The next time Mello sees L, he's twenty-three and L doesn't look a day over twenty-seven, but the bags beneath his eyes and the weary way he regards his protégé set a certain wisdom to his stance that makes Mello stand at stark attention for a full four seconds before either of them speak.
"You've grown."
"Yea."
There would be an awkward shuffle of his feet if Mello were prone to bouts of idiocy.
Three years pass before he sees L again.
This time, Mello is worse for wear. He's gone and scarred his face, and the way L frowns when he glances over the long-healed wounds makes him wish he'd planned that day out a bit more professionally.
"Does it still hurt?"
"Sometimes."
And his mentor inspects the rest of him: his scarred torso, the angry welts rising along his ribs, the discolored skin. Mello doesn't look away in shame, and he doesn't encourage this any further. Just watches with a tight stomach and curious, guarded eyes. L is professional about the whole thing, fingers applying just the correct amount of pressure to test for nerve reaction. Sometimes Mello shifts, sometimes he doesn't.
"I trust that you will avoid similar situations in the future —"
"I took care of it."
" — and seek proper medical attention if you find yourself in such a position again." L's voice is firm as he presses down on a particular spot that makes Mello flinch and recoil, only to be urged back by a steadying hand on his thigh and an upwards glance of dark, all-knowing eyes. "Know that if you continue to act recklessly, Near is more than capable of filling your position."
"And a cunt."
"Language, Mello."
To which he lets out a huff, turns his face away abruptly like an indignant child. L seems amused, and Mello's lips tighten as there's an unnecessary brush of fingers just below his shirt's hem before L rises to his full height, hands habitually slipping into his pockets.
He regards the blond with feigned disinterest.
It's six weeks before Mello sees L again.
This time, there's no precursor. None of L's mindfuck bullshit, none of the reservations both of them have been attempting to preserve up until now. Mello's shoulders are so tense when L kisses his jaw that he feels a pinch crawl up the side of his neck, and his initial instinct is to bite, but L's long fingers are tight against the back of his head, digging and pulling, and Mello thinks that he's going to lose air before he gets a chance to return the gesture.
And Mello tells himself that this is what he's always wanted — to win the endless vie for L's attention in any way he could — and it doesn't matter that it's the same cheap copout he's used a hundred times before to gain influence where it couldn't otherwise be gained. He tells himself that they're doing this out of love instead of desperation and indifferent hunger. He tells himself it doesn't matter that L won't kiss him on the mouth or that his hands seem more interested in shucking away clothes than caressing. He ignores the pause in their heated movements when L murmurs in his ear that they need a condom, insinuates politely that there's a chance Mello can give him something.
The weight of it all plays at his every thought in the aftermath: he's gone and pulled his leather back on and L had removed himself from the situation the moment they were finished.
It's dark now, and L didn't even bother to mutter a goodbye, leave a note, click the door loudly enough for Mello to know he was leaving — anything. Just a lingering emptiness where there were pants and hisses of breaths through teeth only an hour before, and Mello thinks for the first time since he laid eyes on his mentor at the age of thirteen that victory is fucking overrated.
Always has been, really.