Matt knows his best friend is more than a little fucked up, he really does - but no, wait, that doesn't even begin to describe what Mello is; Mihael Keehl is so, so beyond simply 'fucked up' it makes Matt giggle.
A giggle, an honest-to-god giggle, is what escapes his lips, not a chuckle or a manly guffaw or whatever, he fucking giggles.
He giggles as he watches Mello destroy himself studying every day, as he watches him work and work and work but never win (work hard and you'll get what you want, they always tell you, but whichever pretentious bastard came up with that has clearly never met an albino little shit like Near, have they, and it makes Matt want to scream).
He giggles as he watches Mello run, run away from Wammy's and from England and from Matt, chasing after dreams of glory and justice, of beating the shit out of Near and of finally fucking winning. A shaking hand reaches for his lighter as Matt laughs his head off, smoking himself into oblivion.
He giggles as he watches Mello kill, as he watches him scream and laugh and rage, and bullets fly and men drop dead. There's blood everywhere, every fucking where, it's all around him, all over him, inside him, and Matt just wants a joint or a dozen as he sees Mello stride calmly towards him, clothes clean and face remorseless.
He giggles as he watches Mello plan feverishly, staying up nights to plan something that's doomed to fail anyway. Mello screams at him to shut the fuck up, Matt, are you with me or not, to stop fucking laughing, you piece of shit, and he screams and screams and pretends not to flinch at his own reflection, pretends Matt doesn't notice all those sleepless nights of tears and loneliness and clawing at his skin and screaming for it all to just fucking stop.
He giggles at Mello now, and at himself, because god, they're both so fucked up it's pathetic and he tries not to think of that or anything else as he feels Mello kiss him so hard he just might break, and they kiss and they kiss and soon their clothes are off, and Matt's sure neither of them really wants this. He doesn't want this bullshit that's not love or lust or anything he can identify, and he labels this ridiculous thing they have going on as just that – complete and utter bullshit.
They lie there, on the eve of their Great Plan, and the room reeks of sweat and skin and desperation. Mello buries his face into the crook of Matt's neck, and Matt pretends he can't feel the tears that roll onto his neck and off his shoulder.
'We're going to do this,' Mello tells him. 'We're doing it.'
Matt nods, and fixes his gaze on the dying sunlight that filters in through the window. He has to bite down the urge to laugh again.
'Shut up,' Mello says. 'We're fucking winning.'
Matt stays silent and doesn't dare laugh until he knows Mello is asleep.