A/N: Greetings Lovelies! Welcome to my first ever attempt at MattxMello! I love these boys so much- though it might not seem like it, considering what I am putting them through- so I hope I do them justice. Let me know what you think. :)

WARNINGS for this chapter: Character abuse, violence, naughty words. (No slash yet- that'll come later.)

BETA:

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Death Note. If I did, then Matt would've survived for more than two minutes.

Affection and Abandonment

Chapter One- Heartfelt Reunion

It's my wrists that hurt the most; but the rest of me isn't far behind.

I'm suspended from the ceiling by wires looped around each wrist and thrown over something… a support beam maybe, I don't know; I haven't had the inclination or the strength to tilt my head upward and get a good look anytime in the past eternity… Whatever, the point is; they hung me so that my feet can only just reach the grimy concrete which passes for a floor in this hellhole. So my wrists are bearing most of my weight, and that's making the wire cut into them something fierce. Also, I've been twisting and writhing about probably more than is medically advisable. The pack of goons who dragged me here has apparently been ordered to beat me half to death- so that hasn't helped. I lost count pretty damn quick, but I think I must've been here for at least an hour by now; and I've spent the whole time feeling the slow ebb of blood tricking down my arms, neck, back and chest. I must have lost a fucktonne of the stuff; it's a miracle I'm still conscious.

A miracle I could frankly do without. I don't even want to think about how shredded my skin must be underneath the wires. I know I'm fucked without needing to dwell on the particulars. But, oh Christ, it hurts.

Oops. Bad Matty. Mustn't blaspheme.

That one coherent and utterly, utterly irrelevant thought slices through the numbing haze of pain and torment and, bizarrely, I start to giggle.

"Wha'he fuck is he laughing for?"

The nasal voice. Belongs to the one with the nervous twitch. I judge him to be the type who clings close to bullies so he can hold people's hands behind their backs while the stronger kids beat them up. He hadn't done much; just stood in a far corner, watched and whined. I don't know why, but I'm convinced he's the one who stripped me of my clothes. Which means he has my goggles. Bastard.

I woke up in this nightmare wearing nothing but underwear, shivering and helpless in a cramped room that feels like it's made out of cold, concrete and shadows. I've never felt more naked in my life.

I have no idea where I am. I've been working a coding job for the past week or so- trying to rig-up another security program for Near; something that can perform a total erase of all the names and faces of his shiny-new SPK from any database. Fun stuff, but whatever. I was supposed to be totally locked-down, tucked good-and-tight under the best security blanket L's money can buy. Apparently not, 'cause I was asleep on my keyboard in a sealed lab when this pack of losers burst right on in. They grabbed me, stuffed a goddamn bag over my head and knocked me out with what felt suspiciously like the butt of a gun. Not that I've ever had one of those slammed into my face before, but I watch a lot of movies. I would've been marvelling at the sheer out-of-bleedin'-nowhere unlikeliness of it all if I hadn't been so unconscious. When I eventually came to there was no time for any of that crap. My brain kicked straight into overdrive and reverted back to the training I was put through in my early Wammy days. Or, at least, it tried to.

I'm kinda kickin' myself actually, 'cause I never paid attention to shit in any of the practical classes. I hated them all with a passion that actually rivalled Mello for once. It was not my thing, and wasted precious time that I could've been plugged-in and doing the shit I was brilliant with. Plus I sucked hard. I'm a good shot by normal, not-Wammy standards and can drive better than most regular cars can handle, but in the field of 'skills which can't be learned from gaming' I have expertise on-par with a quivering lump of useless. I would've failed everything and been booted down to last place if Mello hadn't covered for me. He dragged me along after him like he always did, but in a way that made the examiners think I was competent enough to hold my own.

Once, I asked him what the hell I was supposed to do if I ever got my arse in the fire for real.

"Call my name and I'll come help you," he'd smirked at me.

Fat lot of good that did me now. Fucker.

As usual, I had to shove all thoughts of the infuriating blond away into the back corners of my mind and focus on what the hell I was supposed to do without him. All I could remember was this one random instruction from an 'Engaging with Trained Hostiles' class I'd mostly ignored.

'When captured, if escape is not immediately possible, employ reconnaissance. Observe, learn, wait, and act at the best possible time to achieve the best possible outcome.'

So far, the 'best possible time' has not presented itself. And taking into account that my capacity to act is pretty much limited to 'let Mello handle everything that's difficult' I can safely say that I am exactly as suspended-from-the-roof as I was when I woke up. But hey, at least I'm trying. While a lot of my attention has been preoccupied with being a punching-bag, the part of my gaming brain which never fails the same level in the same way twice has been steadily ticking away. I've been trained extensively on how to catalogue everything I experience into nice, neat little files in my memory for future use.

The room I'm in is cold and almost completely dark; I'm probably underground. It stinks of blood and bleach; so it's used for exactly this kind of thing pretty regularly. My kidnappers are professionals. I can't see any of them because there is only one light in this place it's shining directly into my screwed-shut eyes, but I can recognise them all easily by their voice and weapon.

Woman has a crowbar and a long piece of chain. Southern-Accent prefers his fists (featuring brass knuckles of course) as well as booted feet. Nasal-Whiner just stands by the door and whines. Silence seems to be in charge. He barely says a word, but he uses knives. I hate him the most.

He speaks up now, giving proper instructions to the rest for the first time in a while. Apparently, my brief lapse into hilarity indicates something important.

"He's losing it. Go and fetch The Boss."

Nasal-Whiner immediately scurries for the door. I hear him grunt with the effort of pulling the heavy thing open, and wince at the loud CLANG it makes when it swings shut after him.

So... The Boss... finally. They've been threatening me with The Boss non-stop. Apparently, The Boss is the reason I'm here; The Boss wants me for something; there is a job I am going to do for The Boss.

Whatever. I am really so far beyond giving a fuck, I don't think I could put out for Sex in a swimsuit. Logically, the kind of person who has the power to snatch a high flight-risk right out from under the noses of the Wammy Syndicate in general and Big-Boss Near in particular is someone who demands serious respect. And when the same person also has the ruthlessness to have me beaten bloody for no particular reason that I can fathom they are someone who really ought to be feared. But on the other hand, I am dog-tired. If The Boss has a job for me then I'll do it. I don't care what it is, as long as it gets me out of this room, and preferably somewhere with clothes. And pain-medication. And bandages. And my goggles back.

Come to think of it, that probably is the reason why I've been wailed on so thoroughly; to make sure I'm good and compliant. I have honestly never felt more compliant in my life. The fear will probably come later. Assuming I don't get murdered.

Speaking of which... show time.

The door opens again. I don't bother to lift my head and try to look; even without the shoddy lighting, I wouldn't be able to see shit from this distance. Instead I leave my head slumped forward, using my long bangs to shield my sensitive eyes from the glare, and listen intently. Clear, clipped footsteps stride straight towards me and that's all I need to start analysing my balls off. I quickly estimate The Boss's height and weight at about 5'6", 110lbs. Smaller than I figured, and also... wearing heels?

I'm almost right, as the footsteps halt directly in front of me and a pair of red leather boots enter my field of vision. There is a pause, then;

"Was this really necessary?" a young, European voice drawls.

I am only dimly aware of Silence's brusque response- "You ordered us to roughen him up, Boss" –because suddenly all I can hear is the frenzied crashing of my heart slamming itself to pieces inside my chest. If I wasn't hung from the roof, I reckon the shock of hearing that voice -his voice- here and now -of all the goddam places and times- would've knocked me straight on my arse. As it is, I find myself unable to breathe.

Which is not good, because I really fucking need to breathe. Right fucking now.

The sound of his weary sigh- ever the drama queen –is overlayed by the crinkling of foil and a sharp snap. In my physically and emotionally wrecked state, the familiar smell of his favourite brand of chocolate is enough to bring tears to my eyes.

Oxygen is still sticking in a painful lump in my throat. Fuck.

"You and I need to have a chat about the precise definition of 'roughen up'," he chastises, irritation palpable even around a mouthful of squares. "Because news-flash moron, I can't use someone when they're this laid-out."

I see his boots turn to walk away, and a bolt of panic finally grants me the air I need to croak out my single desperate plea.

"Mello..."

It feels like everything happens in slow-motion after that. I watch him turn and step back to me, see the chocolate fall from his grip and hit the ground, catch a glimpse of silver crucifixes on black leather pants before I feel his gloved fist in my hair, wrenching my head back. I am blinded for a moment as my weak eyes struggle to focus on his features. Even before they do, I see him. Golden blond hair. Piercing green eyes. For once his lips aren't twisted into a smirk or sneer, but instead have fallen apart with astonishment. His hand is pressed against my cheek- trying to convince himself that I'm real.

Why is he wearing eyeliner? is the thought my brain chooses to mark this occasion with.

"Matt?" he chokes out. "Matty?"

"Help me..." I beg.

Shock – disbelief – worry - fear. These and a dozen others chase each other across his face in a mad dash for the gold. But, as always, the winner is the reigning champion:

Rage.

With a snarl he drops my head and whirls away from me.

"WHO DID THIS TO HIM?!" he screams.

Everything becomes chaos. Having finally acted at the best possible time to achieve the best possible outcome, and feeling curiously safe-with-a-side-order-of-whacked now that Mel is here to handle this shit; I start giggling again. The room fills with the clamour of my tormentors' slightly hysterical attempts to rationally talk-down a Mello who is threatening them all with death and worse at the top of his lungs. My giggles die out as their hysteria escalates to the click of a gun's safety being turned off. When the sound of shots being fired explodes through the room, followed by an unmistakable meaty whack of a body thudding to the floor, I start to scream.

"You. You. Get him THE FUCK DOWN!" Mello roars. "NOW!"

Two of them dart towards me, grab me. Instinctually, I try to twist away. I can hear Mello backing a pleading Nasal-Whiner into the corner behind me. The wires go slack, and the pain when my arms drop from above my head down against my sides is excruciating. I am screaming again. I've collapsed back against the chest of someone tall and strong, who immediately picks me up. More shots behind me- followed by wails of agony this time. Everything is so fucked up. Worse that I am.

Woman is holding my wrists, trying to unwrap the wires but they've become embedded in my flesh. My eyes are screwed tightly shut. I don't want to see any of this. It hurts- I try to push her away but I'm too weak. I can't. I cry out for Mello again. I hear Southern-Accent's voice rumble through the person holding me, telling Woman to leave it, to go and get the goddam medic already before I make The Boss lose his shit even worse. Hearing him speak makes me realise that Silence must be the one Mello murdered. The thought feels hollow.

Woman leaves and Mello is beside me again, touching my face, ordering Southern-Accent to take me to his rooms. But I start screaming again and try to fight. I can't leave yet- not without- I need- Mello's hands against mine, pressing something into my palm. The familiar shape of my goggles under my fingertips.

It's the final straw. I lose consciousness like a switch flicking to 'off.'

The day that I meet Mello for the first time is typical in every other way.

I am alone in my dark room; glasses discarded on the bed bedside me. I never wear them when there's no-one to make me. Without them I have to hold my Gameboy ridiculously close to my face so I can see see the characters move on the glowing screen instead of just a patch of hazy light. But it's so worth it.

I'm convinced that my Gameboy is magic. The pixel window lets me see into a tiny little realm full of colours and music which really exists just underneath the plastic cover. It's perfect because it's so small- I can see the whole world all at once. In reality, I can only look at things one at a time because I have to be too close to see anything except what I'm looking at. It's like I'm separated from everything around me by a thick, smudgy glass wall. But things on a screen are different because they can never be bigger than the edges of the square surface, so I can get close enough that nothing is smudged. It's why I like the TV we have in the rec-room, but the other kids get mad at me for blocking their view so I don't watch things in there very much. The Gameboy is better because L gave it to me when I first came here so it's only mine. I get to push buttons and participate in the brilliant fantasy-place for as long as I want to and nobody bothers me. I am entranced by this simple joy; it's perfect for blocking out the sounds of the other children playing loudly together outside which leak into my room through the open window.

I am well-practised at being oblivious to the world outside the game, and am so completely absorbed in doing exactly this that I don't even hear my door open. In fact, it probably takes Roger several attempts to shift my attention from my handheld to his intrusion. His tone sounds pretty miffed by the time I do hit the pause and look up.

I know it's him standing just inside the doorway because I recognise his voice, but I have to scramble to find and put-on my glasses before I can see him well enough to make out his frowning face. From behind dodgy-prescription lenses my gaze glides past him and lands on the boy hovering halfway in and out of the room. All I can see from here is a black-clothed blur with a shock of gold hair. Even in the dim light of my room it is dazzling- out in the sunshine it would be radiant.

At least, I imagine so.

Roger is talking to me, explaining that the blond boy is the latest addition to the fourth generation at Wammy's House. He's going to be my roommate, I have to introduce him to the other kids and make him feel welcome, blahblahblah.

"Mello, why don't you introduce yourself to Matt?" Roger prompts after his banal instructions for me have petered out.

The boy's tone is sullen and rebellious. "Can't," he mutters. "M'name's not Mello."

"It will be from now on," Roger says firmly, in his 'I'm done arguing with you damn children about your petty feelings' voice. I wish he'd leave.

Mello clearly feels the same, because he pushes rudely past him and strides over to the unclaimed bed against the wall opposite mine. He sits down and glares straight ahead, completely ignoring Roger and refusing to say another word until the old man eventually leaves.

Once the door clicks shut Mello draws his knees up against his chest and wraps his arms around them. I can see him more clearly now and study him curiously in the silence that settles over my- our- room. He looks smaller now that I can see him in better detail, but I think he's a bit older than I am.

"Hullo," I venture shyly. "I'm Matt."

"Fuck off," he snaps back instantly.

I am startled. Usually, aggression of any kind would make me go quiet and retreat straight away, but the boy had sounded more upset than angry. Plus, he'd used a naughty word, which made me giggle nervously. He looks at me strangely after that, but doesn't say anything and I'm not sure if I should try again.

Before I can pluck up the courage he looks away and starts scanning the rest of the room. Of course, he stops on the heavy curtains drawn across the window.

"Why's it so dark in here?" he demands.

I feel my face go hot with embarrassment. "I- I've a- got bad eyes," I mumble, hating how ridiculous I sound. "S-sunlight hurts 'em."

"So what, you just stay inside all the time?" he sounds incredulous, and wears an expression that might have been a scowl.

"I can't see out there," I shrug, "so pretty much."

"That's stupid," he says straightaway.

"Yeah, I know..." I don't bother trying to defend myself; the other orphans have told me at length how freakish I am so I know there's no point.

He's staring at me again. It's like he's waiting for something, but I don't know what he could possibly expect from me.

"Um... the other kids are all outside, I think," I offer cautiously.

"I know they are," he says with derision. "That's why I'm in here; dumbass."

This time the added insult is enough to make me retreat. With a final mumbled "M'kay then..." I press the buttons to bring my game back and try hide from him inside of it.

But I can't, because I can still feel his eyes locked on me, and the intensity of his gaze is trapping me here. Usually I can block people out- but usually they aren't paying any attention to me. It doesn't take long before I can hardly stand it. I desperately want him to leave, but that's not possible because we're roommates so he's always going to come back. I am so distracted by his presence that I accidentally walk my character over a cliff's edge and he dies.

The bold 'GAME OVER' flashes at me as consider my options. I'm not very good at interacting with people; I tend to miss the things they say with body language which makes my words get all jumbled up. I'm better at handling things inside of a simplified game-world. My consideration of the Gameboy (now prompting me to load a save) conjures the memory of the first time I saw it. The way my eyes shifted from seeing his pale wrist and instead focused on the handheld he was offering me with two long fingers. I hear his voice in my head, welcoming me to my new home in his strangely comforting deadpan drawl.

In an effort to emulate L's example, I switch off my game and fetch a bar of chocolate I saved after Christmas from my bedside drawer. Mello's stare has not wavered from me for even a second, but somehow feels more sharply focused when I walk over (into what I am already starting to think of as his side of the room) and hold the confection out as a peace-offering.

"Welcome to Wammy's Mello," I announce awkwardly.

His eyes jump between me and the chocolate a few times, before narrowing in suspicion. I am close enough to him now to see that his striking green eyes are red-rimmed from crying.

"You're really weird," he says at last. His intense gaze finally slides away from me as he takes the chocolate and unwraps it slowly.

"I know," I say simply.

When he looks up at me again, his blank stare has transformed into a wolfish grin.

"I like you," he declares, in a voice that allows no argument. "We're going to be friends."

I have no idea I'm supposed to say to that, but I smile back and eat the piece of chocolate he breaks off for me.

It was a defining moment in my life.