Part One
It never got easier. His teachers promised he would be okay; the therapist said he was strong enough. But every time Matt walked into the classroom, it took all his composure not to walk back out. Because someone else was sitting in that desk in the back corner, and it wasn't Mello.
The therapist said that he would eventually get over the shock, but what did she know?
It was hard in the beginning, when his disappearance was the latest gossip. Matt didn't miss those days, feeling all their eyes on him as he wandered the halls. They never asked, but it was obvious that they wanted to. They watched, seeing if he would speak, seeing if he would break down.
They should know better, he had thought. Like I'd cry over it.
But he did, not that they knew. His eyes still stung from when he woke that morning, seeing the empty bed in his room. Some days were worse than others. He refused every new roommate Roger tried to thrust at him. Matt would lock the door, pushing Mello's desk against it so no one could break it open. Roger finally gave up. The other kids didn't even complain that he lived by himself. Most ignored him. Some could still sense his solitude.
A note slid across his desk during the lesson. Matt stared at it blankly, aware that the kid beside him was waiting for him to grab it. He was an okay guy; it wasn't the first time one of his notes had landed on his desk. As soon as the teacher turned toward the blackboard, Matt carefully unfolded it.
Hey, man. You OK?
It was followed by a series of dense scribbles, as if he wanted to say something more but changed his mind. Matt considered a reply as he rubbed his eye with a fist. Brush it off, or tell the truth? Either way he'd look like a jackass—not caring, or caring too much.
Don't wanna talk about it.
The kid nodded subtly in reply when he read the note, as if he understood.
But no one understood. Matt couldn't wait to get out of class.
It would be too easy to blame his cranky mood on the anniversary of Mello's departure. Three years. He wondered where he was, what he was up to, if he had beaten Near yet. The latter was unlikely; all of Wammy's kids would've known by now if Kira had been defeated. Matt snuck his lunch out of the dining room, again. He was certain that one of the matrons saw him leave, but she conveniently turned her back as he disappeared into the hall. He didn't need their sympathy, but he wasn't going to complain, either.
Matt locked his bedroom door, sitting cross-legged on Mello's bed as he picked the crust off his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He was convinced that the scent of sweat and chocolate still lingered in the bed sheets, even if no one else would be able to discern it. He poked at the sandwich, watching the jelly seep through the white bread, then tossed it to the floor in disgust.
The room's only window was over this bed. Matt's hands still shook as he lit up, blowing smoke out the window with tears in his eyes. Mello would be pissed to come home to him sniffling in his bed, scattering ash on the windowsill. Go cry in your own bed, he would've said, yanking at Matt's legs, making fun of him for thinking he wouldn't return.
But he had stopped daydreaming about that years ago.
He crushed the half-smoked joint onto the windowsill. What the fuck was he doing? How long did he plan to wallow in his own pity?
He ignored the ringing of his cell phone as he blew the last tendril of smoke out the window. He had been scheduled for a tutoring session after lunch, but he simply didn't show up. His tutor would get over it; it wasn't the first time.
Matt jumped off the bed to rummage through the small closet. He pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt that Mello had outgrown years ago. The elbows were worn through, and there was a distinct chocolate stain on the sleeve that never came out. He held it to his nose and breathed in the scent of Mello's skin, still embedding in the fabric. He dropped the shirt to the floor. Pushing aside the hangers, he found what he needed shoved in the back—his old, battered suitcase. It was probably an antique, its hard, blue surface a throwback from the seventies. He hadn't touched the thing since arriving at Wammy's. He tossed it onto the bed, crinkled his nose when unlatching the lock. The inside smelled musty from years of disuse, but he could probably steal a dryer sheet or something from the laundry before he left.
And that was the plan: leaving.
He had no destination in mind, but he pulled random things out of the closet and drawers: wrinkled T-shirts, a bunch of boxers, his PSP. The cell phone rang, again, and he moved to chuck it against the wall. But he glanced at the caller ID before it went airborne.
Restricted. Who the hell would call him from a restricted number?
Who the hell would call him at all?
He hesitated before answering, saying nothing even when he picked up.
There was a lengthy pause before he heard his voice. "Matt? You there?"
He closed his eyes as his knees gave out, leaning against the wall to steady himself. It felt like the first gulp of air after struggling underwater, after preparing to drown. The phone was sweating in his hand. "You fucker!"
"Hey, I know you're probably mad, but—"
"Probably mad?" His feet pounded the floor as he paced in circles, his legs shaking. "You just left! Do you have any idea..." He choked back a sob. He refused to cry. "What happened to 'I'll never leave your side?' What about, 'I'm nothing without you?' Were those just words after you—"
"Matt. Shut up!" He stopped pacing, stunned into silence. "For God's sake. Where are you?"
"Where am I?" He tried not to laugh. "I'm where you left me."
"Fine." The word betrayed a hint of regret. "I sent a plane ticket and some cash. You're coming to L.A., if you won't act like a baby."
"What the… you're in America?" He rubbed his forehead.
"I'll explain when you get here."
Matt stared at the open suitcase. It now seemed small and pathetic, but it was the only thing he had to contain everything he owned. "You want anything?" he asked, defeated. "You left everything here."
"Whatever," he said. "I don't need it."
Mello never would have said the part he was waiting for, the part implied by the call itself—But I need you. Matt violently flipped through the clothes in the closet, then slammed the door. He was right.
He didn't need any of it.