Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or any affiliated characters. They are property of Viz Media.
A/N: I'm not really sure where I'm going with this at all. Because of this and other obligations (like school for instance), updates may be few and far between. I started this for my own personal amusement, but I hope you like it too.
The plan for now is to update this once a week (probably on Thursdays). Due to my lack of a social life, a buffer I've already written, and midterms ending soon, I should be able to keep this up.
Also, for those who read Memories Best Forgotten, I haven't forgotten it. I just had a hard time coming up with an ending. It should go up some time this weekend.
Thanks for reading.
xXx
The Angel of Wammy's House
Chapter 1
Quillish Wammy gazed over his glasses at the child sitting across from him. The boy was not fidgeting or looking around as was expected from someone his age. He was staring determinedly at his knees. His hands were clasped in his lap and he was perfectly still. Though his small sneakers didn't quite touch the floor, his legs did not swing.
"Mail," Mr. Wammy began, but the child spoke quietly, interrupting him.
"It's 'Mile,'" he said, not defensively. "Not 'Male.'"
Mr. Wammy nodded courteously and corrected his pronunciation of the child's name. "Mail," he said again. "Do you remember who I am?"
Mail nodded minutely. "Mr. Wammy," he said. "You came to the orphanage a few weeks ago."
"I did indeed. How long have you been there Mail?" Mr. Wammy, of course, already knew the answer to that, but he wanted Mail to come out of his shell a little bit before he explained everything.
"…Since I was six," Mail said quietly.
"Do you like living there?"
"….No. I don't."
"Would you like to live here instead, Mail?"
Mail shrugged, paused, then whispered. "Yes I would."
Mr. Wammy watched him carefully, scrutinizing every little movement he made. After a few minutes, he nodded, stood, and walked around to Mail's side of the desk. "You may stay if you wish."
Mail glanced up for a moment, briefly meeting Mr. Wammy's eyes before going back to staring at his knees.
"Names are very important things, Mail. You remember what I told you? Knowing someone's name gives you power over them. For that very reason, you must never tell your name to those here in Wammy's House or anyone outside it. You must use a different name now. Have you decided on a name?"
Mail nodded. "Matt," he whispered.
Mr. Wammy nodded, not surprised. "Very well." He walked toward the door, opened it, and turned back, looking at the thirteen year old sitting in the chair across from his desk. "Come now Matt. There's someone you need to meet."
xXx
Matt sat on his bed, silent and still, his face turned to the side, his eyes glued to the old blue carpet that covered the floor. The boy on the bed across from his was watching him, both with interest and distaste at the same time.
"So… Matt, huh?"
No response.
The other boy sighed and rolled his eyes. "Well whatever. You'll talk sooner or later." He leaned forward, his blond hair falling down on either side of his face. "But you know, since we're room mates and all, you should probably talk to me. Besides," he added with a shrug, "I plan on taking over for L one day, so it'd be worth your while to be nice to me now."
Matt still said nothing. The boy sighed and turned away from him, intending to go back to his book. Before he even rose from his seat, however, something stopped him. He looked at Matt, a little surprised. "What was that?" he asked.
"I said," he repeated calmly, "that neither of those things could make me a good friend."
"What do you mean?"
Matt shrugged a shoulder. "Well, I was assigned here. I didn't choose to be your room mate. And if I were friends with you only to gain some sort of status for myself I wouldn't be much of a friend at all then either. If I'm not interested in you for you and if I don't care about you and your wants, needs, and feelings, I'm not really a friend at all." He pushed his rather thick glasses up higher on his nose with a finger, his dark red hair resettling itself around them, and Matt fell silent once more.
For once in his life, the blond had nothing to say. Instead of an elegant or witty reply, he simply said, "My name's Mello…"
Matt nodded, looking him in the eyes, the corner of his mouth curling just slightly. "Yeah," he said. "I know."
xXx
Matt didn't really know what to think of Wammy's House. The children here were exactly like the children at the orphanage in some ways, and yet in others they were completely different.
For the most part, Matt was most comfortable sitting in silence, watching the other children playing and talking and doing things amongst themselves. While he had talked to Mello, it hadn't become a frequent occurrence. The blond had many, many friends and admirers. He wasn't quite at the top of the all lists, but he was never any lower than second. He hated Near for besting him, but he was still preferred over the strange white-haired child, so for the most part he pretended not to care.
When Matt had been at Wammy's for a week, Mello approached him for the first time in the main house. He usually only spoke to Matt when they were in their room.
He walked briskly up to the red-head and trust something into his hands. "Here," he said gruffly. "Just take it okay?... If you use it you won't look so stupid just sitting there all by yourself."
Matt looked down at the little square Mello had given him. He flipped open the top, revealing a screen on the upper half and a few buttons on the bottom. He flipped the switch on the side and the screen lit up. After a few seconds, the name of the game that was stuck in the back flashed across the screen, the theme music began to play a moment later.
Matt looked up at Mello's red face and smiled just a little at him. "Thank you," he said.
Mello grunted in response, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stalked away.
Matt hadn't expected anything else from him. Instead of feeling hurt by the other's sudden departure, Matt looked down at the game again and started playing. After a few minutes, he was hooked.