Title: If Rain Is What You Want
Summary: Emotionally degenerative and full of despair, Mello inwardly longs for the friend he left behind. Little does he know, he's not the only one. [An MxM reunion fic]
Disclaimer: I have no ownership ties to DN or anything I might reference.
Author's Note: -Written, per request by Mel-ve-Mat on dA. [Tone and overall feel of the story is loosely based on the song 'If Rain Is What you Want,' by Slipknot.]
ADDITIONAL NOTE: Before editing, my Disclaimer said: 'I have now ownership ties to DN or anything I might reference.' Whoops.
WARNING: Bad words, ahoy! Mildly offensive cursing.
...
[Mini-Prologue-]
The world was splitting at the seams, so full of hypocrites, deceptive saints: a self-proclaimed God who scripted his very own 'Naughty List' and ended the lives of many with the flick of the wrist and the scrape of a pen.
Now, of course, the masses could easily be divided into three categories:
-Those who supported the monstrous human with the strange ability to kill at the drop of a name
-Those who opposed the bypass of a fair trial and the blatant homicide that was taking place in the name of righteousness
-And... those who didn't know or care; the lucky, bastardic, ignorant fools who shrugged off the situation, ignored the facts and trending details, and went about their lives like such pandemonium wasn't encroaching.
Everything was falling apart. Caution and accusation spread like disease. Many civilians, innocent and guilty alike, were united under the grasp of fear. But this... was only a staple for the evolution of mankind under Kira's smiting hand.
Thankfully, behind the scenes, the descendants of a world renowned detective were working towards a revolution... by any means necessary.
...
Television was shit. Nothing but cartoons with diminishing quality, reruns of old sitcoms, and movies that were anything but timeless. The news was something many people looked forward to seeing, even if the meteorologists never new what Mother Nature had in store. From sports updates to local and global affairs, this was the Olympics of television. Families huddled together, phones down and attention drawn to a single screen... A means of bonding, if only to know the latest buzz on the man called Kira.
Whether he was a righteous saint or a self-mandated criminal with a plethora of psychological malfunctions, it was all a matter of opinion.
Of course, by now the media had stopped broadcasting the rain of deaths to lessen the chance that Kira would benefit from whatever details were exploited... but the the press still sought to get the word out. Journalists needed to tell their stories, share their knowledge with the masses. Thus, the sins of society painted the daily newspaper in the form of lead-based ink, and Mello drank it in with a smouldering glare and a clenched jaw. His focus for the moment: the obituaries.
His eyes roamed over the name of every Tom, Dick, and Harry, Becky, Donna, and Helena that had met their maker- God rest their souls- and he found it in himself to toss the script away before he'd even finished the page. Because... what he was looking for, would never be printed.
What he was looking for- searching for- was something so close and yet so far away. Someone anonymous but close at heart. A secret. A fantasy. A desire beyond control.
At this point, the blonde mafia ringleader could only value said desire as a token. A warped but wonderful memory that became more valuable and sentimental with each passing year. Something/Someone he took for granted, lost, and learned to treasure far too late.
In his mind, he remembered well. He pictured the rust-colored hair that fringed over those too-large goggle lenses adorning a child's pale, freckled face. He pictured the striped shirt and clumsy, bumbling demeanor. The impossibly bright smile, despite the missing tooth. And... the calm aura that just seemed to radiate.
Whether this person was truly special or just a twisted and nostalgic muse coated in cleverly laced details, Mello had called this person 'dork.'
Idiot.
Loser.
Wimp.
Stupid.
Asshat.
And the list continued... but Mello also called him 'roommate.' And 'friend.'
And his name... was Matt.
The memories surrounding this redhead surfaced like lightning. Fast and fleeting, but bold, bright, and unforgettable. In a single heartbeat, Mello could recall a thousand private conversations.
The ludicrous ideals and impossibilities of Santa. The fruition and detriment of governmental affairs. And, whether or not that cloud on the left resembled a princess leap-frogging over a humpback whale...
In a single breath, Mello could recall, with perfect clarity, every monumental venture they shared.
Exploring the west wing of Wammy's House, even though they were forbidden to venture down that corridor. Sneaking extra cookies when no one was looking. Playing soccer outside, or games of pretend inside. The long afternoons of Mello reading while Matt played a game and randomly commented on something that had... nothing to do with what they were supposed to be studying. And, of course, the laughter that came between 10 pm and 2 am when both were exhausted and found everything hilarious for no reason- because...
-yes... There really was a time when the big bad, leather-bound mafia boss was carefree enough to do such things. Free to be a child. There was a time when the weight of the world wasn't bearing down on his shoulders, pressing him into an early grave and beckoning him so sweetly with the promise of sanctity and sanity and a sense of peace he didn't believe he deserved.
Those days, however- the age of innocence and naivete- were long gone. Tarnished. The golden years, defamed, appraised with all the value of tin or brass.
As it were for the maturing blonde, while his experience in the world became more integral with his personal being, his ability to feel faced the prospects of extinction. As the days dredged on, his gaze grew sharper, his aim grew steadier, and the (sometimes literal) skeletons in the closet piled up like dirty clothes in an overlooked and disregarded hamper.
Some days, the only thing that kept him sane, was the fact that he wasn't the only one painting the town red in his misguided course for justice- but the thought came with a biting realization he found himself reluctant to face. He rationalized his deeds with predicament. He stipulated denial and false advocacy like a well-ventured lawyer. And on those sleepless nights, when the truth fell over him like a shroud of suffocation, stealing his breath and making him gasp for help no one could offer, he found salvation in repentance.
The cross around his neck- those beads- were once a testament of faith. Over time, they became somewhat of joke due to his own gift of hypocrisy. Then, somehow, they became his refuge. His silent promise.
At every private breakdown when he couldn't reach for a bottle or pill to cure his ailment, a prayer was born, starting at his heart and making its way along a lung-current and... stopping just before being voiced.
But his heart cried out for salvation, telling about the sorrow he had for the blood he spilled and the lives he ended. And yet, it seemed, that one thing always managed to overpower all other misdeeds and sin.
That one thing- a ghost of a memory. A haunting. A name for which he sought fruitlessly in the aforementioned paper.
A prayer Mello couldn't say, but a name that fell from his tongue with surprising ease...
-As Mello tossed that newspaper aside -obituaries be damned- and fixed it with a firm glare, he confessed: "I shouldn't have left you behind, Matt." And the words came out hard, voice firm despite the fact that his hardass expression seemed to crumple like damp paper.
And later, on Mello's next venture, despite his lack of verbal relief, the same words were likely to be caught in his throat, warring between staying in and going out, seeking emancipation and being denied roughly 65% of the time.
At least, Mello easily found it in himself to ration, the memory is there.
Static. Constant. White noise. A heartbeat in the forefront of his mind.
As abstract as any folklore, but as concrete as the drugs hidden in the storage room three blocks away from where he resided under a false name.
For all Mello knew, Matt was a ghost. Literally. Dead and gone without even an obituary or headstone to mark his passing... But he hoped.
Like a child, he still found that little spark of hope.
That faith.
The belief backed by urgency.
There were so many things wrong with the world, with Mello himself... He had to believe that Matt made it out alright. Had to know, with everything in him, that his childhood friend was somehow safe.
...
Meanwhile, a particular redhead sat in a zebra-striped beanbag chair, laptop resting in his lap and a cigarette dangling from his upturned, smirking lips. Staring at his computer screen, he exhaled languidly and murmured: "S'been a while, Mells."
Staring at the screen, he leaned in a little close, just to be certain... needing that little bit of certainty for his own peace of mind.
"S'been a while," he repeated absently, sitting back and tilting his chin up to look skyward, as if the ceiling projected some great truth he couldn't find elsewhere. "S'been too long. But I finally found you," he half-whispered, as if he was telling a secret. As if he was afraid for others to know, even though he was alone.
Grabbing his goggles by the frame and moving down to rest around his neck, Matt had to blink several times to allow his vision to adjust. His unveiled eyes- the deepest shade of green, complimented by bursts of blue, yellow, and orange- revealed a large range of emotion. Everything from hope to sorrow. Excitement, nervousness, and fear...
And the one question that had been on his mind since the blonde's departure: "Do you miss me, Mells?"
An inhale. Sweet cancer. An inverted kiss of death that became expelled with a light and impromptu cough.
Once the cough subsided, Matt stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray before stating with an air of bravado: "Time to find out. I've waited long enough." With that, he got to his feet and stretched, allowing his joints and bones to pop comfortably. "Yep," he mused with a lilt in his voice. "I'm low on HP and out of potions. My MP is sapped, and there's a treasure chest nearby. Will it revive my status?" He released a half-chuckle that tapered off into another cough, then grabbed his keys and headed out.
...
The knocking started light, then grew excessive. It quickly turned into an almost recognizable pattern before Mello was irritated enough to get the door. Curses falling from his mouth like word-vomit, and twice as many profanities on the way, he procured a gun and prepared to pull rank (and trigger) on whoever was stupid enough to bother him on his day off.
"Dumbass, motherfucker, ass- Fucking- Rod, you know better than to bother me when-!" Mello's own loud, thumping footsteps came to a sudden halt, and his words ceased in tandem as he unlocked the deadbolt, grasped the handle, tore open the door, and greeted his visitor with the threat of a last meal that would come with an entree of lead.
But- nothing happened.
Like a deer caught in the headlights or a large-breasted bimbo in a slasher film, Mello froze. Eyes wide and lungs failing, Mello's brain fumbled through a fog of confusion, memory, and probability. Impossibility. Delusion?
Nothing made sense.
There was no notable cause for this.
But... deep down- without even digging too deep- Mello wanted it. Understood it. Needed it like most people he knew needed regular doses of penicillin.
In defiance of his nearly debilitating loss of speech, his visitor seemed to understand his course of thought and simply said: "Mello... I'm home."
In repose, Mello said nothing, the gun poised and aimed at the redhead, though his fingers were numb and his brain was failing to send the signal for his arm to lower the weapon.
With an earnest smile, Matt raised both of his hands by means of surrender and simply said: "I'm here. Shoot me if you want, but... uh, I was gonna ask if you want to get some Chinese. Or we could stay in..."
When Mello remained rooted to the spot, the redhead cautiously reached up and batted the blonde's gun-toting hand away before allowing himself inside and dropping himself onto the sofa in a casual, unceremoniously lax manner that would appall anyone with a sense of propriety.
After that, Mello seemed to snap out of his funk and offered a scoff. "Immature, as always. You haven't changed a bit." He turned on heel, holstered his gun, and seated himself in a chair adjacent to the sofa. "Still playing videogames, dumbass?" He asked, a bite in his tone, almost challenging. A sure sign of inner conflict.
But the redhead was too pleased by the reunion to feel put off. "Yeah," Matt returned with a languid exhale and a small smile. "You still reading?"
Mello instantly opened his mouth to snap a bitter reply out of sheer habit, but stopped. His eyes moved to rest on the discarded newspaper. Staring at that paper, a flood of memories and emotions hit him faster than the speed of light. And, as if someone had flipped a switch or something had struck a chord deep within, his demeanor changed. His shoulders slumped, just a bit, relaxing his posture. His mouth twitched at the corner- not quite allowing a smile... but it was close enough. And, with his heart feeling somehow lighter, he replied: "Yeah. Been reading a little." His gaze and attention both fully on the redhead, he added, "I've been busy, but I'm... on vacation for a few days."
The room fell quiet after that.
After so much time apart, neither young man quite knew what to say. Both were full of feelings they couldn't quite place and didn't care to name. There was ache, but there was also relief.
Thus, they sat in silence. Mello fixed a stare straight ahead and tried to process Matt's unexpected arrival while Matt twitched his fingers and considered lighting up.
Then, after a few unmeasured moments...
"Mello, your eyes are wet... Never seen you cry before."
And then... "And your eyes are green. Never seen your eyes before, goggle-boy. So we're even... Tch. Loser."
"...Bitch."
"Whore."
"Haven't eaten in two days. Feed me?" Without any further warning, Matt pounced at Mello and landed in his lap.
"The fuck?!"
"I don't entertain for free. I seriously need food, Mello. I meant it when I said I wanted Chinese."
"Ugh, you'll never grow up, Matt."
"So? You won't say the words, but you missed me."