A/N This is my first Mello/Matt fanfic! I'm not entirely sure if I'll write more than one (though I might put up a one-shot or two… hehe); it'll all depend on how well this one goes. Written after watching Death Note for the first time (how could I have gone this long without watching it, how?) and reading excessive MM fanfiction. Also being written at the same time as two Dramione fanfics, so don't expect particularly frequent updates. My apologies in advance.

This is just the prologue. The story begins in the next chapter, in the Wammy's days, and works its way up to the end of their stories. Characters may appear slightly OoC and I might change some things about the story, but it's mostly canon. I'll be using official anime/manga characteristics as well.

Blanket disclaimer: I own nothing of Death Note, nor any of the books, songs, places, etc. that will be used in this fic. I own only the plot, and randomly inserted OCs (own characters).

Enjoy! Constructive criticism, very welcome!

xxxxx

The sun was setting in San Diego, California. The dying light bathed the apartment in an orange glow, making the clutter seem more romantic than it usually did. In the midst of a sea of empty cigarette packets, half-smoked cigarette butts, Chinese takeout cartons and massive amounts of technology, squatted a pea-green, patched-up couch. It listed to one side slightly; one of the legs was missing, the space filled by a book that didn't quite come to the same height as the leg it was replacing. There was a small table a little way off, and a counter in what served as a kitchen (upon which sat a beat-up microwave and a micro refrigerator), but the couch was easily the biggest piece of furniture in the room. And the most worn.

Upon the couch, lazily tapping away at a slightly cracked Gameboy color, was a lanky boy of no more than 20. The cigarette pinned in the corner of his mouth was shedding ash onto his red-and-black striped shirt, having long been forgotten in the quest to be the very best that no one ever was. Little beeps emitted from the portable console and the corner of those thin lips quirked up in a smirk. A lock of brown hair slipped over orange goggles, but the boy did not even pause the game, choosing instead to try and blow around the cigarette, hoping the air would propel the offending strands away. No such luck. In the end, he just gave up, and let the thin strands tickle his nose. They wouldn't bother him much, anyway.

By now the sun was almost completely set; the brightest light in the apartment was coming from the Gameboy. Shifting to one-handed play, the boy fumbled around on the floor, searching for something vaguely solid and weighty. Hand closing upon something satisfactory, he hurled it in the general direction of the light switch. Some days this worked, some days it didn't. Today wasn't one of the lucky days. The boy frowned but made no move to get up and turn the light on himself. He'd do it when his eyes hurt too much.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of a cellphone interrupted the peaceful background noise of city traffic and gaming beeps. The boy frowned, irritated at the interrupted game, and looked up, blinking into the darkness of the room. "Damn it," he muttered around the cigarette. He snatched it from between his lips and ground it out on the couch, something he'd done time and again, leaving little scorch marks on the cheap fabric. Reaching down and fumbling through the mess of the floor once more, he found the offending piece of technology tucked inside one of the more recently discarded takeout cartons. The number flashing on the display was international and unknown. Frown deepening, he flipped the phone open, set it on loudspeaker, and resumed his game.

For a moment there was silence, then the faint sounds of sirens and crashing debris filtered through. Then a hoarse, hacking cough. None of it registered with the gamer boy, however, until a voice came faintly down the line. A voice the boy knew all too well. He'd heard it enough times in his dreams.

"…Matt…"

In that instant, Matt (for indeed it was he) flicked off the console in his hands, all attention going to the small phone on the floor in front of him. That couldn't be- no-

Mello.

"I'm hoping you haven't changed your number." A dry laugh, another round of coughing. The voice was ragged, interlaced with pants and hisses. "Guess I should have called – sooner." A moan. Then a small retching noise. "God, explosions hurt like a bitch…"

The rest of the call was lost on Matt. As soon as he heard the word "explosion" he snapped out of the trance he'd been in, grabbing the nearest laptop, starting up programs and patches that would track the source of the call. In mere seconds he'd triangulated the location –and almost laughed. The number may have been international, but the location was very much local. So close.

"…hey buddy, say something…" The voice continued to croak out of the speakers, but Matt was only half-listening as he scrabbled through the mess for his keys. God he should have kept the apartment more organized. "…or don't. God knows you're probably pissed as hell at me now. Don't even know why you" –coughing fit to burst- "picked up." Shallow breaths. Little chuckle. "…but hey, I'm glad you did." A choked scream followed by a hiss. "I just- well, I guess you ought to know…"

Finally finding the stupid bits of metal in a tangle of wires, he shrugged on a vest, shoving a pack of cigarettes and a lighter into the ass pocket of his jeans. One more glance at the computer to make sure the coordinates were correct, then he was out the door before the rest of the message finished. The click of its closing echoed through the empty apartment.

"You ought to know" –a burst of static and another coughing fit- "that it took a Goddamn explosion to make me realize I fucking love you, Matt Jeevas."