You don't look up from the screen. He's joking, you tell yourself. Joking. Even if the serious expression remains during your silence; he's still joking- he's probably getting you back for something you did, or didn't do. He won't lose any fight, even the imaginary ones. Any minute now, he'll burst out laughing.
You grip the controls a little harder.
If you don't look up- you're not involved. This has worked for you for years. Don't look up in the playground, no bullies. Don't look up at a club, no dancing. Don't look up at a bar, no fighting. Don't look up during an apology; they won't know you're lying. Don't look up when the man you've loved since your childhood announces he's sleeping with someone he hates; you won't... oh, god. You need to look up now because he's still not laughing and you think you might vomit all over the controller if you don't move your head. And you can't afford another one, right now.
So you look at him, and he's not lying to you. He just "thought you should know".
Near. Of course it was Near. It's always Near, Near, Near, Near, Near, Near, Near-
"Matt."
Right. He's talking to you. Say something, kid, make a joke, sit pretty and pretend this situation even closely resembles something fair.
Maybe he knows. Maybe he's just a spiteful prick, and he knows how much this would kill you were it true. Which it isn't. Because you're still playing HALO for the eighth time and that means you're not in his reality until it stops hurting so much. In his reality he's about to rip the xBox, and the electrical socket currently attached, right out of the wall if you don't say something soon.
"Whatever floats your boat" You chuckle offhandedly, characteristically.
And you can almost see him slump with relief (on the inside. On the outside, he doesn't give two shits about your opinion, and that's the way it's going to stay- because it's a lot easier to act like you don't care when there's absolutely no chance of hurting him) because, really, he's insecure. You'd high-five yourself for your acting prowess if it wouldn't make you look like a moron clapping. Paradoxically, you start mumbling to yourself the second he leaves the room to shower.
You glance at the clock, light a cigarette, and think that maybe you could hate him if you really put your mind to it.
Weeks later, he comes home giddy. Near doesn't want him anymore, he says, must be the scars (you recall Near wasn't bothered by them at all before). But, hey, he's still got sex appeal. Right? Right? Ah, he shouldn't be asking you this, anyway- you don't get out enough to recognise sex appeal if it slaps you in the face. But you're quite nice-looking, why don't you go out? Why don't you bring anyone home? You say you have work to do, and Mello really ought to go to bed. You make sure he's okay. You take care of him, and wonder if Near ever did the same. You promise Mello you won't ever bring tonight up, and that yes, he is beautiful.
He's asleep, of course.
"When someone means more to you than you'll ever mean to them..." Mello says, because he's decided that you're listening. Normally, you pretend that you're not- but everything he says, everything he does in your presence is taken note of. Except for the times when you can't look at him, because you're too ashamed of yourself to be awake- "It's fucking embarrassing"
You refuse to tell him why you're laughing. And you make sure he's out of the house when you cry.
He's always been hurting you in one way or another; you remind yourself as you choke and splutter and generally behave like a giant infant. You're clinging to the bathroom counter and feeling more than a bit stupid, because you tried to break the mirror and ended up achieving nothing but bruised knuckles. You remember falling out of a tree, once, on one of his wild adventures. It would have been cute if you didn't end up in hospital for three weeks.
You feel proud when Roger says he'll be the death of you. You feel dead when he leaves.
They offered you counselling in his absence, because you couldn't bring yourself to get out of bed for days. You're told that Wammy's house could suffer greatly if, after A, B, and L; there was another... unfortunate event. You say 'untimely death' is the term you're looking for, Roger. And there is nothing to worry about as A was unstable, B was an outright madman, L was murdered, and you are fine because Mello is coming back for you. He promised. And, really, you should be watching Near. Near is more special, Near is of more concern that you'll ever be. Watch Near.
You stand up, then, and go back to your studies and games as though nothing had ever happened.
He phones you, years later. All it takes is a hushed "It's me" to bring back what the years took away. Years of compulsive gaming, smoking, girls and men who weren't always blonde- but always the lean figure, always just an inch or two taller, always telling you how they like it and leaving in the morning-, always saying the wrong name and nobody caring because you're both just so fucked up - always like you knew he'd do it, (albeit, with persons far more interesting than yourself). This is all washed away, because he's called you.
It takes you a full minute to recognise his melted face, five to see that he's still perfect, and another ten to tell yourself it's safe now, you're under control, you won't kiss him.
Nurse him back to health? Share your home? Trail Misa? Speed your car through a busy city, and step out amongst a mass of trigger-happy Japanese bodyguards who want you dead? Sure, Mello, you say, it sounds like fun. And you manage not to be violently ill until the day before it all happens. He settles on the couch opposite you, he can't eat and you can't game, so you watch him awhile.
Things are quiet right up until you say that you love him. Always have. You thought he ought to know, since he's probably killed both of you, and all.
He doesn't look surprised in the slightest. Motions to the bed and he asks you if you want to fuck. You glance in his direction and almost, almost, smile at the irony because this is his attempt at gratitude, and even though it's a vulgar offer - it means that after all these years, you finally mean something to him and suddenly, it's all okay.
So you shake your head, and he comes and sits by you instead. Holds your hand. You sleep like that.
The next morning, he's all business. Takes your packet of smokes from you- says he needs you to concentrate on what you're doing. You grin, because you see him puffing away outside, minutes later, but you've snuck one into your pocket, anyway. You're all equipped and ready to go. The only thing left to do is walk out the door. Kiss him roughly, and walk out the door. He doesn't tell you to be careful as he starts his motorcycle. He says goodbye.
You make a U-turn, and light your cigarette. You're going to quit, soon, because Mello asked. This is just to calm your nerves.
A/N: ZOMG DEATH NOTE? Yes. Death Note. I know I haven't updated my chapter fics in a while- things have been ludicrously busy, and it's nearly one AM and I shouldn't be awake right now... So enjoy the mistakes.
Special thanks to Travis, and RawrrKitsune for their help regarding videogames- about which I know NOTHING!
I was trying not to make it cliche`d or cheesy, because this sort of angsty, Matt-centric fic has been done a thousand times before- but it certainly has its appeal.
My new catchphrase is "poor Matt"
Anyway! Let me know how badly I sucked!