There were many things that Matt hated about Wammy's House, the top three being:
One, the food. Salmon fillets, blueberries, and bran muffins were not brain food; they were just disgusting.
Two, the girls. When Linda was considered to be the peak of feminine beauty, and she could kick Matt's ass any day of the week, something was seriously wrong with the universe.
Three, the security update that had recently been installed to the firewall, incidentally blocking all pornography (though Matt was well on his way to addressing that last issue).
There was only one thing that Matt loved about Wammy's House, and his name was Mello.
No, maybe love was too strong a word… but Matt at least liked him, probably respected him, if he were capable of it. Being abandoned by your parents at a young age tends to leave you with some trust issues.
Not that Matt could blame them. Here he was, chain-smoking cigarettes into the bathroom vent and pondering his relationship with his best friend in a way he really shouldn't have been, an honest-to-god fuck up with a bright fucking future. That's what they told him, anyway – that he was destined for greatness; that he was going to change the world.
Matt thought differently. Ignorance truly is bliss, and people like him weren't meant to exist. They had gone one step too far and evolved into something so absurdly hideous that they could only laugh it off, refusing to admit that they could barely stand to live with themselves.
Maybe that's the cost of success, or what it means to be a genius. Maybe it gets better, day-by-day, if you keep pounding the pavement and acting like you'll make it somewhere meaningful. That you'll get something out of all those dead-end relationships and one-way tickets and feel fulfilled because isn't just loving someone enough and isn't that wonderful and all…
Matt inhaled a bit too sharply as he heard someone enter the bathroom, and he coughed and cursed as he doused the cigarette in the toilet, undoubtedly drawing more attention to himself. Not that he gave a shit. The worst they could give him is telling him to take better care of himself because his body essentially belongs to L and they really do need him to live long enough to be the third rate replacement if necessary. Vice president is already the most useless position in existence, so what do you call the vice of a vice? Is he even given a title, let alone remembered as an individual? Essentially, he's invisible, like a memory that never properly imprinted but you wouldn't miss it anyway, even though he's always there and gone, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health and to hell and back again fighting for it.
But you can't fight who you are. Matt knows, because Mello sure tries hard enough. It's bad enough being the back-up plan, the crutch, but it's worse knowing that you willingly submit to it because you have nothing else to give, nothing better to expect.
There's a knock at the door, and Matt doesn't answer. The door opens anyway, and he's surprised to see Mello, staring up at him as he stares back stupidly standing on top of a toilet seat with a dozen cigarette stubs floating in the bowl. Finally, he jumps down, all casual-like, doesn't care does he, even when his face ends up just a few inches from Mello's and neither of them back down until Matt inevitably steps aside and lights up again. If the whole hapless orphan or L's successor thing didn't do it, Mello must've pushed him over the edge. That kid is wound tighter than a ball of rubber bands and even more likely to snap, and it's rubbing off on him in all the wrong ways. Matt's a fucking stress case and a nut job and Mello is bad for him and he knows it.
If not for Mello, Matt would probably end up in a cubicle, contented with the mind-numbing repetitiveness of his existence. His mind thrives on predictability and stability, computer code or math problems or video games where either you save the world and get the girl to boot or you really fuck up and you know you've fucked up, no shades of gray, and it's less painful that way, and even then you get to try again. Mello's more of a one-time-only, take-your-chance-or-leave-it kind of guy, a high that drags you down afterwards but you keep going back for more because who's he kidding, even if he had his cubicle, he'd probably be the one who finally snapped someday and slaughtered everyone in the office just because. Matt needs Mello like he needs cigarettes to clog his lungs with soot and grime and the urge to cry because it fills a very, very small part of the hole in his existence and fuck him if he'd ever admit it.
Mello probably already knew. He was smarter, and as such, even more artful at hating himself and depriving himself of what he really needed. He certainly didn't need Matt to blow smoke in his face and ignore him, eyes shifting in the semi-darkness, unable to settle upon a single thing to say. What do you say to someone for whom your feelings are just that, feelings… inexpressible and uncontainable and incredibly fleeting.
He wondered when they would burn out, and whether it would be in a blaze of glory or like a cheap cigarette sizzling out in a stinking bathroom stall with graffiti on the walls and it would all be painted over soon enough. But Mello was silent as he took him by the hand, and like Mello knew just where to find him even at god-knows-when a.m. and there were better things to do than be together… just like that, Mello knew where they were going, so Matt followed his lead, casting one last cigarette back over his shoulder toward the toilet bowl. It missed.
A/N: Does this story make any sense? Yeahhhh. Reviews are appreciated even though I know what I wrote is weird. XD;