Warning: Description of sex and Mello's foul mouth are the main reasons for this story's mature rating.
Disclaimer: Death Note and all related characters do not belong to me...a fact I lament greatly.
"And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock."
-Edgar Allan Poe ("The Masque of the Red Death")
Part One: The Brink
"I got you something."
Matt tears his gaze away from the Nintendo long enough to register Mello standing in the doorway. The package hits Matt's chest with a thud, causing him to drop the game. Blank screen. Batteries spill out upon the floor.
"What the hell is this?"
I was on the final level.
"Come with me. You can open it later."
Leaving the package in a paper-swathed lump on the floor, Matt follows his boss and fellow genius into the bedroom. This is where the real work is done. No videogames here. Only high caliber processors and screens projecting not two-dimensional fantasy worlds or pixilated roadways, but data. Little white numbers against a black screen. Millions of codes. Each represents a name, a place, an event. Over ten years worth of data on the Kira Case. Everything Mello, L, and even Near have been able to dig up.
Matt catalogs it all meticulously. It's gotten to the point where he doesn't sleep at night. His mind is too full of numbers. Always flashing, white on black. This is his masterpiece—his magnum opus. Figures. Documents. A compilation of data so vast it rivals that of every major security force on the planet. Matt has never been artistic in the traditional sense. His poor sense of vision renders him incapable of perceiving depth in a painting, and the concept of complimentary colors confuses him.
Hell, even Matt's nicotine-choked vocal chords won't carry a tune.
But he is an artist. Painting in keystrokes, his medium is the computer screen—it's light reflecting cold and sterile off his goggles and too-pale skin. As with any artist, his work consumes him, and…as with any artist…it torments him as well. There's always more information to be found. He only has to dig deeper, hack another file, discover a connection overlooked the first twenty times he searched for it. Then, just maybe…
"This isn't enough, Matt. I'm going to need more information."
Doesn't Mello get it? There is no more information, at least not information that can be accessed through broken passwords or hidden cameras. Matt is a genius in his own right, but even he can't hack into the mind of a murderer. Statistics are what he understands. Facts. Percentages. Ratios. Constants Matt can cope with. It's the variability of human nature he finds disturbing.
"Your detachment is costing you rank, Matt. If you don't learn to speak up soon, you'll be out of the running for good."
"…I know…"
"You could be one of the best if you focused more on your studies."
"I know."
"It's a lack of drive and social skill that is holding you back."
"I know."
"I'm very frustrated, Matt. You're at the bottom of the class, yet Watari has informed me that you are one of the brightest pupils currently residing at Wammy's."
"I know."
"Then why won't you work harder? Even L consents that in some ways your capabilities rival those of Near."
"…"
"Well?"
"Roger, can I leave now?"
"MATT!"
"It's just that…I'm on the last level of my game. I need to concentrate."
"It pains me greatly to know you're wasting your intelligence on mindless garbage like those videogames!"
"…I know…"
What Roger didn't realize was that Matt needed those games. He still does. The real world makes him sick. Its cruelty…its pointlessness… Matt is weak. He doesn't like the sight of blood. When they showed the overdue exhumation of Naomi Misora's corpse on Sakura TV, he became violently ill…threw up all over the bathroom floor.
Mello held back his hair the whole time…mocking him relentlessly.
It's not that Matt can't relate to the real world. He just doesn't have the stomach for it. Facts rarely bleed, and they never betray you.
"I have a new plan."
Mello's talking. It's probably important.
"We're going to detain Takada."
Why? Matt doesn't bother asking. Whatever the reason, he'll follow through until the end.
"I don't have all the details worked out, but we'll definitely initiate sometime this week."
The Mello Matt knew as a child is not the same Mello standing before him now. To keep them straight, Matt has separated him into two entities: the Mello Before and the Mello After. Before meaning before Mello blew himself half to pieces. After meaning…well, the scar is proof enough.
The Mello Before was selfish, brilliant, hasty, cruel, a bit of a narcissist. He used people like tissues, disposing of them once they'd served their purpose. However, he always got away with this. There was something about the Mello Before that was addictive—not deceptive, for what you saw was always what you got—but magnetic in a way that made this truth not matter all that much.
The Mello After—the Mello Now—is still selfish, still brilliant and rash and breath-catchingly cruel. His narcissism has diminished somewhat, but the compelling volatility of his nature remains intact. He still uses people. He's still…a bit of a prick. However, the Mello After has something the Mello Before never had. Humanity. Even if he won't admit it, even if it's more a symptom of post-traumatic shock rather than actual character building, the failure of his first attempt to keep the Death Note has made Mello somehow touchable.
And this tangibility, this Mello that is almost even remotely dependant on someone else, is Matt's fault completely.
"Work for me. I'll pay you good money."
"I know."
"You won't have to interact directly with the Mob members. Except for me, of course."
"I know."
"I want you to install a detonation system in each of my hideouts. You're the only one I trust to do this without risk of blowing me up."
"I…Mello, are you stupid? You can't blow up a fucking building while still inside it!"
"I can if you design the bomb layout and ignition sequence. You understand everything about controlled explosions."
"No, Mello. There's too much room for error."
"It's still possible. Come on, Matt! We've always been friends."
"…I know."
"I wouldn't trust you with something I thought was beyond your capabilities."
"I know."
"You'll do it, then."
"No fucking way."
Mello hadn't stopped at this. He just carried on without Matt, knowing full well that without the redhead's expertise, things could go downhill very quickly. And they did. And Mello has the scars to prove it.
Matt hates himself for this. Every day he sees those scars, and every day he thinks that if he had given into the blonde's demands, if he had just taken a chance and designed the fucking detonation sequence, then perhaps…
"…oh fuck…oh fuck…please, God, don't…Jesus fucking Christ…"
"B-be quiet, Mello. I need…I need to…"
"Be quiet?! Don't you tell me to be quiet you motherfucking asshole! I get blown to fucking hell and all you can say is…"
"Just calm down!" Matt secures his shoulder more firmly beneath the crook of the blonde's uninjured arm and begins leading him towards the bathroom. What is he supposed to do? Mello just…just shows up at his apartment, and now…he can't take him to a doctor. They'd be arrested, and Mello…Mello would kill him if that happened. But what other option does he have? Every Mafia doc within a hundred mile radius had been blown to shit by…
"…you fucker…" Mello groans as Matt helps him remove the remnants of his clothing. "…you motherfucker…Matt…this is your fault…"
"Mello, stop! Please, I need to find a doctor!"
Wait. Why can't he do it? Sure, Matt, has never really been of L status, but he's still a Wammy kid. All he needs is information from an online medical journal. Following instructions. Matt's always been good at that.
"Hold on Mello. I'm checking the computer."
"Computer?!" The blonde's eyes seem to bug out of his head, blue-white beetles fit to burst. "I can't believe you…Matt, you fucker…I'm dying and you're gonna check the fucking computer?!"
Matt doesn't bother answering. With the amount of pain Mello is in, he's liable to say anything. What matters now is helping him.
…b-u-r-n-n…t-t-r-e-a-t-m-m-e… "Damnit!" The redhead backspaces feverishly, trembling fingers barely able to come down upon the keys. …b-u-r-n…t-r-e-a-t-m-e-n-t…He hits 'Enter' with a sigh of relief.
"I found something!" Laptop tucked beneath his armpit, Matt returns to the blonde's side.
"Oh, that's just fucking great, Matt! I feel…FUCK THAT HURTS!"
Matt flinches but continues to drag Mello towards the shower. "Cold water will sooth the pain. Also, we need to clean your wounds so they don't become infected."
"Water will sooth the pain?! Hell, give me some fucking OxyContin!"
Ignoring the string of angry German that follows this outburst, Matt begins to compare Mello's wounds with the pictures of those online. While the expanse of injury is frightening, the actual severity of the blonde's burns isn't nearly as bad as he thought. Second and third degree mostly. No fourth. Mello won't need skin graphs.
Which was a damn good thing because, as smart as he is, Matt sure as hell can't do everything.
"Matt! Goddamnit! What the fuck are you doing to me?"
"I have to clean your…"
"Stop…stop it! You're hurting me, Matt!"
"I'm sorry." And he really is. Matt can't begin to imagine extent of the unholy agony his friend is being subjected to. Mello has always been a drama queen, but when he says something hurts, he means it.
A brutal two hours later finds Mello lying on Matt's bed, lost in a haze of codeine and smoldering cigarettes. Matt has treated his burns as best he can. It took him an entire roll of gauze and three tubes of Neosporin, but he did it. He isn't third for nothing.
"…Matt…"
The blonde gazes at him confusedly, the non-bandaged side of his face pulled into a frown.
"Don't speak. You're tired."
"…Matt, I…I…damnit…I want…" Mello reaches out helplessly. Without thinking, Matt takes his hand. "…Matt…Mattie, I…you're not a…you know I'm not…"
"Shh." The redhead sighs and stubs out his cigarette on the surface of the nightstand. "I know. Now go to sleep."
Mello nods and settles back into the pillows. He only ever listens to orders when he is sick or delirious, and, clearly, he is both.
Why else would his unsettling eyes be so glassy and strangely bright?
"So, Matt, what do you think? Matt…MATT!"
The shorter youth jerks in surprise. He blushes, glancing up sheepishly at Mello.
"Sorry, I…"
"…wasn't listening? Well, fuck, Matt! What the hell am I paying you for?"
Mello's only saying this because he's irritated. They both know that money stopped being an issue long ago. He runs a hand through his hair.
Cool off, Mihael. Think more like L.
That's what he used to tell himself. However, Mello knows that he will never think like L, that he will never act like L, that he will never be L. He is Mello. Second to Near, but first in ambition…probably.
"Listen. I want you to hack the surveillance system of NHS. Also, break in and set up cameras in Takada's house. You will be responsible for knowing her whereabouts at all times."
"What about when she's not at home or work?"
"At those times you will tail her personally."
"Are you serious?" Behind his goggles, Matt looks pissed. He hates going outside. He hates being around large groups of people. Mello knows this, but there's no one else to do the job.
"You don't have to talk to her. Fuck, you better not talk to her! Just keep an eye on what she's doing."
Matt is the only person Mello will treat like this, the only person who won't get a bullet in the brain for talking back to him. Standing there in his ugly striped sweater. Pouting like he did when they were little. He's almost cute, Mello thinks. He isn't angry. Matt will give in like he always does.
"Fine, but you fucking owe me."
"Whatever." Mello smirks. Being around Matt makes him feel young again. He can forget Kira, forget Near, forget his years in the mafia. Sometimes he can even forget the hideous scar that runs across his face. Whenever Matt looks at him—without fear, without disgust, as if he's almost normal—Mello feels good somehow.
The blonde no longer takes feeling good for granted. Matt's the closest to Heaven he'll ever get, and God knows Mello has seen enough of Hell.
"That's all for now. You can take the night off if you want." With a wave of the hand, Mello dismisses both Matt and the memories nagging at his already fraying sanity.
Neither leave. One sprawls out on the cable-choked bed. The other is more discreet, burying itself with every intention of resurgence. Unable to help himself, Mello is drawn to that which is more accessible. Made In China stripes, ugly jeans, hair dyed Ruby Rush clashing with skin so pale the veins shine through it.
Don't even get him started on the goggles.
But Matt's absolute lack of taste is more than made up for by his resourcefulness, his intelligence, the fact that he could have been number one but isn't.
Mello liked him from the get-go.
Every Saturday, the orphans at Wammy's House go on an outing. Sometimes they visit the shire towns and moors of England's countryside. Sometimes famous historical sites— Stratford-upon-Avon, Oxford, Stonehenge. On this Saturday they are visiting Liverpool. Mello stares out the window of the private car, unimpressed by the grimy sidewalks and ivy-choked rooftops. He should be studying, beating Near…but they wouldn't let him take his books.
It's Against The Rules.
They are passing through a nasty neighborhood on their way to where The Beatles—famous enough even for socially-deprived geniuses to have heard of—were shipped off to America. Everything is dirty. Every now and then Mello spots a homeless person. Some are silent, a pile of rags on the doorstep. Others scream, wave empty soup cans and ask for money. One is carrying a sign.
Let He Hoo Is With Out Sin Kast The 1st Stone.
A little boy in a big coat converses with two men at the entrance of a public park. He looks about the same age as Mello—twelve—and has ratty clothes and skin the color of old socks.
This boy is the most interesting thing he's seen all day.
"Can we stop the car?"
The driver peers at him through the rearview mirror and shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."
"But I want to go to that park."
"Maybe next time."
Eyes glittering a bit too dangerously for a twelve-year old, Mello returns his attention to the window. He memorizes every building, every empty lot, every turn they take on the cobbled and cracked-asphalt streets.
Why is the badly-dressed boy talking to those men?
"Alright, we're here." The car stops, and Mello follows the children accompanying him out onto the street.
He starts walking. Doesn't look back. Doesn't give anything away. Confident in his own stealth, in his own invisibility, Mello makes his way back to the park. It's about half a kilometer away, zero point three two miles.
One kilometer equals one thousand meters. One thousand meters equals zero point six two one miles. Divide this by two. Drop the last digit to allow for error.
The boy is by himself now, sitting on a bench just outside the entrance of the park. He fiddles with something in his pocket.
"What's that?"
He combats the blonde's glaring gaze with one of mild curiosity. Green eyes blink behind a shock of dirty, brown hair.
"Just a watch."
Perfect English with a trace of a Polish accent. He holds the Rolex up for Mello's examination. "Nice one, isn't it?"
A broad, white face offers the blonde its own scrutiny. The second hand ticks in warning.
"Did you steal it from those men?"
"Steal it?" Flushing in indignation, the freckles on the boy's sickly face are suddenly very prominent. "Of course I didn't steal it! I'm just fixing it for them."
"Fixing it?" Mello laughs—a high, boyish, menacing sound.
"Well not fixing it, I guess. I'm just making some adjustments."
"What kind of adjustments?" Even more interested than before, Mello furrows his brow at the disagreeable watch.
"I'm going to install a special device. Then, the next time someone tries to adjust it, the watch will explode."
A thrill shoots up Mello's spinal chord. This isn't a normal boy he's found. No, he's a special one. This boy belongs at Wammy's!
"Why would you do that?"
"Because if I don't, those men won't give me money."
"They're paying you to turn a watch into a bomb?"
"Yup."
"It's probably illegal."
The boy echoes. "…probably…"
"That bomb's going to be used to kill someone."
"…I-I know…"
One moment detachment. The next, tears. A mixture of saline dribbles down the boy's sallow cheeks. The tracts of clean skin left behind more garishly white than before. Suddenly, the potential Wammy kid is reduced to a sniveling twelve-year old.
Wiping his snotty face on his hand, the boy stares desperately at the ticking watch. As with Mello, it stares back. No sympathy. No trace of absolution. Black on white. Good versus evil. A perfectly measured revolution in sixty perfectly measured ticks.
Elegant by nature is cruelty. Cruel by nature is man. Somewhere in between lies the innocent sadism of children.
But this boy is far from innocent, and as he continues to sob, Mello feels a bit of empathy. He knows what it's like to cry, to commit an unforgivable, unavoidable sin.
To run out of options. To truly understand the concept of Kill Or Be Killed.
"You can come with me, if you want."
Wordlessly, the boy takes his outstretched hand. He doesn't ask why Mello's doing this. He doesn't ask where Mello's taking him. He doesn't even ask Mello for his name. He just follows, freckles and green eyes and shaggy brown hair ugly compared to the blonde's golden, blue-gazed brilliance.
Two damned creatures holding onto each other. They take salvation into their own hands.
The Rolex is left gleaming on the sidewalk.
"You really think this is safe? Kidnapping Takada?"
It's a rhetorical question. Mello answers anyway. "Of course not. Actually, there's a pretty good chance we won't make it out of this alive."
Then why are we doing it?
Matt doesn't ask this. To Mello's infinite relief, it's just not his style. Instead, he lights up a cigarette and stares contentedly at the broken ceiling fan. His goggles glint in the light of the computer monitors. Mello sits beside him on the mattress. He stares down Matt's body—arms thrown out, legs straight. He looks like an upside down propeller, an inverted cross. Mello runs a hand through his sinfully vibrant hair.
"Did I tell you I got my picture back?"
"From Near?" Matt allows his head to rest on Mello's thigh. "Glad I wasn't there to see that conversation."
"Yeah." Me too.
The artificial sheen of Matt's hair is mesmerizing to the blonde. Through his gloves, he imagines he can feel its softness.
"Are you worried?" Matt has pulled back his goggles. His startling green eyes stare up at him in wonder.
"No." Mello lies. "Worrying is useless."
Smiling with infuriating understanding, Matt reaches up to Mello's ragged mop of blond. "You have a knot."
Mello's hair used to be beautiful. Bleached to perfection. Cut in a precise, stylish line. But it came in darker after the fire, coarser as well. Mello hasn't bothered to dye or condition it. He hasn't even cut it since the accident. His hair hangs in his face now, ragged and concealing.
"There." Matt grins as his boss's bangs fall into place. "That's better."
"Thanks." Mello's lips rearrange themselves laboriously into a smile as he pulls his leg from beneath Matt's neck and shrinks cautiously away. He can't help it. The situation is getting too…
"Anytime."
Green eyes follow Mello out of the bedroom, but he doesn't look back. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't.
The crucifix lies too heavy on his chest.
-TOT (I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. This is my first Death Note fic, and, though it follows an often used timeframe, I'm really trying to make the story and characters unique. If you have any questions or comments about my writing, please don't hesitate to leave me a note (…haha…note…okay, I'm a dork…). All reviews will be greatly appreciated.