Children are morbid creatures. Only so because they have such time left they can afford to be morbid. They can afford to think dreadful thoughts of dying, of rampant disease, of the crushing weight that is the horrors of this world. Most of them made a familiar friend with horror already. In an orphanage, almost everybody had a story. It was not pasted across their chest, not lighted on a neon sign. But everybody had a story.
The majority of them were not pleasant in quality. The pain of a losing a family, growing up alone, living on the streets, wallowing in poverty. Wammy's house was a plethora of despairing tales that blossomed from the experiences of its young inhabitants. Stories must stem from somewhere and it's curious that most stories are built upon a thick foundation of fact. Yes, it is garnished with gruesome additions with each vivid retelling, but if you go back to the root there lays a truth.
Each child brought there brings in a new story. The other children swoop in like a bird diving for a furiously crawling worm. They comfort the newcomer and not soon after his story would come spilling out. This would soon be added to the garish arsenal of stories. The children rejoiced in the horrors, buried their own in the countless others. They would grin with a grim kind of delight, perhaps one or two teeth missing from the front of their jaw.
Mail Jeevas had a story. His story was—in Mail's mind—one of the most terrible of the lot gathered over the years. But this opinion was kept solely to himself and himself alone. To the children's dismay his story was never told. It stayed locked in safeguard of his mind. Gathering dust in his memory banks. He had no interest in telling the other children only to have it retold numerous times.
So Mail let the children whisper, accusations spinning around them like a cyclone. He didn't care, he didn't care. That was his mantra. He told himself everyday, that he was so apathetic, that he cared nothing for the dull whispers. His name discernable from the jumble of words uttered quickly to the next listener. A hand cupped over the lips to conceal the secret away from prying ears.
Mail was quite fortunate—or unfortunate—to have very sharp ears
His mantra sounded dully inside his mind, reminding him of what he had always told himself. He didn't care, he never cared. Whatever you cared about shriveled up and died. Wilting and drying up before your very eyes. Mail was very careful not to care. He was a good pupil, he always came in second behind Near. That was, until the arrival of a new child. An addition to the Wammy family.
Mello was his chosen name. Roger let you pick your own alias after all. He was a kind old man, Mail was fond of him. However not fond enough to care about him, no, he cared for nothing. Nothing except his games. Games were good friends. You could buy them and replace them. If you began to bore of one you could simply acquire a new one without so much as batting an eyelash. Games were far more patient then man could ever hope to be.
-o-
It was just as any other day. Mail's books sat in the corner of his messy room. It was the kind of room that was dysfunctional yet still worked perfectly for him. It was a complete and utter mess on his side of the room but he knew where each and every possession laid. Where every precious item hid beneath the masses of clothes and games that pooled on his floor in cloth and plastic puddles. Mail worked well in the cramped, overflowing space. It was rather nice to walk in and be greeted by the familiar, perfect chaos.
His schoolbooks were placed in a neat stack atop the opposite bed to his. It belonged to no one in particular so he occasionally would stack things on it. Putting the empty, wasted space to use. It was a bit eerie how the bed just sat there, staring him back each night (seeing how Mail slept on his side). It had always been empty; Roger had been kind enough to grant him this. Occasionally someone would come looking for escape in the empty bed, Mail would have no protests. He had no qualms with this, but the idea of someone there, staring back at him as he tried to be lulled back into sleep every single eve. He hated the thought it.
It was almost as if the youth could look into those eyes, the eyes of the children at Wammys, and see the story. See the horror that made those eyes. See the rotting fruit and tainted water of the Earth, leaving its poor children nearly mad with how famished, how parched they are. Mail flickered between thought and reality. He broke his stupor by lowering the goggles onto his eyes. He loved his goggles like one would love an old friend. When they slipped over his eyes it was like the world was covered in a sticky yellow sheen. When he looked into those eyes, the eyes of the Wammy children, he couldn't see them. He couldn't see deep into those wounded orbs like he could with his own naked eye. Just that yellow tinge that blissfully blurred everything.
Mail flinched, head flicking over to the door. Another knock. The sound resonated through the room, a bit ominous as it echoed back at the red-head. It was mostly because of how little a knock came upon his door. It was occasionally a boy that desired to commandeer the free bed; hardly ever would that happen though. Mail was not well-liked. He was not looked up to even though he held the admirable rank of second. He just existed. He engaged nothing more and nothing less, doing his lot and moving on.
After all…he didn't care.
The idea of simply ignoring the knock was quite enticing. To wait until it passed and continue to wallow in delightful silence. Not often was there a knock, would it make him a fool to simply ignore it and let his antisocial tendencies overtake him? Mail paused, chewing his lip with a pensive look upon his features. After a moment he cleared his throat and prepared to speak.
Speaking, now there was a rarity. Mail spoke when he was spoken too; he was polite and responded in a well-mannered tone. The only time he was spoken to, however, was in class and he responded in a slightly robotic tone to the teachers that waited for the correct answer from him. He hated the way the teachers set him as an example, the way they glorified him as a goal for others to reach. They loved the way he answered with that sincere, automated tone and how quiet he was. The adults were so blind they could not even peer past the stone cold barrier that had been erected around Mail. They were even more stupid.
"Who is it?"
Mail spoke lamely, his voice sounding oddly off key from lack of use. He peered through the tinted screen of his goggles, waiting for a response. "Matt?" The muffled response was identified as Roger. He spoke using Mail's alias, as it was the norm for children of Wammy's. Their real name was emphasized as private property, a secret meant to be closely kept. This was alright; Mail had no problems with keeping a secret. He had no problem veiling things, hiding them away. In fact he would even be so bold as to say he was an expert on the matter.
"May I come in?"
A pause.
"Of course, Roger."
The knob turned, creaking with the effort. The door swung open, squealing with protest on its rusting hinges. "Matt," he said with a smile. Mail noted the creases and wrinkles from age that became more prominent as his lips moved in that simple motion.
"I wanted to introduce you to Mello, he's new here and I knew that you had an empty bed. I was wondering if you could show him some hospitality and allow him to stay with you for the time being. I'm confident you two will hit it off well."
Mail paused, his hand twitching slightly. He saw the smile still planted hopefully on Roger's face through the yellow tinted lens of his goggles. He knew that even if he allowed a snatch of his true feelings to slip through the carefully sealed wall, this Mello would end up boarding with him anyways. That Roger was the one who wielded the power and coming to him, asking, it was nothing but a formality. And of course, Mail knew he was expected to comply.
"I don't mind Roger." Mail clenched his teeth, glancing over at the unoccupied bed. He slid his goggled eyes back over to the doorway. This 'Mello' kid finally emerged from behind Roger. He was short and thin, his hair cut straight and squarely. The coloration was still a mystery due to Mail's coveted eyewear. But there was something about him…It was as if, despite his delicate appearance, that there was a commanding sort of aura surrounding Mello.
For the first time in a long time, Mail was intrigued.
Curiosity, naked and pure, is a strange thing to experience after having such an absence of it for so long. Roger gave an approving nod, stepping out and ushering Mello in. With another faint smile, he shut the door with a small noise. Mail was surprised by the way Mello straightened once Roger had exited. He placed a reproachful hand upon his hip, eyes taking in the red-head that sat across from them. For a while there were no words, just awkward, thick silence.
And then the new boy did the most unexpected of things. He set his small bag right down on the bed, knocking Mail's books over. When was the last time someone had been brash enough to do something such as that? To assert themselves in such a forward manner? It only piqued Mail's recurring interest. They stared across at each other for a moment.
Slowly, almost deliberately, Mail went to remove his goggles. He pushed them sluggishly back up to his head. Once they were perched on his nest of red, Mail stared back towards the intruder of his peace. Blond hair, pale skin, blue eyes. The color of his hair and eyes matched his delicate appearance but contrasted greatly with his disposition. His potent personality was somehow so intriguing to Mail; it just pulled him in Even though this newcomer seemed radically different from the generic child that was brought to Wammy's, one thing remained the same.
His eyes.
He had a story. Mail could see the demons dancing gleefully behind his pair hard blue orbs. They all had a story.
-o-
Mail watched in impenetrable silence, grim as he observed the Mello kid. He sat under the shade of the ancient tree, portable game in hand. The tree was quite old, so old in fact that it must be older than Roger himself, Mail mused privately. The knotted roots reached out their great, spindly hands, making quite comfortable seats. The broad branches hung down as though they held the weight of the world on them. Small dots of sunshine slipped slyly through the branches, sneaking through the green canopy.
Mello howled as he was kicked in the ribs. He was small, smaller than Mail at least, and his hot temper painted a nice red target upon his forehead. The red-head chewed his lip thoughtfully as one of the larger boys spit upon the fallen, blonde form. The fight had been sparked by a comment made by one of the older boys.
"Nice hair, blondie. What shampoo do you use?"
Naturally this had lit a confrontation and the offense was quite evident in the eyes of one perturbed Mello. The hot-headed young boy had made several rude hand-gestures and spouted more than a little bit of profanity. It was quite a show of his anger and disdain. One small comment had set him off like fireworks and he exploded in a colorful show for everyone else that shifted their attention to the spat that was starting to bloom. Before long fists had been drawn and threats had been exchanged. Mello was alone and he was much smaller, not to mention the now-boisterous crowd longed to watch him get clobbered senseless.
Even though Mello fought wildly, he eventually was knocked down. They demanded him to call uncle, to which he stubbornly refused. He spat upon the ground at their feet, his swelled pride not allowing him to give in. He received several sharp blows to his ribs and legs but still he didn't seem to waver. After long, they other boys began to bore of their human punching bag. They shuffled back indoors having had their fill of gruesome fun. The crowd of kids began to drift away soon after, losing interest now that the beating had ended. Soon the playground was deserted except for Mail and Mello. Mail played his game, glancing up occasionally to watch the writhing Mello struggle to get to his feet.
Mail flicked off his game and stretched to his feet. He sauntered over to the still-struggling Mello. He was on his hands and knees with his teeth clenched. His entire body was coiled and tense with pain. Mail got very close to him, closer than he had been to any other human being in what felt like centuries.
"You're an idiot," Mail stated flatly.
Mello froze in time, holding his body perfectly still. With what appeared to be a great effort, Mello forced himself to his feet. His face was already bruised and swelling unpleasantly. He bared his teeth with anger, his legs shaking to support his small frame. Mail noted that he had about and inch or two on the injured boy before him. "You didn't honestly think you had any sort of chance against those kids did you?" Mail continued his tone condescending and cynical.
"Shut it, asshole. You wouldn't understand."
Mail blinked. Understand? Understand what? That this kid stayed out in the sun too much, that he had trouble in his head? That he was a bloody idiot? Mail thought he understood it perfectly, in fact he seemed to have no doubt in his astute mind that he was correct in his assumption. He ground his teeth together, glancing up at the pained, defiant kid before him. "Understand?"
Even though Mail had meant to it come out slightly rude and a bit sarcastic, it ended up coming out in a curious tone. It was soft, not in the least beat cynical, and it didn't sound like the jaded Mail that the red-head knew himself to be. It was just that pure, naked curiosity again. Mello seemed to be provoking that out of him and Mail just couldn't help it. He couldn't help but fall under that questioning spell that left him feeling…feeling…
It's not like Mail was at a loss for words, in fact there were several he could have used at this point. None of these words, however, seemed to fit. Seemed to hold a place to perfectly describe what he was feeling, to just be that one word he needed to place at the end of that sentence.
"Why would I waste my breath explaining it to you?" Mello sneered back. Even though he was exhausted and could barely walk, he still managed to keep that spitfire spirit holding his words strong. Mail wanted to know, because even though at first he felt his resolve strong, it had been weakened with each passing second. But he feared that asking more; that pushing deeper would reveal too much. That it would make actually care what he was saying.
The blond held his head high and proud, limping back inside. Mail watched him go with a blank expression haunting his features. What he feared…what shook him to his core…He was starting to care again. That in itself was not to be feared, in fact Mail had always wanted someone to cherish, someone to look up to. What shook him was that all he ever cared about was quickly and sharply ripped away. It was a hard lesson to learn in this world, it was so damn unbearable. Learning it at such a young age left it ingrained in his mind and the scarred tissue stayed there as a pained reminder. And Christ, he couldn't take it.
He was still just a kid.
-o-
Beep
Boop
Beep, beep
Mail pretended not to pay attention.
The truth was, he was all-to aware of the other boy in the room with him, stripping off his shirt to reveal the splotches of bruises that ran in purplish blossoms across his pallid skin.
Boop, boop
Beep
Mail pretended he couldn't hear the hisses of pain from Mello.
The damn truth was he heard them over the volume of his game. His hands were unsteady on the buttons, contrary to how they normally glided naturally over the buttons. The small colored letters on the buttons had been rubbed off from use. Reaching up with one hand, he yanked down the goggles that sat on his forehead. The familiar yellow-distortion gave him a small amount of comfort.
Game over
Mail stared blankly at the screen in front of him. Those words like some sort of harbinger for the future. He'd lost, and for some reason…it didn't seem to bother him. Even though he'd yet to see those iridescent words illuminating the ghastly all-black screen. He'd never made a mistake before, never taken a false step. He'd guided himself expertly for the game…and he'd never died.
Game
Over
The words blinked harshly at him.
Another hiss sounded from Mello's side of the room. Matt pulled his goggles down and let them dangle around his neck. The gamer's lips parted as unbidden sound descended out.
"Are you alright?"
Mello glanced up, his blue eyes caught slightly off guard. He had become used to the normal, dense muteness between them. "What do you care?" His tone was slightly hurt and wounded but it still retained that fervent pride. Mail stared at him and his bruised, naked chest. A red rosary dangled like a drop of blood against a white surface. Even the violet bruises that mutilated the blank skin couldn't seem to dull the way the potent red stuck out against it.
Mello narrowed his eyes when he saw Matt staring, turning away so his back was now only visible. This shunning was received in a melancholy manner from the red-head as watched the bruise-ridden back for just a few moments more.
-o-
The tray was set down with a small, if not slightly agitated thud. Mail glanced up from his game, noting that the normally deserted seat beside him had just been taken up. The person who had decided to grace the gamer with his presence was…
Matt gaped.
Mail averted his eyes, staring down at his own untouched food. He tried to loose himself in the world of Mario set out before him, but he'd beaten it so many times it was hard to immerse himself in something where he knew virtually every turn, every twist that shock a first-time player. All of this was getting rather dull for Mail now, even though he still enjoyed the game-play aspect of it. The red-head was astounded by the way that Mello-kid could cram food down his throat. It was as if he was inhaling it and not actually eating it.
Staring down at his own sustenance, Mail's stomach lurched uncomfortably.
It was silent as it normally was…but there was something different about it. If someone looked at the scene set before them, would they not assume the two were friends? One red-head sitting leisurely on the aged seat, playing away at his game One blond, wolfing down his food as though it was the last morsel he would have for weeks. Both side by side in sort of…silent companionship…
No, what was he thinking? He highly doubted that Mello harbored any kind of fondness for him and after how cold he'd been Mail wouldn't be surprised. Still, it was hard to fathom how he was willing to sit there, side by side with the icy gamer. Maybe he had no where else to go. After the beating he received yesterday, it wouldn't be hard to surmise that he had no place, no niche that he could fill in this orphanage.
The silence seemed almost golden for a time. Neither would dare break it, for both new if one spoke the other would retort hotly. So the silence stayed and both of them seemed to accept that. The two seemed to function best when no words were needed to communicate, just mute understanding.
Mello had cleaned his plate entirely whilst Mail's still remaining full.
"Matt…" Mello raised an eyebrow, peering over the other boy's hands to glance at the liberal servings of macaroni still sitting upon the sickly blue tray, ripe for tasting. "You gonna eat that?"
Matt looked up, Mario falling to his doom off a cliff as he did so.
"Take it."
There was no thanks exchanged, just more silence. However Mail could think of only one thing. It clogged his mind and absorbed all his others thoughts like a porous sponge.
'That was the first time he ever…said my name'
-o-
A sort of schedule developed. Each afternoon when every child was bidden to receive fresh air, Mello always seemed near him. The stocky blond would lean against the tree with his arms crossed defiantly. Mail would sit upon one of the knotted roots at the base of the antique greenery. That silence would reign again between them.
By the time lunch came, Mello would assume his position next to Mail, always eager to intercept his portion of food. It was a wonder how the thin, hot-headed boy stayed so slim when he ate like he did. Still the silence would dominate the two.
They would retreat back to their shared room by the eve, scribbling down some unfinished homework and whatnot. The shunning, the invisible wall between the two seemed to be breaking and falling apart. There wasn't an immovable object between the two now, just the silence. That everlasting silence that seemed to weave the two together in an intricate web…already connected by the strings, unaware as of yet.
-o-
The rain had battered down for almost the whole afternoon. The restless children that inhabited Wammy's were cooped up like birds without a place to stretch their wings. Everyone became irritable. Finally the rain seemed to stop its torrential downpours and gave a short reprieve. The warm golden sun began to be revealed from behind the thick veil of clouds. The children emerged onto the sodden playground, jumping in puddles and sliding upon the water-laden grass.
Mail noted with irritation that rainwater trickled from the leaves and landed upon him as he assumed his seat upon the roots of his favorite tree. It was late, dark was approaching. The young kids basked in the light of the massive, orange sun that hung low upon the horizon. It seemed as if the clouds were finally parting to reveal a much more pleasant scene as opposed to the dull grey one that dominated the sky just moments ago.
Mail stood petulantly from his resting place, jamming both hands in his pockets. Mello leaned against the damp tree, not bothered by the saturated atmosphere. His eyes were closed peacefully as he tilted there like a statue. One of the boys slid in front of Mail, splattering his clothes with loose pieces of grass and tiny pearls of moist mud. Mail scowled at him, scornfully cursing him for wrecking his clothing.
It seemed only moments later that searing pain ripped through Mail's face. He was knocked down onto the mud that caked the earth, sliding backwards from the force. His vision blurred for a moment before focusing back to the sharp, clear world he was accustomed to. He struggled to stand, sliding and falling on the tricky terrain.
After a moment he resigned and just lay there, feeling the sickening sensation of the mud beneath his back. Was it worth getting up anymore? Wouldn't it be nice if he could just lay there for all of eternity, just staring up at the clouds that now began to migrate back over the falling sun? The clouds blotted out the sun and everyone began to file back indoors, preparing for more rain.
Mail didn't get up.
Mello leaned over the red-head, nudging his body with his boot. "You're an idiot," he parroted tonelessly.
Mail didn't reply.
"C'mon Matt, get your ass up." Mello thrust his hand out, waiting for the gamer to take it. Mail watched it levitate there.
Matt took his hand.
Fin.