Title: Holding Hands
Summary: They'd been a dynamic duo for as long as they'd known each other, always helping each other with whatever was needed. But now, only Mello can do the helping. He'll take Matt's trembling hands and remind him how to live.
Disclaimer: I don't own DN and the plot isn't entirely original, but it is something I like.
Author's Note: I was inspired to write this. I love the concept. But I will warn you now, it touches up on the vague but fairly sensitive subject of brain damage. Do not post ignorant comments. Thank you.
…
The moment was tense in the small bathroom that lacked professional-grade furnishing. There were seams between the dry wall panels left without Spackle. Two shades of unmatched paint started on opposite ends and met somewhere in the middle- a Frankenstein of unfinished work that would never be fully completed, simply because it was deemed unnecessary.
All a bathroom needed was a bath tub and shower combo, a working sink, and a toilet without plumbing issues.
The ragtag group of misfits that spent their days in such a place considered it 'good enough.' The location was nearly perfect, stationed New York smack dab between a big city and a borough full of criminal activity. The perfect place for a down-trodden mob to find themselves.
Having once ruled the city, state, and vast portions throughout the United States and a particular sum of franchises in the East as well, their numbers and corporations had dwindled and they were well passed their prime by now. But they still thrived in their shithole territory, holding onto whatever dignity they managed to keep from the prying hands of cops and the occasional citizen-turned-vigilante.
Their place, small but functional, with bullet proof glass tinted windows, strong sturdy foundation and a roof that only leaked in a few places, served them well. The fridge was stocked with takeout food and whiskey and milk. The cupboards contained everything from several types of cereal and cups of Ramen to boxes of ammunition, black powder, and a number of handy chemicals that came with nasty foreboding warning labels.
But such details mattered less to this dying flame of a syndicate that fought to keep burning. The more favorably important detail about this particular homestead was... that it was almost completely childproof.
Everything was locked up, out of reach, or in a place that no child would consider looking. The pointed edges of the table, stands, fireplace mantle and any number of surfaces had been sanded down safely to prevent injury. And... the large flat screen TV was almost never turned off, always blaring some kind of talking animal or educational critter that spoke out to children worldwide, teaching them to share, telling them not to bite their friends, and pointing out different colors and shapes.
The TV was in the living room, which seemed to be the heart of the house, holding the most evidence of residential activity. Imprints on the couch where people sat or laid for long periods of time. Sheets of paper strewn about with crayon scribbles -a child's precious drawings, in which a duck, firetruck, and a rectangle might all look the same to an unknown critic.
If someone were to enter this stead without close inspection, they'd be quick to notice the growing collection of My Little Pony figures. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles blanket and pillow set that could be found everywhere except the bed it should have been on. The Oreo crumbs caught between the carpet fibers. The toy cars and stuffed dinosaur and cymbal-clashing monkey that were piled in the corner. The colorful magnetic letters and numbers that were tacked to the refrigerator, spelling out easy one-syllable words.
If someone looked around without searching for something wrong they'd simply think that a child had claimed it as their kingdom.
And maybe this was true... strangely enough, in a way that was never intended or expected.
Back in that bathroom, there were cracks in some of the floor tiles, water splashed on the floor. Strange contented noises coming from the seemingly alien creature in the bathtub as he was tended by a conflicted blonde.
A brutish man stood in the doorjamb, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene before him. Phlegm thick in his throat, he made a sound to rid himself of the irritation before speaking with disgust. "Mello, you have him in the bath?!" Rod Ross, a man with unquestioned authority but no true superiority, boomed loudly, face scrunched into a sneer, shoulders heaved up to make him appear more threatening -an animalistic tactic that unconsciously proved his own lack of domineering qualities. The same way a cat would heave, a monkey will bare its teeth, and a bull will stamp its feet before charging.
It's an almost-threat.
The bluff of a blind man dropping Spades before the telepath.
The blonde in question, having been too enraptured with the task at hand to have paid mind to Rod beforehand, turned a quick and angry glare to the intruder, eyes full of mother-henning malice. "Fuck you. He needed a bath, and I don't trust you fuckers to do it," he hissed, lips pulled back to reveal yellowing teeth (When had he started smoking? Right, he started when Matt had stopped. The smell of smoke and the taste of nicotine was a comfort...) nearly seething in contempt as he absentmindedly swished a wash cloth in the warm soapy bath water in the tub he knelt beside.
A third voice joined the conversation, soft-spoken and awed and belonging to the tub's occupant. "F-Fuh-Fuuuuuk," it came out as a stutter but was as plain as the white foamy bubbles surrounding his waist and climbing up his arms. "Fah-uuuh-kuh," he articulated, tucking his bottom lip into his mouth and grinning around it. "Fuck!"
Rod shook his head and looked away, irritation and disbelief evident in his demeanor; he couldn't even bring himself to look at the young man whose expression mirrored that of an ornery bastardic tot.
As had become customary to the flow of things, Mello ignored the brute of a man and turned his attention to the redhead who sat in the tub; his expression softened as he said in his most gentle voice... "Matt, don't say that word. It's not a nice word." His words were chiding but his tone was careful. Having once been angry and brash, his newer, kinder tone was something he was using more and more as time went on... not that he'd admit to such a thing.
It was with a growl and some arbitrary muttering that Rod exited the bathroom in hopes of accomplishing something -anything- productive, leaving the odd duo alone in that too-small disaster of a bathroom.
But Mello couldn't care less about Rod and whatever troubles he was having; his blue eyes were wide and trained carefully on the pale redhead.
Matt, in the tub, freckles all over like the most perfectly imperfect being in existence, puffed out his cheeks before releasing the air held within. He ground his teeth together, focusing on the feel of too much pressure between his gums. Then he absentmindedly swished the bath water with his hands and drew up a small mountain of bubbly soap, flicking it towards the blonde.
The soap touched and clung to Mello's nose, but he couldn't bring himself to react angrily. He simply wiped the soap away with the back of his hand before reaching the wash cloth to the redhead's face, gently wiping around his eyes, cheeks, nose, chin... Just carefully cleaning his face and trying not to get any soap in those vibrant green eyes that stared back at him with unbridled affection too innocent and pure for his age.
After cleaning Matt's face, Mello moved the wash cloth to his neck and shoulders. His upper back, his arms and chest. Slow, deliberate, thoughtful... He repressed the urge to sigh and trained a careful smile onto his features. He wanted Matt to see him smile, despite everything they've been through. "Matt," he said evenly, encouraging eye contact. Once their gazes met, he continued. "You remember my name, don't you?" He stared, caught between being hopeful and hopeless, forcing that smile for as long as he could.
Emotions were fragile, sincere or not. One slip was all it took to break a lifetime of trying and generations of teaching.
Matt bared his teeth in a non-threatening manner, making an awkward smile of his own and releasing small gusts of amusement through his clenched teeth. "M-Mmm-Mell-Meh..." His feel-good expression faded, replaced by a mix of worry and determination. He stole in several breaths and tried again. "Merr-Mero. Melro." Growling, and squeezing his eyes shut so tight that it almost hurt, he tried again. "Mel-luh-oooh." Opening his eyes and breathing deeply, he smiled again. "Mello." Satisfaction almost sparkled in his eyes.
The kind of relief seen in a cripple taking his first few steps after years of inactivity.
Mello nodded slowly, trying to rid his eyes of the prickling sensation of unshed tears. "Good. Good job, Matt," he half-whispered. And with that, he turned his attention back to washing the redhead, getting him clean.
There was no further conversation to be had, though Matt saw to it that he gurgled a bit of nonsense now and then, sometimes trying to form words with the worst kind of desperation pulling at his facial features as he fought to convey some meaning or another. And in turn, the blonde would smile and nod and encourage, and do his best not to show frustration when he couldn't understand the gibberish that would slip out of the mouth he was once so intimate with.
- The bath concluded with Mello helping Matt to stand and step just outside the tub onto a rubber non-slip mat. Then he took a towel and began to dry his companion off. From head to toe, he was careful to be gentle but thorough. Lastly, he helped the redhead into a set of striped pajamas.
The sleeves swallowed Matt's arms and he flailed his limbs beneath the fabric, amusing himself as he watched the sleeves flap.
Mello stole his attention with ease, clicking his tongue before speaking. "Can you... brush your teeth, Matt?" He asked uncertainly, turning to the sink and getting a Power Rangers themed child's tooth brush from the cabinet, along with bubblegum-flavored tooth paste. Preparing the tooth brush with just a dab of the paste, he handed it to the redhead, watching him grip the handle awkwardly before stepping in front of the mirror and pressing the bristles to his teeth and then simply chewing on it.
Mello wanted to tell him 'no,' and 'don't do that.' Mello wanted to guide Matt into using proper oral hygiene. Mello wanted to do so many things, but at each turn he found his chest constricting and his throat seizing up.
In the end, Mello simply offered the redhead a pat on the back and a whispered "Good job, buddy. You're getting better."
Better... such a funny word. If someone has cancer, do you visit them after a Chemo treatment and say 'You're getting better'? Maybe, but they won't thank you for the sentiment. And rightfully, they don't want it. But it's better than the truth, sometimes.
...It was hard, for the blonde. Watching this, going through these motions day after day, night after night. The morning cereal starting with Mello reminding Matt how to hold a spoon and ending with Matt dribbling milk down his chin and making a mess. The nights concluding with rhyming children's books that Mello could recite from memory, yet he continued to hold the book in hand... if only to show Matt the pictures.
It hadn't always been this way.
The two of 'em, the blonde and the redhead, they'd grown up together. Bastard orphans fighting for their place in the world, they were alone, having no one but each other- and even that was more of a grudge match than comradery. They studied together, ate and slept together. Between test scores and chess, they competed. And on a few rare and precious occasions, they shared words of mutual understanding and desire, to find a balance between adventure, necessity, and companionship.
Back then, the words were hopeful wishes, empty promises. And while neither could have expected or even asked, both were determined to put some truth to their childish talk of tomorrow and someday.
They did little else, really, but they were always together. Little by little, under the watchful eye of their caretakers and Father Time, they forgot how to be apart, how to breathe out of sync.
Two bodies, two hearts, two souls... but only one life. One life was enough for the two of them.
They became vital to each other, half-reading one another's mind in times of joy or strife.
If Matt slept in, Mello would wake him up. If Mello fell asleep studying, Matt would put away the books and cover the blonde up with a quilt. If one got sick, the other was always there.
It was a fantastic 2Player Samsara, and neither wanted to stop playing. Neither could stop playing.
Tested, their IQ's had been off the charts. They were taught countless lessons meant to sharpen their minds and further them in their field of expertise.
They were literal geniuses. And the day Mello left the place that was more of a school than a home, he took Matt with him in a thoughtless heartbeat, not that Matt would LET the blonde leave without him.
There were no words. It was an unspoken, unscripted, and entirely necessary plot in the story that was their lives.
There was an almost pathological desire for them to help one another. An imaginary greater-good that only they were aware of.
A secret mission. Co-op. Nitty gritty, knee-scraping, and downright devilish in the level of difficulty.
So when Mello joined the Mafia and climbed the ranks, Matt was either at his side or just a step behind. Always.
A videogame brought to life. Fantasy pulled into reality. Bohemian-fuckin'-Rhapsody played on a loop from cosmic speakers that blasted life rather than sound...
In time, blood stained both their hands. Innocence was lost between stolen kisses and melodic touches that turned into the most sacrilegious practices. Nightmares were cohesively shared. And guilt... didn't matter as long as they had each other to lean on.
Until about a year ago.
- Some local punks had formed a gang; they called themselves The Medics. Rumor and hearsay blossomed, releasing intel and indulging facts. They were just a bunch of med-students fresh out of high school and early into college. But worse than any doctor and the needles they might carry with a false promise of vaccination, these punkers carried guns.
These stupid, amateur pieces of shit-nothings, they got their hands on some imported weaponry and decided to play Thug. On the wrong side of town where fences still lined each property and children ran across the street without looking for traffic first.
It was a peaceful town, not meant to be turned into a punk-prone war zone. It was free of graffiti and litter. It was... like something out of a cheesy TV show that had no real plot other than to show the lives of contented individuals going day by day.
Full-fucking-House. Oh, look! There's Danny Tanner!
And Mello was determined to put an end to the little shit-gang before any real problems started. In his own way, he was determined to keep peace. To be the good guy, even if he had to put the fear of God into a few atheist assholes.
He went in with a gun and a threat. And by his side, the redhead remained faithful and loyal and just as determined.
Gandhi would be proud, maybe.
Mello wasn't afraid to shoot a few punk teenagers for fuckin' up their shit. Hell, even Matt had his share of executions when it came to wannabe-gangsters, but Mello always made a point to comfort him afterwards. Even if Matt didn't need it, Mello needed to be there for the redhead. Just as Matt needed to be there for the blonde.
It was never a question of "Do you need help?" because help and comfort was always offered without it being asked. If not given directly, it would be passed through the light brushing of shoulders or elbows, subtle glances, half-assed smirks, and any number of small gestures and pseudo mind-readings they seemed to do on a subconscious level.
But this particular group of wannabe thugs -these... Medics- had guns not unlike what the dynamic duo themselves carried.
Guns, yes. Bullets, double yes. But no experience. And that alone is a deadly combination. It can turn the most innocent person into a murderer if their trigger finger happens to get an ill-opportune itch.
And itch, it did.
It was the only reasoning the young men could fathom out of what horror became of their little self-assigned act of heroism.
A bullet that was meant for Mello found Matt instead.
After the initial BANG! the very concept of sound itself lost all meaning and coherence. White noise, deafening. Silence thickening the air with an imaginary pollution.
Head bleeding and a chunk of flesh hanging off the back of his scalp, Matt went down in an instant, hitting the ground in a lifeless heap with a dull thud that was seen but not heard. Or, if it had been heard, it was certainly not registered.
If a tree falls in the woods, and no one's around to hear it, does it make a sound?
Mello didn't know if the teenagers got scared of actually shooting someone and ran off, or if they ran off for another reason. He didn't know. Hell, he remembered raising his own gun to fire, but couldn't recall if he'd pulled the trigger. He couldn't remember. He only remembered red. Matt's red hair, the red-red blood that puddled beneath his head. Mello could only see red. His vision was so filled with anger that he blacked out.
And when that rage left him in a subdued state of shock, he and Matt were far away from that street, in a makeshift underground hospital. Matt was bandaged and unconscious as he received scan after scan, test after test.
...It would be three months before Matt would wake from a coma. Three long and tiring months before Mello would see Matt open his eyes. And it would be forever before he could share any burden with his friend again.
Friend. Lifeline. Life support. Partner. Companion.
So many words to sum up the courageous redhead he'd come to care so much for.
But Mello's heart nearly stopped when a doctor pointed to his charts and notes and the results of the most recent brain scan, and ultimately revealed that Matt would never be the same again.
The redhead had suffered tragically, losing almost all memory, motor skills, and speech.
- It had been over a year since the accident, and Matt could barely feed himself on a good day. He functioned like a toddler at best, gurgling and reaching out to touch whatever he could see, as if everything were new and exciting. As if simply clapping his hands was one of the most fantastic activities he could imagine, let alone when Mello graced him with a chant of Pat-a-Cake or cheered on the slightest progression in speech.
It was damn hard, he had to admit.
Heartbreaking.
Mello could no longer count on a comforting hug or voice of reason when a nightmare struck. He couldn't count on the redhead to be his hacker or spy or any form of backup. He couldn't ask the redhead to be anything but a slobbering, sound-making, liability.
He could never look at Matt as a lover again. Couldn't hold his hand and have it mean what it used to. Couldn't stare into his eyes with anything but fading hope, concealed pity, and the deepest and purest concentration of love-turned-platonic.
Mello quelled his ache with self-told lies and false enthusiasm. He told himself that he hadn't lost anything, because Matt was still alive. Because he was able to physically hold the redhead, he pretended... so hard... that things could be okay.
And on some days, the darker ones when Matt would refuse a bath or break something. When Matt would cry for hours and not be able to explain what was the matter, Mello would find himself forced to cage a hidden horror. A secret beast that grew within himself. A beast uglier than the scar on the back of Matt's head- the very scar that refused to re-grow any hair.
The beast was a voice, a hidden desire. A secret, selfish thought that he'd tried so hard to ignore.
But on a really hard day, when Mello was at his worst and at a loss, he found himself thinking: You should have died. I'd have buried you, put flowers on your grave. I'd have cried and prayed and mourned. And you'd be dead, but at least you wouldn't be trying to eat crayons...
Those frightening thoughts were seldom given light, but they existed deep in the recesses of the blonde's heart and mind. Though he fought to keep it hidden. Instead of brooding, he'd hug the redhead and offer chocolate or a movie or both.
Mello would set up a game of checkers and force a pained smile as Matt would stare emptily at the puck-shaped pieces before putting one in his mouth, thinking it was candy.
And Mello would hug Matt tightly, afraid to let go. Afraid to let any more of him slip away. Afraid to lose him altogether.
Their coexistence lost the golden sheen it once had, replaced by a fitful dependency that was undeniably difficult to fully accept.
But most days, Mello would take a deep breath, grab Matt's hand, hold it tight, and thank God he was there, even if he was broken.
Matt didn't understand. He understood so little in their crime-infested world that they'd both ran into so willingly. But Matt did understand the value of a smile. And his face lit up when he was able to do something to make the blonde happy.
And, fuck, if the redhead didn't try every day to coax more and more smiles from the despairing blonde.
"Ha-Hah-Haaand." A simple word, worth more money than all the cocaine in the basement.
This simple word, as the blonde held the redhead's hand, was its own form of magic.
Mello prided himself when he could get Matt to form actual words however small, to take a bath without a tantrum, to eat without forgetting how to use a spoon. Likewise, Mello had to force himself not to openly sob when the redhead flashed a set of wide eyes and pointed at his own untied shoes, unable to tie them himself.
"S-Suh-Sue. Sue. Ta' sue." Matt's words.
Mello's heartbreak. "Tie. Shoe. C'mon, Matt," he pleaded softly, eyes so close to showing his sorrow. "Tie. Shoe. You can say those two words. Please."
Matt closed his eyes too tight, moving his mouth soundlessly, working his tongue and testing it out, trying to make it work. "T-Ta... Tah-eye. Tie. S-Sss-suuue."
"Shuh. Shhh. Shuh, Matt. You need the S and H. Shuh." Mello tried, tried to help Matt. Tried to be patient. Tried to make it work. Tried not to die a little more on the inside.
And, sensing his frustrations, Matt began to tremble, shoulders shaking and tears threatening to fall. His breath hitched and a full sob was released as he broke down, tossing his head back and kicking his feet, throwing a tantrum simply because he didn't know what else to do.
And Mello's chest constricted that much more.
God, help me, he found himself thinking, but he had no one to blame but himself. It had been his idea to go after the Medics. And now... he could never be anything more than a grief-stricken babysitter.
So many times, he wanted to give up, to put a stop to everything.
But then, it would happen. Matt would calm down. His face would take on this serene, almost blank expression, and he'd take Mello's trembling hands in his own. And he'd stare at Mello until they locked gazes. And, for a fraction of a second, there was a moment of recognition. A spark in those vibrant green eyes. A glimmer of the Matt Mello had fallen for years ago.
And that glimmer, however faint, was always just enough to pull him through, no matter how bad things got.
- They worked their ABC's. Numbers. And, little by little, Matt improved. No leaps and bounds or anything one might deem significant, but Mello's heart swelled the first time he heard the redhead string together a full almost-sentence.
"Melro, n-nuh-naed sta pl-plaaay... w-wissa may. Pluh-aise?"
Mello needs to play... with me. Please?
Mello had been busy that day, pouring his eyes over paperwork and leaving Matt in front of the television for hours. Too much needed done, and he hadn't realized just how busy and neglectful he'd been to his love from Once-Upon-A-Time.
Until that sentence, so uncharacteristic of the new version of the redhead, was uttered just so, Mello had found peace and sedation in being busy. But upon hearing the earnest words, seeing those wide and hopeful eyes, Mello knew he couldn't deny the redhead a chance to play.
A chance to learn.
A chance to be something other than a slobbering thing that required constant supervision.
- It was strange... to have a nineteen year old toddler in the Mafia headquarters, but Mello's word was law, and Mello would sooner give his life than give up on the redhead.
Mello still barked orders at the few loyal lackeys he hadn't already disposed of. And, like clockwork, they kept busy.
Drug runs and raids. Arms dealing. Threats being made and carried out. Whatever the business was at whatever time of day, they did it without question.
It was an unspoken rule, that they make an effort not to comment on the redhead's inability, nor were they to comment on the blonde's softening gaze and story-book voice.
Every worker and cohort knew the burden and pain that came with losing a loved one. And against all odds and judgement, they supported their boss.
Mello rarely left HQ, too focused on watching Matt, making sure he ate. Keeping track of his activity so he didn't watch entirely too much TV.
When he found time, he would sit with Matt on the couch, and he'd read to him. Cat in the Hat. Books that held the alphabet and pictures. He'd sing the ABC song to Matt, and when Matt could focus he managed to sing along, his voice soft and innocent. Pure. Untainted.
A new kind of beautiful.
Mello tried so hard, and with more patience than he ever knew he had, to re-teach his friend. To show him how to count by using a handful of pennies. -That had to stop when Matt ended up eating a few of the copper coins.
Mello showed Matt pictures and gave the pictures names.
This is a TV. TV, Matt. Can you say... TV?
Apple. Ah-Apple. Can you say Apple?
Food. Hungry. You eat Food when you're Hungry.
Up... Down. Opposites. This is Up. And this is Down.
Words like Bath and Bedtime were most easily recognized by the redhead. Whenever Mello used either word, a spark of recognition shined in those vibrant eyes and Mello would be almost hopeful... but then resignation would set in as he'd watch Matt blow spit-bubbles or chew on the sleeve of his shirt.
It was sad, borderline horrific.
A dream -a nightmare- that no one could wake up from.
Once a genius, now reduced to someone who's lucky to use the bathroom on his own... most of the time.
Mello had thought many times, of taking Matt somewhere, to a nurse or hospital. Checking him into some care unit so that he wouldn't have to do it all alone... but he couldn't bring himself to be so selfish.
It had been his own desire to bust up the new gang personally without any backup. It was supposed to be the two of them, just going in, waving a gun and throwing some threats; the kids were just loser punks with nothing better to do, and Mello wanted to scare them straight... or at least get them to back the fuck off of their territory.
It had been awful, the blood, the fear, the rush of it all. But it happened, and there was no way to fix it. The tests revealed permanent damage. Matt would only be able to re-learn so much, never progressing further than most three or four year olds -and even that was a longterm goal.
So, day by day, Mello forced himself to stay at HQ. When he had to have a private meeting, he sat Matt in front of the television with a GI Joe and allowed him to watch Barney or Bob the Builder, or something colorful that would hold his attention.
When Mello absolutely needed to get out, breathe fresh air, and run an errand, he had Snydar -a weaselly fucker Mello only just barely managed to tolerate in their early years together- watch Matt and play the role of 'Uncle Kal'... simply because Kal Snydar had a kid of his own and knew well enough how to keep them entertained with simple songs and nursery rhymes and the classic Peek-a-boo.
Rod, the big guy who often scoffed and sneered when he disapproved of the redhead's dependency, wasn't too keen on Matt when he was 'normal;' and he sure as hell didn't like him now that he was infantile and naive. But even he had to admit that it was almost refreshing, sometimes, to come back from a rough day's work, gun powder on his hands and flesh wounds on his beefy forearms, and see that bright and charming smile and expectant gaze on the young man who was once almost as deadly as himself.
Brain damaged or not, the very idea offered hope to those who were still sane enough to envy the innocent.
- "Melro, t-tell meh h-how dis wo'hks" Matt spoke, pointing to something the blonde was holding.
"How it works, Matt?" Mello repeated slowly, giving Matt a chance to process the correct pronunciation. "It takes batteries, like this." He inserted the batteries and slipped the cover over them. Then he showed Matt. "See this switch?" He pointed to a little grey slider. "Slide it this way" -he demonstrated- "to turn it on... and this way" -another demonstration with the flick of a finger- "to turn it off."
Game cartridge already inside, he handed the device to the redhead.
Matt stared at it with wide eyes, expression full of awe and wonder. Feeling it all over with his fingertips, even bringing it close to his face and sniffing it, he settled back comfortably on the couch next to Mello and turned the game on.
Mello watched with a small smile, enjoying the many expressions that flitted across the face of his companion.
In a matter of minutes, the redhead figured out how all the buttons worked. And dammit if he wasn't ushering Mario that much closer to the flagpole with each passing second, never deterred when a goomba got him or he fell into a pit. He soon found himself leaning against the blonde's shoulder, curling against him in a content way as his eyes focused and his fingers tap-tapped at the buttons.
Mello couldn't help staring, heart fluttering. In times like this, he could almost pretend Matt was okay again. Sure, he knew better than to dwell on it too long or get his hopes up, but when he saw Matt happy, he himself couldn't be happier.
Maybe Matt wasn't the intimate lover he once had, but this Matt had just as easily managed to steal his heart.
And Mello did love him. Some days, he loved him more than others due to internal conflict and baited affliction he couldn't control, but in some strange way, it all worked. Mello could love, and Matt could be there for Mello to love.
And, dammit if Matt didn't look to Mello with adoration. Dammit if Mello didn't hold Matt close in times of stress. And fuck if Matt didn't reach for Mello's hand and whisper "L-Luh-uv yoooh."
And, holding Matt's hand in turn, Mello found himself earnestly rasping "Love you too, buddy. Love you too."
And it was true.
Maybe he wasn't witty or crass or addicted to a computer, but Matt was still Matt. Matt still wanted to be there for the blonde. And Mello would do everything in his power to keep from letting the redhead down.
To an outsider, they were holding hands. But to each other and the select few cohorts that saw them on a daily basis, they were doing more than holding hands; they were remembering how to share a life.