageous, thought Mello, with an audible snicker. Tonight was going to be a piece of cake. Besides slipping in with the band, Mello had also already located and paid off a very lovely--and more than cooperative--escort who went by the fake name of Savannah. A woman who, as luck would have it, 'serviced' Meadows on a regular basis at his wealthy, stately St. Charles Avenue home. She was going to be there at the party tonight, and she was going to make sure, by nine 'o clock sharp, to have Meadows positioned--alone, just the two of them--in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Specifically, the bedroom with a set of windows conveniently leading out onto a roof-top balcony, a balcony with a wrought iron staircase creeping up its side. The perfect escape route. Mello would just have to have his bike hidden away somewhere nearby--and voila--his speedy getaway was ensured. He had this whole bloody thing planned out to a perfect, capital T.
He hadn't been a student of Wammy's House for nothing. . .
Augustine Meadows was going down tonight. And as far as Mello was concerned, the man was small-fry anyway. Mello was burning his way across America, one mafia head at a time. Next stop: Houston, Texas. After that, Las Vegas. And for the finish: Los Angelos. America was going to be his. One stepping stone at a time. Hell, everything, all of it, was just one gigantic stepping stone. Mello really couldn't give a damn about the mafia or anyone in it. What Mello really wanted was Kira.
It was all about getting enough power to take down Kira. That's what it had always been about. That, and beating Near.
Mello's hands involuntarily gripped the balcony rails harder. He felt his teeth clench at the mere thought of his old rival, even though it had been--what?--almost four years since he'd last seen the little bastard. Four years, and Mello was still obsessing over the fact that Near had been Wammy's number one and Mello number two. Number two. Well, that would soon change wouldn't it? Mello was edging ever closer to his goal, and he would kill anyone who tried to get in his way. He was going to get to Kira before Near.
And he would show them all what number two could do!
Bleep! Bloop! Bleep!
Mello swiveled his head suddenly at an intrusive, electronic sound. On one of the adjoining balconies, about three rooms over, sat a little boy with a handheld game of some sort, mindlessly plugging away at its multi-colored, candy-like buttons. But it was that sound that yanked Mello right into the past. Matt! Mello felt his teeth clench again, this time for a different reason. Mello had been in a relationship with Matt on the day he had walked out of Wammy's--without ever telling the other boy he was going--and it was something, to this day, he still regretted doing (even if, in the end, it had been for Matt's own personal good). Not to mention that awful day on a London street corner, that day which was actually the last day, the very last time he'd seen the other boy. That day on the street where Matt had unceremoniously dropped back into Mello's unscrupulous life and things had gotten a little . . . ugly. That had not been a good day for him. Not at all. And Mello preferred not to think about it.
But as his kohl-smudged eyes followed the progress of a red '65 Mustang that was cruising down the road underneath his balcony, he found himself unwittingly remembering it. . .
London, 4 Years Earlier
King's Cross was one of the seedier parts of the city. The air itself seemed tainted, thick and foul, coating the skin with a layer of grime that needed to be washed off. The buildings were sad and in ill repair, and so were the people. Pale and hollow-eyed, shuffling along the sidewalks like zombies in some cheap horror movie--these were the inhabitants of the neighborhood. When one heard about crimes such as rape, muggings, car theft, even murder, nine times out of ten it seemed to be that King's Cross was the location where these acts were perpetrated.
Not that any of this particularly troubled Mello. This wasn't his first time in this part of London, after all. Back when he'd still been a student at Wammy's House, he'd often sneaked out in the middle of the night, more times than not finding himself in King's Cross, haunting hole-in-the-wall bars and nightclubs. Wild nights of revelry those had been. Today, of course, he was here for an entirely different purpose, striding down the street in the mid-afternoon sunlight next to Puck.
A drug deal seemed to be going down on the corner, right out in the open. The young pusher, with the face of a teenager and the eyes of an old man, caught Mello staring and sneered his way. Mello in turn sneered right back. It was hard to fear the criminal element when one was a part of it.
"So," Mello said, easily matching Puck's brisk pace, "we're not actually going to kill these guys, right?"
Puck came to an abrupt halt, glancing over at Mello as if the young man were a bizarrely alien insect that needed to be squashed. Then, without saying a word, he grabbed Mello's arm and dragged him into a nearby alleyway. Next to a reeking dumpster, he pushed Mello up against a rough stone wall. Only then did Puck speak.
"Look, Little Bluffer, I realize this is the first real assignment Zelda has sent you on, and I have to make allowances for your learning curve, but allow me to begin your education here. Rule number one: we do not talk about killing people in public. Do you understand me, boy?"
Mello balled his hands into fists and bit down on his bottom lip. He felt the anger churning inside him, threatening to boil over and burn Puck with its scalding spray.
But no, that wouldn't do. Mello had to keep his temper in check. This was a new world he was in, one with a firm set of rules and a certain hierarchy everyone was expected to adhere to. If Mello forgot that, even for a second, the consequences could be dire.
"Yes," Mello said, the word strained through clenched teeth.
Puck grinned, seeming to enjoy the authority he lorded over the younger man. With his trendy spiked hair, incongruously loud tie-dye shirt, and Lennon glasses, at first glance he didn't seem capable of any real threat, but Mello knew better. "Yes what?"
"Yes, sir."
If only Near could see me now, Mello thought. Would he be surprised to know that a life of crime is teaching me to control my emotions?
"Very good," Puck said, reaching out to pat Mello on the cheek. "Now to answer your question, our instructions are not to kill Chester and his brother but to simply employ a little...persuasion. Now if they prove unresponsive to our powers of persuasion..."
Puck let his words trail off, but Mello didn't need him to explain further. With a nod, Mello followed Puck back out onto the street. The dilapidated building where Chester and his idiot brother lived--a thrift store on the ground floor, an apartment above--was only a block away. The apartment was accessible from a rusty metal staircase that ran up the side of the building like some kind of weird exoskeleton.
"Mello, is that you?"
Mello and Puck, headed for the stairs, both turned at the sound of the voice. A young man with red hair and yellow-tinted glasses stood on the far side of the street, one hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. Mello was so stunned to see him there that for a moment he thought it was surely a mirage.
"Mello, it is you," the redhead said, rushing across the street, heedless of traffic. A few cars had to swerve around him, horns blaring and curses trailing out windows, and then the young man was directly in front of Mello, the two merely staring at one another.
It took Mello half a minute to finally find his voice. "M-Matt?"
Matt smiled wide. "God, Mello, it's been ages. It's so good to see you again."
"Uhm, yeah," Mello said, glancing first at Puck then at the apartment where they had business to attend.
"It was like you just dropped off the face of the planet. I kept expecting you to call or drop me a line. Near tried to tell me you were gone for good, but I waited. I just...waited."
Mello winced as if stung. While he held few regrets about leaving Wammy's House, the one thing he did wish had played out differently was the way he'd ended his relationship with Matt. Which had been not to end it at all, not really. He'd simply slunk away without a word, not even so much as a Dear John letter. And the timing couldn't have been worse. After all the time Mello had pursued the aloof redhead, just when Matt had truly started to show some genuine affection for Mello, Mello had up and left. He and Matt hadn't seen each other since.
"Sorry, I've been...uhm, busy."
"Busy, huh?" Matt said, looking at Puck for the first time, and there was venom in his eyes. "Busy doing what?"
"You know, working."
Matt once again turned his full attention to Mello. "Really? What kind of work are you in?"
Mello wasn't sure what to say to that. He couldn't see himself telling Matt about the work he did for Zelda, about the assignment in which he and Puck were currently engaged. The assignment from which Matt was presently distracting them.
Stepping into the opening in the conversation, Puck addressed Matt. "Sorry, little boy, but we don't really have time to play with you right now."
"I don't believe I was speaking to you," Matt said without even looking in Puck's direction, his eyes remaining trained on Mello. "I was talking to my friend here."
"Your friend?" Puck laughed. "Well, considering he drop-kicked your ass to the curb and cut off all communications, I'd like to see what you call an enemy."
"Mello, can we go somewhere and talk? Maybe grab a drink and just...talk."
Mello's mind seem to have shut down, completely ceased all function. It was so surreal seeing Matt here on the streets of King's Cross--and what was he doing in this neighborhood anyway?--after all this time. Old feelings he thought long buried resurfaced, further clouding his thoughts.
"I said we don't have time to play with you," Puck said again in a strident voice, physically placing himself between Matt and Mello.
The venom in Matt's stare increased, lashing out at Puck. "Why don't you let Mello speak for himself?"
"Because he has nothing to say to you. Do you, Mello?" Then before Mello could even begin to formulate a response, Puck said, "See. You're old news. Now if you'll excuse us, you are keeping us from pressing matters."
"And what's so important that Mello can't spare a moment for an old friend?"
A greasy smile spread across Puck's face, and Mello didn't know exactly what was coming, but he knew it couldn't be good. Still, he was surprised when Puck put an arm around Matt's shoulders as if about to take the young man into his confidence, turned Matt toward the building they stood in front of, and said, "See that apartment upstairs? Mello and I are about to go up there and fuck like jackrabbits."
Matt looked as stunned as Mello felt. In fact, Matt look like he'd just taken a sledgehammer to the crotch. He made some noise, not quite a word, but the inflection suggested it was some sort of question.
"That's right, little boy," Puck said, now moving to place an arm around Mello's shoulders, nibbling on the blonde's earlobe before continuing. "He's upgraded since you two were together. You were just practice, and now he's moved on to a real man. I suggest you do the same."
For a moment it seemed as if Matt were going to cry, but then anger burned off the unshed tears. "So, is that true, Mello? I thought we had something special, something deep, but was it all a game to you, a fling? You prefer this kind of rough trade now?"
Mello could say nothing, just looked on helplessly. Then, remembering that he and Puck had a job to do and time was of the essence, he just steeled his jaw and nodded.
"I see. Well, my mistake. I should have just kept walking when I saw you over here, but I foolishly thought maybe you still harbored some small feeling for me. I'll know better next time."
Then, without another word, Matt stalked off down the street, not even once looking back, disappearing around the next corner.
"Did you have to be so vicious?" Mello asked when the other boy was gone.
Puck chuckled, patting Mello on the cheek. "My, my, do we still have a sentimental spot for that boy?"
Mello jerked away from Puck's touch.
"Look, he was preventing us from doing our job, I had to get rid of him. I could sense that playing on his jealousy would be the quickest way to that end. Would you rather he have kept us from our assignment? Would you rather have had to explain that to Zelda?"
"No," Mello said with a touch more petulance than he liked.
"Very good, then. Now let's get upstairs before Chester and his brother die of old age."
As they started back toward the stairs, Mello laughed despite himself. "Fuck like jackrabbits, huh? That's quite a fiction you invented there."
Puck paused, looked back at Mello, poked out his tongue and winked, then said, "Play your cards right and maybe it can become nonfiction."
Before Mello could respond, Puck turned and started up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and Mello shook off his surprise and followed.
End Chapter 1.
So, Piper--how do you like New Orleans now? :)
The lyrics are from the song 'Pawne Shoppe Heart' by the Von Bondies.
Work's going to be kicking my ass over the next few weeks people, so be kind and give me a little love--okay? (Pretty pleaze:)
Next up: We go to a 'party' in the Garden District. . .
