Oh, God. L is alive.
Leather clinging to scarred flesh tells a story of reckless determination, a need to avenge something that was never his to claim. Kira is a justification, a feigned target set as a means to become that which L would see eliminated under any other name. And Mello thinks he knows that, too.
"Mello's decisions are questionable."
At best.
An unconcealed flinch; things pent up and ugly have never abstained from creeping up the corners of his lips, expanding his pupils into galaxies of unadulterated anger.
But L's decisions are harmful. Selfish. He threw Mello to the wolves and—
No.
No, that's not right.
It was strategy, he tells himself. Brilliant strategy. Would the world expect less of a man who slips through pockets and cracks, extracts their threats, restores their order? No. Everything L has always done has held purpose.
Yeah, well.
"Could've used your help."
Bitter.
But he'd given up the title a long time ago, hadn't he? Names are trivial, eternally in flux. Mihael, Mello, M, L. Distracting. Meaningless. And L is all awkward angles and shaded eyes; the figure that Mello recalls was somehow greater, intimidation rolling from his tongue along with stories of victory and perseverance. Things that Mello holds close even now.
"You are directly responsible for the death of Yagami Soichiro, amongst a dozen others—Mihael—do you believe yourself above the law?"
No.
Yes.
What do you say when God speaks your sins aloud?
"Did you come here to scold me?" Cynical. Dismissive. Once, he had questioned L's motives with wide eyes, a child's innocent curiosity and pride because L had confided—was confiding—in him. Warm cocoa stealing the cold from his palms in January; why don't you sit?
The passage of time has not been merciful towards either of them.
"Perhaps."
A tightening of his jaw, and there is a why on the tip of his tongue. L left. Mello was crawling through shit with trails of bodies marking his passage and L was gone.
Words from the lips of a dead man hold the gravity of letters sprawled on a torn page. There is no forgiveness here; he knows this. Nor would he ask for it. To be forgiven is to admit wrongdoing and, well. Born again at nineteen, flames licking at his skin, prickling at the edges of intention and resolve: Mello was never one to harbor regret.
So what are you gonna do about it?
A challenge held at bay, reserved for someone lesser. Someone whose voice isn't burned into his memory as something holy. Bleeding idols; eidolons remade pure.
"I did it for you." Simple explanations for countless motivations.
"I don't care for liars."
Oh.
Thin droplets striking a chilled pane; the frost residue of an English winter. L was all things then. L is all things now. But situations have changed, and Mello's intent isn't linear with justice. Now there is silence in the face of one he would have called Salvation, hands that tremble for the first time since he was young enough to remember the taste of his true name on his tongue. Then, it was grief. Tonight it is prompted by things like vexation and restraint. L has no right.
Doesn't he?
"Mello." Again, scolding. It makes his spine straighten. "Pay attention."
L's tone is severe, something wrought with edges. It scratches and wounds, morphs a child's adoration into a man's ire.
Mello isn't a fucking kid anymore. He's twenty, and his posture has put men who would be killers at his feet. He has spilled more blood in the name of the man before him than anyone; he has thrown himself at the mercy of a goal that would have him dead and for what? For this: a long-gone mentor regarding him with eyes that whisper accusations and disappointment where they once held softer things like interest while he informed a small boy of his potential.
"I'm listening." Clipped words. Folded arms over his chest, patience thin as the threads between himself and a man he thinks he may have never known at all.
Silence.
L could have told him. It would have saved them both the trouble. It would have saved him from seeking out the grave of the man he was set to become; it would have saved him bleeding knuckles and a stinging throat. The literal head of a man hanging from a bloodied glove. L should have never—
"Your plan is reckless."
Oh.
Takada.
Kira's whore.
"I know what I'm doing."
"Do you?" L leans forward when he speaks, and Mello's insides seize. It keeps him from near-shrinking under the gaze of someone he should have forgotten the moment he left The House to set out on his own. "Kira's reach extends more than you know. He has no less influence than I—no, more—in regards to the police force. Japan is essentially his puppet, and you plan to place yourself in a position where you have no defense. Is that what you intend?"
But L already knows the answer. Knows, because he has pushed Mello to this.
A shift, an indignant lift of his chin. L watches him like something foreign, fascinating: a potential threat. Maybe he is. "I can handle it." Because really, what other choice does he have? He has cut ties with everything connecting him to this man; he has put the title to shame countless times. It isn't his to operate under. Never was, really.
"Mm." A hum of consideration; a condescending sound that speaks volumes more than it suggests.
There was a time where Mello would have regarded L's word as Gospel. Would have bowed and drawn his fingers over his head in a sign of loyalty, shed his skin and bathed in absolute devotion. Pride would have been set aside with will and opposition; Mello would have given L his life to see this ordeal through in the way his mentor would have it done.
There was a time. And it has passed along with his need to fill a role that Near now fits into rather comfortably.
All things change.
When he moves forward, he can pick up the light twitch of L's fingers against the chair's wooden arm. There is no trust here. Mello's reputation has far preceded him. Before L is someone who holds no regard for the safety of those around him, who intimidates and threatens, draws blood when words aren't quick enough.
The boy in too-loose clothes with an innocent determination to become the next big thing has gone the way of bedtime stories and genuine heroes.
Maybe it's for the best.
"I'm going." Not a request. Mello asks permission of no one; he carves his own way with a fire that will burn everything around him if he lets it. "When you tell N about this," a pause while sharp eyes search L's face for confirmation. There is none. "Tell him not to get in my way."
As it stands, Mello faces opposition from every angle.
"Near is unaware of my presence," a mutter behind his back.
Ohgod, don't do that. Don't lie to him. Don't make him the only one. L has done that once before. Look where it has brought them.
"You might want to let him know." thrown over a shoulder, and Mello's coat is something warm around him when he slips his arms into the sleeves. Protection from this. All of it. "We tend to operate differently when you're not around."
He has been 'aware of L's presence' for less than twenty minutes and already, the earth is crumbling beneath his feet, stones falling into an abyss that he dug for himself before he was old enough to understand things like permanent consequences.
"I have answers," L supplies in a monotone that denotes none of the urgency of a man attempting to preserve the life of someone with whom he once shared his most protected stories. "If you stay, I will answer anything you ask."
Liar.
No.
This is bullshit. He has things to do. L is purposely stalling him.
"I already have them."
"Mello." More insistence, now. Good. "If I were to sanction your arrest, you would not be free to carry out your operation."
T'ch. "Then do it." He may as well. L threw them all to Kira so long ago.
And when the door closes, the click is something that resonates longer than the shadowed image of a man Mello once thought he wanted back more than anything the world could give him.