So help me God.
He lifts the crucifix to his lips, kisses the cold metal. It tastes bitter, unpleasant: various people, at various times, have asked him why he wears it.
'You can't actually believe that stuff,' Matt insisted, lounged along the bed one rainy English day, all those years ago. 'They made shit up to scare people. Besides, they hate us, too.'
'I'm not going to talk about it.'
It took a lot for him to surprise his best friend. After a close scrutiny of his face, Matt shrugged. 'Whatever.'
He was found in a church, abandoned like so many babes in old stories, the cripple left at God's door for the mercy its parents lacked. How he came to have such a fairy-tale origin, he has no idea. It puts him in mind of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the cripple left by his 'mother' to become someone else's problem. For some reason, he's absolutely certain that it was his mother who carried out the final act of abandonment: it's a feeling, without sounds or sights to match. Again, like in the story, a priest found him. He was, they think, two years old. The child was clutching a cross in his hammy fist, biting the hard metal in anger. Or so he was told.
How marvellous it was, to have the world splayed out in front of you, a tweak of a thought leading to an irreversible action, a world-changing consequence – the spider's web of fate invisible outside his brain, the power to play God at his command. No sooner had he attained nirvana than he must leave it…Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow… Scarlet blood leads to snow-white conscience, the soul is washed pure, blemishes forgiven… Stay not angry forever but delight to show mercy… he would be red, and bloodied, and Near would stay virginally white… If this hatred is love, love must be hatred… I'll do it. Father, I'll meet you soon enough.
He was honest with Matt. 'I'm certain – almost certain – that I'm going to die. I don't know what'll happen to you, if you want to walk away I'd understand-'
'Mello, fuck off. I'm with you.'
He took his lover's hand, noting the yellow stains on thin fingers. 'About time I told you I loved you, isn't it?' he said, staring at the cheap green carpet in this anonymous motel. His eyes stung with tears.
'Love you too.'
Matt came to Wammy's house when he was eight, and Mello seven. Like magnets, they drew together instantly. Like magnets, excessive force was needed to separate them. They shared ice creams in summer, taking turns to coax the prize from the waffle-bounded prison. No one ever commented on how gross it was to be sharing saliva like that. Afterwards, they'd both have creamy white moustaches, and Mello would ask Matt if he needed a waling stick. Matt scoff. 'With your hair, you're definitely gonna go grey first.'
His heart is giving out. Thrashing in its last moments, he gasps for breath. It hurts so much. Dying hurts. Then it's still, and the oxygen deprivation creeps along his limbs, stilling them forever. In such stories, the dying person's last thought is always of their lover's eyes. Or maybe about the afterlife, fear or hope, depending on how terrible a person you were. Mello just felt pain.
Similarly, Matt's last thought was 'OW!' only you'll never understand exactly how horrifying it is to feel the night breeze rip through bloody, gaping tunnels in your flesh.