Disclaimer:Death Note never has been and never will be mine.

Rating: T? Maybe?

Warnings: Unrequited love D:

AN: Yo!

This was floating around in my head all day, so I decided to write it up.

As always, I feel that this could have been written a lot better - it is inconsistent, choppy, and just plain sloppy in parts - but I wrote it in exactly thirty-four minutes, so I feel that it's fairly acceptable for that time-frame.

This is kind of an experiment for me, as I've never written in present-tense or first-person before (much less, a combination of the two), so I was very hesitant to upload this. Because of this, any and all feedback is largely appreciated.

I'm not sure whether or not this will remain a one-shot. I would like to continue it, but I'm not sure; it really depends on the feedback that I get.

By the way, the title of this is shamelessly stolen from the All Time Low song of the same name.

Now, onto a personal announcement!

To my darling, shrieking minties 51,

This is all from the heart, babe.

What can I say, my dearest? What words are there to describe your beauty? The simplest of things have me falling in love with you all over again; the shine of your hair in the sun, the small dimples in your cheeks as you smile, the way that your hand always seems to find mine.

There is nothing more to say other than this: I miss you. I want to be with you and hold you. I want to gently touch your face and cup your cheek in my hand as I gaze into your beautiful aquamarine eyes. I want to snuggle and cuddle with you, to just be close to you. I want to romance you. I want you to know how beautiful you are in my eyes. I want you to know how much I cherish and adore you. I want to give my heart to you. I want your heart; I want it all.

Tu es dans toutes mes pensées,

Azar

Anyway, read on!

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For as long as I've known him, Mello has always been obsessed with Near.

I've never said anything, because I don't think that I have the right to: it shames me to admit that I secretly enjoy listening to Mello get all hot and flustered whenever I bring up Near in conversation. He gets this cute little blush on his cheeks and his nose wrinkles; I've never told him how adorable he is.

Maybe I should. Maybe I should say something. Maybe I should let him know how I feel, rather than letting him unknowingly hurt me.

Don't get me wrong. I'm no masochist. I don't actually enjoy listening to him denying his infatuation, even to himself. There's really no point in denying it: it hurts. It hurts a lot. Some nights, I hear him mumbling about Near, even in his sleep, and I bite my lip to stop myself from crying.

Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. I, Mail Jeevas, am completely whipped.

I want to hate him for it. I want to be able to look at him and say with complete honesty, "You ruined my life, you asshole, and I hate you," but I can't.

I tried, once. We were sitting together in a garden that Mr. Wammy himself planted, and Mello was complaining about some grade or another. To be honest, I didn't really care about what he was saying and listened with half an ear; I paid more attention to the garden itself.

It's one of the clearest memories I have of Wammy's House: Mr. Wammy's garden. I don't know if it's still there or not, but I hope that it is. It was beautiful - not a cheesy beautiful, like you see on all those TV shows, but a real, honest beautiful; you could tell that someone had put a lot of hard work into it, even if the stepping stones weren't perfectly even and there weren't flowers in bloom all of the time, and you appreciated it for that fact.

I knew that Mello hadn't asked me to the garden for lunch because he wanted to admire its beauty with me, though: he had eyes only for the small, white-clad child who was playing with an Optimus Prime figurine on one of the many wooden benches in the garden.

In that moment, there was no one that I hated more in the world than Near, and I wanted to hate Mello for making me feel so worthless.

So I said it. "I hate you."

Mello stopped talking and gave me this look. It wasn't a glare, but it wasn't particularly pleasant: it was more of a disbelieving 'what did you just say to me?!' look, and I didn't like it at all.

He didn't say anything for a moment, but then he started talking about Near again, so I repeated it: "I hate you, Mello."

At the time, I thought that I was hot stuff. I mean, no one just confesses their hatred for Mello to his face. No one was stupid enough - except for me, that is.

However, when Mello demanded, "Where the hell is this coming from, Matt?" I started to doubt my coolness.

It's hard, trying to put my feelings into words, so forgive me for sounding like a tool, but there was this... this horrible gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I'd really fucked up.

Mello always said that he didn't care about friends and feelings, so I didn't know why he wanted me around; I didn't understand why he was getting so angry at me for saying that I felt for him what he felt for me, but I knew that I'd done something bad.

Maybe it was because I was the only one who could listen to his bullshit with a smile on my face, no matter how fake.

Well, to be fair, that's a lie. He doesn't hate me, and he never has - he just thinks that I'm pathetic.

Still, it keeps him around, so I'm not complaining.

Anyway, back to the story.

I wasn't really sure how to answer his question. I couldn't say, "Why can't you look at me like you look at him?", could I?

Instead, I laughed and said, "I'm just kidding. Did you think I was serious?"

Yeah, it was pretty lame, and I don't think that Mello believed me for a second. Regardless of that, he said, "Stop being such an idiot," and started complaining about Near all over again.

Listening to him getting so worked up about something that obviously meant a lot to him hurt me like nothing else ever had, at that stage. Every time I heard it, I just wanted to scream at him, "Can't you see how much it hurts me every time you say that?!" He wouldn't have cared, even if I had, so I never did.

I'm not going to deny that I despised Near for some time. For a whole two years, I hated that little shit. It's not that he's a bad guy: he's actually pretty cool, once you get to know him, and that fact probably didn't help his case.

I want to be the one that Mello stares at all day; I want to be the one that Mello thinks about all of the time.

Why is Near the one that got (and still gets) Mello's undivided attention, when he doesn't even want it?

How is that fair?

The answer is pretty simple, really: he's better than me. At school, at competitions, at taking things like a man, at everything that matters to Mello - he's better than I am.

That's not what really stings. You want to know what hurts the most?

Near doesn't care.

He knows about Mello's feelings, and he doesn't care. He provoked Mello; goaded him into making an idiot of himself, angered him into revealing a tiny bit more of his feelings with each argument, and threw it all back at Mello's face.

And who was left to pick up the pieces?

Me. It's always me, and Mello never realises that it's not because I'm just trying to be a really good friend.

Sometimes, I swear, I just want to sock him in the jaw for being so stupid, and pin him to something and kiss him for being so adorable and predictable. His habit of getting himself hurt ensures that he's always going to need me around, though, so maybe it's a blessing in disguise.

Mind you, it's a very bloody good disguise, because I can't see the blessing in there anywhere.

Whenever he and Near got into a fight that Near won (which was nearly all of them), Mello would come to me with this hurt puppy act.

I've heard it so often, but I fall for it every time: he yells about it for a while, punches something, and then comes to me with his tail between his legs and says, "Matt... Tell me what you think of me. Be honest."

The first time he said it, I didn't know how to reply, so I ended up saying, "You're my best friend."

Mello had seemed pretty satisfied with it, so I'd let it go, and repeated that answer every other time he asked me, even though that didn't even come close to describing how I felt for him.

If you've ever tried to confess your gay love for your best friend to him, then you'll know what I'm talking about. I look at him, and I feel so happy that I know him, that I can call him my friend, but, at the same time, I feel like I'm betraying him every time I so much as touch him.

It's really stupid that I can feel so ecstatic, just because Mello chooses to spend his time with me, but I'm a pretty stupid person.

I once said to a stranger on the train, "Do you see that guy? The one over there, in the leather? He's my best friend. Isn't he great?" The worse part is that I didn't feel ashamed at all, and I still don't. I honestly meant what I was saying, and the happiness in my voice wasn't faked at all.

You know what they say about blind people being really perceptive? Like, their other four senses are strengthened, and they become really empathetic? Turns out it's true.

The stranger, one of those old ladies that you can just tell was gorgeous in her hey-day, replied, "Well, I haven't seen anything for ten years, but I wish you luck. Have you told him?"

I didn't know how she knew, and I still don't, but she gave me a sympathetic smile when I said, "Nah... He's... in love with someone else."

Every time I say it, it kills me just a little bit more inside. Knowing that I'm not enough for Mello is one thing, but readily admitting it is something else entirely.

Maybe Mello's right when he calls me pathetic.

Probably. He's usually right about everything else.

The lady frowned as she said, "Oh, you poor dear."

It kind of embarrassing to admit, but I've always wanted a grandmother. You know, a nice one, who'd bake me cookies and smack my hand away when I try to eat the cookie-dough, knit blankets, fuss over me, and give me a glass of warm milk to help me sleep, and this lady, with her shopping bags and her walking stick and her floral print dress, seemed like the grandmother that I'd never had.

When my stop came, I gave the lady a fifty pound note and said, "Buy your grandkids something with it, but don't tell them where you got it."

As I left the train, I heard her calling after me, and I wondered if her grandkids realised how lucky they were, but I didn't look back.

One thing you learn after living on the streets and struggling to pay for living expenses is to not look back. If you look back, you're going to find something that you could've done better, something that you could've changed, and you're going to drive yourself insane with regret.

That's why I've never looked back on my childhood; I know that it wasn't great, but I haven't complained yet, and I'm a better person for it.

It's not like my parents abused me or anything. It's nothing like that. An improperly executed left-hand turn, a truck driving too quickly to brake, some cops waking me up in the middle of the night with a torch in my eyes, telling me that my parents were in an accident, and - hey presto! - I'm an orphan. I was four, when it happened, and too young to understand it properly, but I did understand that these guys were trying to take me away from my home, so I fought back. I pulled out a guy's tooth, and kicked some poor cop right where it hurts, but they eventually got me out of the house.

I was in foster care for a while. Let me tell you right now: you know those horrible stories you hear about all foster fathers being paedophiles? They're not true, as far as I can tell. My first three foster families were great - really nice people, and very understanding.

And then there's my fourth pair of foster parents.

There's not much to say about them. Cathy and Luke, I think their names were. They were nice enough, but they had a shithead of a son - Ian - and the bastard thought that it'd be great fun to get me drunk when his parents were out.

Needless to say, it didn't work out as planned, and I got taken to the hospital with alcohol poisoning. I don't remember much, because I was on so many drugs, but Ian got chewed-out by Cathy, and Luke apologised a lot.

As soon as I was well enough, I got taken to an orphanage and put up for adoption.

It was a pretty cool orphanage; nothing like the one in Oliver Twist. Monitors One and Two were young girls - eighteen and nineteen, I think - and they bought me my first video game. We used to stay up at night, playing Pac-Man on this tiny little hand-held console, and it was great.

I used to stay up and wait for them, but they didn't come one night, so I got up and started looking around. The orphanage was really creepy at night: the whole west side of the building was covered in windows, and the trees outside cast grotesque-looking shadows on the walls.

That was the first time that I'd ever walked around the orphanage at night, and I was scared shitless.

I went to Monitor One's rooms, but they weren't there, so I went across the hall to Monitor Two's. Because I was so young, when I heard these noises from behind the door, I thought that one of them was getting attacked or something, so I squared my jaw and walked right on in.

You've got to understand: I really loved Monitors One and Two. They were my first friends, and I didn't want anything to happen to them.

As fate would have it, neither of the Monitors were hurt, and I got my first glimpse of lesbian sex. It scared the hell out of me, but not as much as I scared them, and, in the end, we all tried to get on with life like it had never happened.

It was all hushed up, and I think that they were secretly relieved when Roger came to ship me off to Wammy's.

I met Mello on my first day. There was no long moment where the whole world seemed to fall away; my breath didn't catch in my throat when I laid my eyes upon his exquisite beauty. In fact, I didn't think that he was anything special at all. We just walked past each other in the hallway, our eyes meeting for maybe a second or two, and moved on.

My first day was boring - just a lot of introductions and tours, really. I didn't make any friends, but that was to be expected, because all of the children were ogling at me like they'd never seen a kid with red hair before.

My second day was slightly more eventful. It was the first time that I spoke to Mello. Coincidentally, it was also the first time that I got a black-eye.

I didn't really know what to say to anyone, so I didn't bother trying to socialise. I stayed in my room for most of the day, but went to the dining room for dinner, and was pretty surprised when Mello sat down at my table.

"Hello," he said amicably enough. "I'm Mello."

Now, don't get me wrong: I didn't dislike Mello, but I'm not a very chatty person. I just didn't know what to say to him. As such, I nodded and went back to eating my dinner.

The meal progressed uneventfully, until Mello slammed his cup of juice down on the table and asked angrily, "How come you're not talking to me?"

If you've ever been told off by a six year old, you'll know what I mean when I say that he didn't look very threatening. Thinking back on it, he was actually pretty cute, but he'd kill me if he knew that I thought so.

I shrugged nonchalantly and replied, "I don't feel like it."

It wasn't the smartest thing that I've ever done, but it seemed like a good - and fairly honest - idea at the time.

When Mello stood up and lunged across the table toward me, I didn't really understand what was going on until he punched my eye and yelled, "Stop being such a smug bastard!"

It was probably a very stupid decision on my part, but I laughed.

I laughed at Mello.

Of course, back then, I didn't know that the kid could seriously mess people up, so I didn't know that that was why some of the other children were staring at me; I just figured that they thought that I was insane.

I'll say it again, just to remind you: I'm not a masochist. Getting the shit beaten out of me didn't feel good in the slightest, but I just kept on laughing. I don't even know why I did it. It was probably the idea of someone wasting their time on beating me up that I found funny - that was probably it. Fighting just seemed so stupid to me, so I wasn't going to fight back, and I knew that there was no point in getting into a fight if the fightee didn't retaliate.

Truthfully, I wanted to cry. I'd never been hit before, and it hurt a hell of a lot more than I'd thought that it would. Still, I didn't hit Mello back. I just lay there, laughing my ass off like some kind of loony, and let Mello hit me.

After a few minutes, Mello gave up completely on making me fight back and helped me up so that we could both sit at the table again.

The kids who had formed a ring around us walked back to their tables disappointedly as Mello said, "So..." he gestured toward my plate, "you like mashed potatoes, huh?"

And just like that, our friendship was formed.

The time that I spent at Wammy's House was the best of my life. It wasn't just spending time with Mello; it was the whole idea of fitting in somewhere.

Who am I kidding? Spending time with Mello was the highlight of each of my days. He was my best friend - my only friend - and, even if he treated my like shit most of the time, I wanted to do everything that I could to make him happy.

It's kinda odd, but no matter how much he insulted me or hit me, I still wanted to impress him. It was like he could do no wrong in my eyes - every time he hit me, I rationalised that I deserved it; every time that he called me something offensive, I thought that he was just being honest.

It might seem strange, but I never suffered from a period of low self-esteem. I figured that if Mello thought that I was scum, then I was scum, and I acknowledged that fact happily. I honestly didn't care. I just wanted to spend time with him.

Mello's always said that that aspect of my personality is absolutely pathetic. He's given up on calling me a dog; whenever I buy him chocolate, he sneers, "You're the worst," but I don't mind.

He's right, after all; if only he knew how I feel for him. I wonder what he'd say then?

I remember, once, that all of the kids got together and celebrated finishing the year by getting 'married'.

Mello and I both agreed that getting married to a girl would be gross, so we held hands at the 'altar'. I knew, even then, that I wasn't the one that Mello wanted to marry, but I didn't mind, because Mello was holding my hand and he was about to marry me, regardless of who he wanted to marry.

The 'priest' made us recite some bastardization of the traditional Christian wedding vows, and told us to give each other our rings. The ring that I chose for Mello wasn't anything special; in fact, I found it in one of the bathrooms. The silver paint was chipping and a few of the fake gems had fallen out, but Mello seemed happy enough with it, and my heart raced as I slipped it onto his ring finger.

My 'wedding' ring turned out to be a cheap, plastic one that Mello got out of a cereal box, but, to me, it seemed like 24-carat gold as he slid it onto my finger.

Then, the 'priest' - some girl that I really didn't care about - uttered that one line, "You may now kiss the bride," and I felt my cheeks heat up as Mello leaned in and kissed my cheek.

It was then, with Mello's soft lips on my cheek, that I realised that I had a crush on my best friend. I probably should've felt disgusted with myself; I should've pushed Mello away from me and retreated to my room, where I could wallow in my angst and self-pity by myself.

But I didn't.

That moment, with Mello's warm, sweet breath on my face, his teeth grazing my skin lightly as he tripped forward, and his hand gripping mine so tightly that the circulation was probably cut off, is one that I will always remember, because I enjoyed it for what it was; I expected nothing else, because I was too young to be affected by hormones, and felt completely encompassed by a sense of pure, innocent joy.

Mello gave me a weird look as he pulled away, and I quickly kissed him back, more than happy that he didn't push me away.

We stepped off of the 'altar' and sat together with the other 'married couples', watching other people get 'married' and still holding hands.

For a few, wonderful minutes, we acted exactly like a married couple: Mello wrapped his arm around my waist and I slung my arm across his shoulders. His head came to rest on my shoulder, and I rested my chin on it comfortably, letting the lemony scent of his shampoo lull me into a sort of daze.

Just sitting there, holding Mello: that was one of the greatest moments of my life.

As the saying goes, all good things come to an end, and so it did. The end of our 'marriage' came far too quickly for me; it started with Near and Linda stepping onto the 'altar' together and saying their vows, and ended with Mello's fierce glare at Linda and the harsh realisation that my first crush was unrequited.

In that moment, for the first time in my life, I hated someone. I felt this horrible burning loathing in my chest as I glared at Near, but what was worse was the horrible coldness that settled in my chest.

It got worse over the years - every time I saw Mello staring absent-mindedly at Near (which was quite often), it tightened around my heart like an icy vice - and it still hasn't left.

I just... I look at Mello, and I don't understand how he could feel anything toward Near other than resentment. Near hasn't done anything toward Mello to make him feel the way that he does - in fact, Near has done things that would drive anyone else away - but Mello keeps on chasing after him without knowing what to do when he catches Near, like some kind of retarded, love-sick puppy.

I hope that Mello catches Near one day; some sick part of me hopes that it will make him finally realise that Near will never love him back, but, mostly, I hope that he finally gets what he's always wanted. I just want him to be happy, even if it's not with me.

It's never been me that he wants, and I've sort of come to accept that. It might sound pathetic, but I'm a pathetic person, and maybe, one day, I'll be able to look back on this and say that I did the right thing in keep quiet about the pain in my heart and the coldness in my chest.

I sure hope so, because, at the moment, I can't see the point in sticking around at all.

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