A/N: i borrowed sick!Mello from celebrean/WammyGirl/Living in a fantasy.
It started when they were children. When they could hardly even speak the same language, much less make life decisions. There they were, tender, young, impressionable creatures, with above-average IQs and a whole life ahead of them. Mihael threatened to pull his hair, but Mail wasn't afraid. So instead of playing football, Mihael sat and watched as pixels warped and buzzed into strange things that neither of them quite understood.
It started when Mello was sick in bed and Matt set aside his chocolate cake to accompany the blonde boy's normal meal of soup and pudding, a napkin and some pocket lint.
It started when Mello found two crumpled cigarettes stowed under Matt's pillow, saved for some other day. They knew all about what drugs would do to one's mind and body. Mello felt a pang of concern. He replaced the pillow. They were being led to the slaughter, anyway. They would be L.
It started with some fumbled words, a clumsy punch or two; Mello was leaving. When Matt finally wrestled him against the bed and initiated an awkward kiss, they realized there was nothing to hold onto any longer, nothing that would do them any good. But they would hold onto each other, anyway, however tenuously.
It started when Matt finished that last cigarette under his pillow, on the outskirts of Wammy's property where he wouldn't be seen or smelled. He longed for the comfort of a slowed heart rate and constricted veins; it was Mello's company he craved, not that of nicotine and tar. He guiltily bit off a large piece of chocolate, and bit back a sob.
It started when Mello stepped into that building, some bar whose basements were filled with the sounds of a poker game and risky business and the scents of smoke, alcohol, rotting blood and stale urine. He wasn't welcome here, not even old enough to witness the things he dealt with day to day, but he damn well put up a front that he had every right to be there.
It started when Matt was watching the news and he knew where Near was, what he was doing. He knew that Mello wouldn't be far behind. Bags were packed and promises were broken, and he knew he was ready even if he wasn't.
It started with blowjobs in the back of a red sportscar, sloppy and unrehearsed. It was 3:00 AM and yet bright as early evening, lit with seedy neon and fluorescence. They were tender, young, impressionable teenagers, with a few-too-many chocotinis in their systems and a resignation found only in those wise enough to know it was time. There was nothing to hold onto any longer, but it didn't make any difference.