Gloves
How they "hooked up" and started working together.
Enjoy
Four years later and things had changed big time. Back four years ago, there was the safe and isolated Wammy's House; there were sun-soaked porches, or boys staying inside to play games when it rained. There was play-fighting and real fighting and wicked, unreal brawls, between babies unrestrained, that ended in silent tears and screamingly-loud bruises.
Untrained and impatient mouths on cafeteria food, biting and chewing, they would try to talk through mouthfuls of meat, laughing and spewing messes everywhere and then laughing harder. They would run away as soon as the meal was done, sprinting down the halls, paths memorized to the various doors. Next, bursting into the sunlit field, they would hold hands, so tight, on the way back over the line in Capture the Flag, shirts filling with wind and haphazard joy.
Later came Mello's arms circling his neck in a hug from behind. His gentle lips pressed to Matt's nape expressed more than their hasty words or crass tongues. (Matt didn't know exactly what he was being treated to, back then, but now, and every day in between he knew and he knows.)
"Bye, don't forget about me," the soft words came, the night before he left.
Four years later there are guns and cars and trucks and motorcycles (real ones, not the toy forms from four years previous); there are lives balanced on blades, there's blood and horror.
In creaky old hotel rooms for one-night-shambles, there are pretty girls who exclaim the fun they're having with the dirty-mouthed brunette from the bar; or there're sort-of masochist femmes who don't mind the blonde who didn't offer a name playing with knives and chocolate in bed.
There are computers used for Halo and computers used for hacking, ones to track old hands and ones to track new criminals. Cigarettes get cheaper, lighter, until all the kick is all but gone; chocolate gets so watered-down it's like chewing wax, and they're both tired of it.
--
Matt considers saying, "fuck you, Katamari!" to an earless room, before realizing his phone is ringing, sparing him that particular indignity. Perhaps it's good he bombed the level for the umpteenth time because from the narrow end of his cell comes a familiar voice.
And it's not just a voice. It's a face, a scowl, a body with sharp edges and accented curves; an existence so familiar he can taste it in his mouth.
"Matt," the voice doesn't offer an identity. It's clear in his tone. A tone he's been keeping reserved for a long time.
"You? Hey!" Matt replies with enthusiasm. He flicks through the setting screens on his console without looking at the buttons, pressing his phone between his ear and shoulder. He doesn't ask where or how his number was acquired. "What the fuck's happening, man?"
"Charming." Replies the deep, crackly voice. Mello totes a haughty tone, one that worked at the orphanage, because he was The Second Best Little Detective L, as it were. But now, at this place, his tone is meaningless. The one on the other end is his equal, always has been, though he'll never hear it.
"Where are you?" Matt asks casually, nothing in his tone to alert any sort of real, honest emotion.
This upsets Mello and he frowns and suddenly he is compelled to swear casually too, something he hasn't done in a while. The boss of the mafia has to hold himself apart from the grime that is his underlings, even just in his idiolect. "I'm at the fucking door."
"Oh . . . oh," Matt says weakly. He drops his console in search of a cigarette. He curses the portable and sits back on the couch, lifting his feet up onto the table.
"I'm coming up," (ignoring a fuzzy-sounding "the hell you are,"), Mello asks, "what number's yours?" Inspecting his gloved nails, he hears the whine of a dog in the downstairs suite and makes an amused face.
"Numbers?" Matt replies, "swanky. Nah, this shithole doesn't have any numbers."
Click and a beep signal Mello's turning off of his phone. Matt waits. He waits another minute. He thinks for a moment he'll never hear from Mello ever again. Ah well.
A knock comes at the door and Matt springs up, knocking the desk with his knees in his haste to stand so that it scoots across the floor a good foot or so. He curses it as well. Really, just fuck everything in this room. Not that he's trying to have his furniture suffer for impeding his seeing Mello . . .
The door is opened slowly and there is Mello, straw-blonde hair, leather all over, decked with a posh-looking red coat from his neck to his knees. A peculiar, thick slick of scar tissue is spread over his face and down his neck, looking oddly like bubblegum, Matt notes, in the way that it isn't grave, but casual, a charming accessory on Mello's proud form.
Matt takes in a brief sweep of all the interesting details, like the laces on the crotch of his pants and the lack of buckles on his boots, then looks the blonde directly in the eyes, from behind his goggles.
"Wow. Look at you," those seem to be all the words Matt can find, but they're exactly what he intended, because Mello is smiling and look, he's smiling at me again!
Mello's closed-mouth grin is wide, excitement obvious on his face. "Why, thank you."
"Man, Mello, you look like you've been around. Into some strange shit, eh?" Matt's voice is familiar and nasal, not-too-deepened by age, quiet; the same accent Mello used to know but hardly noticed before. His tongue pokes anxiously at his lower lip. It's obvious he has trouble keeping his mouth occupied without a cigarette. Childish habit.
"Oh, yeah. Like you can't imagine. Mafia, explosives, hostage-situations," Mello explains with a grin. He tips up his head, proud of his strange accomplishments. "All kinds of stuff like that."
Matt nods, impressed, admiring Mello's scar. He always wanted something like that of his own. (Instead he's burdened with this cursed, unspoiled beauty.) His lips are slightly parted, though his mouth is tucked into the flare of his fake-fur collar.
"How'd you find me?"
"Yours is the only room with someone in it," Mello replies softly, and it isn't the full answer, but Matt takes it; allows Mello to enter his scant living quarters, closing the door behind him.
Mello surveys the room. At least three different game systems were in sight under piles of paper and clothes; the room holds a couch, a table and more screens than windows.
After a moment, Matt lifts a gloved hand to his chin and rubs. Gloves became a habit; they hid fingerprints, he noted. Mello has them on as well. And what a scar he donned. He wants to explore it, in more ways than one.
"Hmm . . . " Mello hums loudly, turning to face Matt, hip jutting out, like he owns the place already. Hell, Matt knows Mello owns every room he walks into. "You have a computer?"
Matt nods once. Aside from the obvious presence of computer screens, glowing sterile blue in the room, Mello means something else, (a computer you can use for my dirty work), and Matt knows it. "I have several."
Mello smiles in approval. "You have a cable hook up?"
"No, but the building next door does."
Mello fights the urge to laugh; Matt notices and is pleased.
"You have a spare bedroom?"
Matt raises his eyebrows. "Nope, just the one."
Mello's bright eyes don't leave the yellow-tinted ones across the room, still in the shade of the doorway. "Well, looks like you'll have to take the couch, then."
Four years ago Mello didn't like sleeping alone. He sometimes requisitioned Matt, who wasn't ready to go to sleep yet, to get in his bed, to keep him company, even if he played his GBA for a few more hours. Other times, they snuggled in their hand-me-down pyjamas in the dark. Matt remembers this, and under all that leather, this memory is the boy he sees.
"Okay," Mello began, "I have a job. I'll need hacking, espionage, some fraud, lots of surveillance – I'll provide the equips if you set them up – and some, what we'll call 'reconnaissance'."
Matt nodslanguidly in a way that says 'yes, go on,' more than it says he's simply complying, just yet. He's smiling still himself, anxious tongue manoeuvring his front teeth and lips.
"You'll get no weekends or holidays unless I feel like it. You'll have to cook but I'll buy the food, so if you don't know how to cook, learn." Mello continues. It sounds like an unrequested apprenticeship. "You'll help me with whatever I ask, and like I said, the couch . . ."
Matt nods, eyebrow raised. "So, you're moving into my house, but I have to work for you?"
The blond nods.
The brunette subsequently pauses. Not to think the offer over, he'd known that answer for a while now; but just because he is the type to pause. In his head, he sees visions of what's to come: his eyesballs raw from staring at computer screens, printing fake Ids, 4-in-the-mornings in bright red letters, blowjobs, cigarettes piling up, sitting still for a long time, wrists and ankles tied-up with cable wires . . . it was exciting as hell and he wanted all of it.
"So, what do I get for all this?"
Mello's answer doesn't come in words. He tips his head down, lids heavy and sensual, tongue gentle across the part of his lips. He stares Matt right in the eyes, wonders if the one he wants to see was that little boy from Wammy's, or someone else, someone new, someone who can offer all the things that big boys enjoy. His tongue slides back into his mouth, like waving goodbye, and Mello pauses.
Matt's eyes are firm, his face still and composed, tongue practically crying out for a cigarette, or anything else, because his tongue is likely as impulsive as he is.
"Okay," he says after a while. "When do I start?"
La fin. There're a few problems regarding time, as I wrote this in present tense for some reason. But I really like the dialogue. Matt's dialogue is so fun to write – it can be anything; rude and smutty, to kind and caring. Mello's speech I thought was rather too nice . . . I ought to dirty him up. The speech is really what interests me about these two characters.