A/N: A Matt and Mello friendship story.

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Not Really

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"The World is a book, and those who do not travel read only a page."
- Saint Augustine

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The door closes quietly, almost inaudibly behind me.

I meet his eyes with little hesitation, as is expected of me. If anyone is ever to find out that something is going on in my mind, it is when I hesitate. I hope the dim lighting is enough to hide the distraught expression on my face, or the hesitation swimming in my eyes. I hope that if he sees it, he thinks he must have imagined it.

I watch as his lips pull upwards at one corner, and he nods at me in acknowledgement. He doesn't like me, but Mello is giving me a welcoming sort of smile, even if it doesn't reach his eyes.

Even in class, Mello is too tired to smile lately. I know it is the strain of our studies. Ever since L has gone head to head with Kira, the competition for Number One in Wammy's has grown in intensity. Day after day, the classes become more difficult, time becomes shorter, and lessons becomes longer.

Near and Mello never complain, so neither do I. They take it in stride, even if I suspect that they both lose it sometimes. There are some days when Near would leave in the middle of a class, and then the caretakers would find him asleep somewhere, or maybe playing in the playroom. There are some days when Mello wouldn't leave the library until the next day, and people would find his eyes red-rimmed, like he had been crying.

Then, There are some days when I don't bother to wake up at all. It doesn't bother me, like I know Near and Mello's own tardiness bothers them. I have never been into spending my days in a classroom, listening to the droning of the professors or scholars or teachers. I have never asked for all this. No one did. All this pressure has been thrown onto us, and we have been expected to accept it, to handle it.

I never did. Not really.

I just learned to ignore the pressure, and to accept my competition. Near and Mello are my competition, just as I am theirs. We aren't friends. I don't know what we are.

"Hello, Mello," I greet him, trying to return his smile with one of my own. It comes off as awkward, because my smile is more practiced than sincere. I'm not good at conveying my emotions, and the Wammy's counselor likes to laugh about it, but not condescendingly. He says not everyone is good at everything. He says everyone has their weaknesses and strengths.

I don't like that someone knows my weaknesses. It feels like how someone cuts you open, and decides to inspect you with a magnifying glass. You feel bared under that intense study, and you feel like you want to scream. Mello is looking at me like that right now, but then again, he looks at everyone like that.

It's one of the reasons why we don't talk much. Actually, we have never talked at all, before this.

"Hey," he says. "What are you doing here? It's past midnight."

I say, "I couldn't sleep. I figured you'd be awake."

"I'm always awake," he says distractedly, already looking back to his book on his desk. Mello seems to like to read up books we haven't even touched in class. I'm not sure if this is a hobby, or if this is because he's so determined be L.

I don't know if he's doing this because he feels he must.

I swallow thickly. Something tells me that he knows that I came here for a reason more complicated than just trouble sleeping, but he doesn't press it yet. I wonder if he's trying to wait until I break from the silence, or if he's letting me have some space. I wonder if he's letting me cough everything up once I gather the courage to, or if he's trying to ignore me. All I know is that he'll tell me to leave, if I make him too antsy.

It takes time for us both to relax.

At a dreadfully slow pace, I make my way to sit by the foot of his bed. It doesn't escape my notice that Mello tenses just as I pass by him. Walking involves bringing one foot in front of the other- it is supposed to be instinct, but tonight, it doesn't register within me. I have to tell myself to move, and I have to force myself not to stiffen or panic, at least outwardly. My hands are sweaty so I wipe them on my pants. My eyes are twitching so I shut them closed. My heart is beating erratically, and I can't do anything about that. Irrationally, I worry that he can hear it.

"You brought anything with you?" Mello asks me conversationally, blissfully oblivious to my inner turmoil. If he knows, then he doesn't mention it. "I'm not the best company."

I shake my head. My throat is tight, but I manage to squeeze my voice out. "I'm not looking for company."

"Okay," he says. "Whatever."

I sigh quietly. I run my hand through my hair, twist it, pull at it, just to take my mind off the sporting migraine I have. My eyes wander around the room, and I notice the alarm clock by his desk, because he never sleeps on his bed. I notice the large book collection he has; his bookshelf is stuffed to the brim, and some books are stacked on the floor, all in alphabetical order. I notice the random pieces of clothing draped across his chair, his bed, and I notice the photograph of himself taped on the dresser, as well as a picture of the letter L, a picture of a house somewhere, and a picture of a woman who looks eerily similar to him. I look away, a part of me whispering not to study the room anymore.

This room, unlike mine, has personal touches. What meager belongings I have are currently safely tucked in a suitcase under my bed. My knickknacks are cleared from my bathroom, my dresser, almost everywhere else. I have decided to leave my books behind. Even in the classrooms, I have erased my name on the class roster, and I have taken my records from Roger's office just before heading here, in Mello's room.

I'm leaving Wammy's.

There is no personal reason that has made me come to this decision. I bear no grudge on anyone, and I'm not doing this to prove anything to anyone. To be honest, this is a spur of the moment decision. I have been thinking about it for the past week, and the more I think of it, the more the idea appeals to me.

What does fast food taste like? What is public transportation like? I want to know. I can hardly remember anything from my childhood memories. Children here in Wammy's are sheltered from the outside world. Here, we are granted almost everything but what only the world itself can offer. I want to leave Wammy's. And I want to rush through with it because I'm afraid I'll change my mind.

I tell myself that this is what I must do.

The idea had come to me a week before. I had been lying in my bed, twisted in cold sheets, unable to sleep. My room was, and always is, cold. Now I think of it, Mello's room is even colder, though he seems not to notice. The cold is unwelcoming me. The cold tells me that I should leave for a warmer place. Like outside.

My entire life here in Wammy's has been about utilizing my brain, cramming it, stuffing it to the brim with information, half of which I swear I will never need in my entire life. I lived my life here, and I've been doing nothing other than study. I feel like I'm barricaded in a cage. The students around me are far from stupid, and yet they remain unaware of the fact that none of us are really living anymore. We're shells, full of knowledge. It always leaves me feeling empty.

What's outside? Why protect us from the world? It has been like this even before Kira had ever come.

What am I missing? Is the world practically a death sentence? It doesn't faze me. I'm not a stranger to the idea of death, because everyone in Wammy's has suffered some or suffered all. We've all experienced loss, and we've all had to face the death of our loved ones. We hurt, and then we move on.

But when we die, we don't hurt. We just die.

It doesn't sound so bad, does it?

I have nothing to live for, so I shouldn't fear death.

So I'm leaving.

"What?"

And I had said that aloud.

I clear my throat, look into his eyes once more, and I say, "I'm leaving, Mello."

"Oh," he says awkwardly. He blinks at me once, twice, and then gives me a once over. Mello doesn't know why I am telling him this. We aren't close, and we have barely ever talked to each other. We aren't friends, but I like to think that if our lives here aren't revolving around a competition, then we might have been.

"I'm heading out tonight, actually," I say. "Or… I was supposed to, but I don't know if the guard is still at the gates after hours. I think I'll just climb over the gates, though."

Mello looks at be confusedly. "Why… Why are you telling me this? I could easily warn Roger. I could have you apprehended for trying to leave."

I shrug. "You won't."

"What if I do?" Mello challenges, raising an eyebrow.

"But you won't," I insist, pulling at my hair again. "You won't have as much competition around with me gone."

Mello shakes his head slowly in disbelief. "You can't be serious- you're third in the running for L's title. Do you really want to give up, just like that?"

"I don't care about the same things you do," I say. I smile my practiced smile. I find it very amusing that everyone here seems to care about only one thing, that one person; L. L is a God in their eyes, especially to Mello. The blonde is notorious for his obsessive need to beat Near, it sometimes frightens the other students. They -me included- purposefully steer clear of Mello's path whenever the results from the last exams come out.

"Alright," he says, accepting that with a nod. "But why won't you stay until you're fifteen? Roger provides a starter after we graduate. A scholarship, a degree, money- won't you need all that?"

I don't know. Are those things really necessary? "No, I think I'll support myself."

"What will you do out there?" Mello breathes, eyes widening as the situation finally sinks in. "Where will you go?"

I don't know. "I think I'll find out somewhere down the road."

Mello studies me intently. "You're either really brave, or really stupid, you know that?"

I don't know.

I pick myself off of the carpeted floor and wipe my hands free of sweat again. I head towards the door slowly, and I fidget as my hand reaches for the doorknob. Mello stops me before I get to twist it open. "Wait, that's all you wanted to tell me?"

I don't know. "I guess I just wanted to lay it all out, you know? I don't have any friends here. You're the first person I could think of telling." Because it feels right. Because your room is only across mine, and I'm too hesitant to walk too far without telling anyone.

"But we're enemies," he says doubtfully. "We're rivals. We've never talked."

"But I don't talk to anyone much, anyway," I say. "I guess I owe you one, huh, for dumping this load on you?"

Mello frowns. He has all but stopped reading his book. He looks at it, and then decides to close it. He then opens his drawer. I tilt my head one side, curious. Mello roughly pushes the contents of the drawer to one side, looking for- a trinket? I raise one eyebrow in question. Mello looks back at me and then stands, motioning me to come a bit closer. I don't know whether to trust him or not.

How unfortunate that we're raised never to trust anyone.

The blonde sighs in a mixture of amusement and exasperation, and then heads to me instead. He leaves a respectful two foot distance between us. We're still not friends. There is no need for this to be an emotional, affectionate goodbye. I am not that type of person, and to be honest, Mello doesn't look the type either.

I'm glad.

He extends his hand, grasping tightly at a rosary. His face is blank, but his eyes are filled with a kind of silent grief or conflict. I don't ask.

He says, "You can borrow it. If you pray, He will look out for you out there. You're a good kid."

"God doesn't answer many of my calls," I answer quietly, still looking at the beaded rosary hesitantly.

Mello's eyes harden. "Then pray that He hears you, Matt."

My returning smile is shy, small and almost non-existent. Somehow, Mello relaxes even more at the sight, much more than how he's relaxed at my other, faker smiles. Maybe, this is the beginning of a budding friendship. I cover the hand holding the rosary with both of mine, and I shake his hand slowly. Our rivalry is over. I feel like I must start anew.

When I let go of his hand, the rosary is in mine. I look at it. It is red and black, polished, and slightly worn. A feeling in me tells me that this is one of Mello's most treasured possessions. I have never had gifts, and I never wanted any. But Mello is handing me a piece of his past, even just momentarily, and it makes it difficult for me to breathe.

I manage to say, "I'll give it back to you someday."

I must. There is a foreboding sense that someday soon, he will need a saviour, a prayer much more than I ever will. I could be wrong, but I could also be right. I shrug once, and I say, "See you around, Mello."

He chuckles. "It's a small world, Matt. We'll meet again."

A/N: I went heavy on the symbolism in this story. Can you spot any? :)

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