A.N
So this was the first thing I've ever actually handwritten.
Most go straight onto the laptop, it's easier to edit that way.
Heh.
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note
'There is no reason why good cannot triumph as often as evil. The triumph of anything is a matter of organisation. If there are such things as angels, I hope that they are organised along the lines of the mafia.' - Kurt Vonnegut JR.
Organisation.
To the uncaring eye or perhaps the unseeing one, Mihael Keehl was exactly this.
Forever on top of the stacks of work that incessantly cluttered around him like sand stuck to wet skin, no matter how many times it was washed away, the trek back up the beach only made it cling to the body again and then some.
Forever on top of Matt's slobbish behaviour, whirling around the apartment and discarding the empty redbull cans and cigarettes butts strewn across the floor.
Forever on top of the SPK's moves, challenging Near to make a move before he did.
Forever on top of the useless subordinates that threatened to blow his cover when they moved to soon.
However, despite the façade Mello had precariously shifted together, smoothing over until no cracks in the mask remained, Mello's lack of organisation was clear.
You see, Mihael Keehl was, in all senses, a monster.
The black form fitting leather that coated the lithe muscles underneath was very much akin to his soul. The image itself may be a cliché one, the blonde, sitting in the grimy room he used as his headquarters, skin turning a dull grey colour with the florescent light from the computers, thick boots tapping against the floor. A chocolate bar teetering from the corner between his sharp teeth, barely gracing then poison laced tongue hidden behind them as his eyes flickered to the man on the floor with malice, watching his shoulders shake as sobs racked through his body.
Yes people are ugly when they cry.
He wouldn't bat so much of an eyelid as he removed the chocolate from his mouth, thin lips curling up into a smirk.
"Kill him." He stated simply, icy irises ablaze with humour as a gun was drawn and a bullet was driven through the man's skull.
Mello kicked him to the side before calmly putting the sweet in his mouth, turning back to his laptop, left hand hovering over the stack of creamy milk bars, almost as if compensating for his own lack of sweetness with chocolate.
Yes, he was a monster.
But like his leather he had rare moments of light, like when the shiny material caught the sun and was reflected so quickly many weren't sure they'd seen it in the first place.
Mello's light was merely a reflection.
Putting a dollar in a homeless man's cup because he noticed someone do it before him or giving up his seat for a pregnant women during the times he had to take the bus or train while going incognito.
Odd movements for the mob boss who saw and did deplorable acts on a daily basis.
However, it was these simple acts, the ones that help people keep their faith in humanity, kind acts that disappeared in the blink of an eye that was the fleeting light.
And it was during these moments of simplistic beauty that Mihael Keehl let his disorganisation shine through.
Minor things, misplaced jackets, boots or keys.
Leaving his phone is his jeans and then washing them (Matt was getting fed up of replacing them)
Sending files to wrong people.
Organisation was the one word people often used to describe Mello, but this couldn't be further from the truth. Mihael Keehl was simply a reflection.