Title: Shots

Summary: Crucially unstable after the loss of a friend, Mello finds comfort in a redheaded child.

Disclaimer: I don't own DN or anything referenced.

Author's Note: Terrible chapter here, but it could be worse. Still, I must state that it deals with my best interpretation of an event that I HATE reading about. (*confession* Almost every time I've ever read anything with a shopping-related scene in it, I skimmed it briefly at best. For some reason, regardless of content, the context is something I just don't like. Not sure why. Personally, I love shopping IRL, but reading about it is just... yick! -Also, there's something I must mention here! I saved this and uploaded it onto fanfiction, right? And, when I went to skim it for mistakes [believe it or not, I do that sometimes.] I couldn't find the file, and I was kinda pissed because I was stupid enough to delete the original without backing anything up, so... I thought it was lost. Luckily, I realized that I saved it under the wrong title. LOL)


Curiosity was the damnedest thing, leading one to explore insecurities and new extremities regardless of danger.

A crude mix between curiosity and desperation is what brought an 8 year old boy into the unofficial (and illegal) custody of the 20 year old mafia boss.

Mail sat atop a desk, feet dangling listlessly as he hummed to himself to stave off boredom. Unfortunately, there's only so much entertainment a child can find in the dank environment he was subjected to, and his mind wandered to the man who had taken him off the streets only a week ago. "Mello? Tell me why your face looks like that."

The blonde had been sorting through paperwork that his underlings had managed to fuck up; his temples pulsed in agitation and as he heard the child's words, he dropped the papers and sat back, already knowing perfectly well that if the child's curiosity wasn't sated soon he'd suffer an onslaught of queries. So, with a deep breath, he answered "I had an accident."

"What kind of accident? You look like the bad guy in a horror movie."

"I had things to do, and people stood in my way... One thing led to another, and this was the result."

"You're very vague. I want details!"

"No."

"Then I want ice cream."

"Kid, I'm in the fuckin' Mafia; I don't have ice cream!"

"But you have chocolate. Can't you just tell somebody to go get ice cream for me? I'm bored."

"Play with the toys I got you."

"...I'm not five or six; they hold no amusement to me, and you are not being a very good host."

"Well, maybe you should stop being a whiny little brat and find something to do!"

And... the redhead's eyes narrowed, shiny with unshed tears as his mouth formed a line and his posture erected fully. "You, sir, are an asshole. Your friend that died probably died of boredom- either that, or you were so mean, he went all emo, cried a river of tears, and drowned in it!" The moment those last words came out, a gloved hand shot out and slapped him, jerking his head to the side and causing a red welt to form almost instantly.

"Kid... I'm sorry. Just, don't ever talk about Matt that way."

"Oh yeah? Well, don't talk to me. Ever."

"Don't be so stubborn, I'm not a bad guy. People say stupid shit- it happens."

"You're still talking to me."

"And I'm going to keep talking to you for as long as I want to!"

"You're arguing with a kid. Does that make you feel like a badass?"

"Don't say ass!"

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"One more word, and I won't get you any ice cream!"

And that was the last of the conversation/argument. Mello went back to his paperwork and Mail played with Ball in a Cup.

Time moved so slow, but eventually, the papers were filled out, errors were mended, and the pen was put down. And when the blonde looked to the redhead, he found the child curled up, sleeping in a ratty old chair with the little toy still gripped in his hand. The simple sight tugged at his insides and he found it hard to look away. He was reminded of another redhead who used to fall asleep in that very chair, Gameboy in hand and a smile in place.

The resemblance was uncanny. Aside from the age gap, the only difference was... this child wasn't smiling. In fact, he looked pained; his face twisted in agony and his eyes shut too tight.

It was then that Mello decided on a new goal. For as long as this child was in his care, he'd give him the world, light up the sky, and do whatever it took to make him smile.

...

Mello waited for the redhead to stir awake on his own. The moment those green eyes were unveiled, he tossed a black bomber jacket at him and ordered him to put it on and grab a pair of shoes.

Mail sluggishly obeyed, still sleepy and disoriented. He pulled on the over-sized jacket and slipped on a pair of shoes that were ragged and held together with duct tape.

"Let's go," Mello said once he deemed ready.

No further talk was passed along, even as Mello shuffled the child out the door and to a Cadillac. A ten minute drive, during which Mail had to play with every button within reach, and they were pulling into a parking lot.

Getting out and coaxing the redhead out as well, Mello smiled at the sudden enthusiasm that came over the child.

It started with the widening of eyes and the baring of teeth; then his little body literally trembled with excitement as he hopped in place and squealed: "Ice cream, ice cream!" before running to the entrance of the local parlor.

Mello followed behind at a casual pace, genuinely glad to have made the child so happy.

Entering the parlor and standing at the counter, the duo looked over the span of choices.

"Gimme a small chocolate shake and...- what do you want, kid?" The blonde ordered for himself and left an opening for the redhead.

Mail pumped his little fist in the air and declared: "Mudslide Sundae! With Sprinkles! And I want french fries on the side!"

Their orders were paid for, prepared, and handed out, and they took a seat at a booth in the corner. Mello sipped at the chocolatey goodness that was his shake, and Mail dipped his fries into his frozen treat.

"So, y'like ice cream?" Mello asked casually, leaning back and setting his half-empty (half-full) shake on the table.

Mail shrugged, took a bite of his ice cream that was heavily loaded with colorful sprinkles, and then he nodded shyly, but his eyes betrayed the bashfulness by exposing excitement. "Yeah, I really like ice cream. Who doesn't? Only crazy people don't like ice cream. Crazy people and those who are lactose intolerant. Luckily, I'm not crazy or-"

"So, Mail, what do you want?" Mello interrupted.

"Come again, Mister?"

Mello elaborated. "Well, while we're out, I thought I could pick you up some clothes that actually fit. And, if you're good, maybe something fun to play with."

Mail didn't respond, but he ate the rest of his fries and sundae with a pensive expression creasing his brow and twisting his lips to the side comically.

...

They were long gone from the parlor and into an industrious shopping center with Mello leaning against a cart and Mail filtering through the selection.

"There's a cute shirt, get it," Mello said off offhandedly, trying not to let his impatience show.

The child gave him an incredulous look before shaking his head. "Dude, Mister, Sir, Man- Don't you realize that I'm going to be nine soon? I'm only a year away from life-spanning in double digits! I can't look cute." With that, he grabbed a striped sweater and held it up to himself. "I like this. Warm, practical, and it has a pattern. But it's not a checkered pattern- I hate checkers. And it doesn't have a stupid design with words and stuff; those kinda piss me off."

Hearing this, Mello fought back the grin that threatened to form; instead, he allowed a subtle smirk to tug at his lips. "Don't say piss," was all he bothered with, grabbing the shirt and dropping it into the cart.

Several nearly identical shirts later, four pairs of blue jeans, two pairs of khakis, three colorful sets of pajamas, and Mail was losing interest in shopping.

"Just grab some socks, underwear, a pair of shoes, and new coat, and we'll go. Okay? That's everything you need."

Pouting, Mail pushed Mello away from the cart and took it into his own hands, pushing it down the aisle and tossing in his preferred socks and briefs. "My feet are small, so when I pick out the shoes, you can't look at the size," he declared haughtily, cheeks heating up and grip tightening on the bar of the cart.

Mello said nothing but motioned him along and followed, slipping his hands into his pockets and smiling, despite the length of time this had taken; he enjoyed being out with the boy.

-They spent nearly two hours looking through shoes; Mail was getting displeased and Mello's frustration was showing.

"Just pick a pair already. You don't even have to like it!"

"...but, Mello, sir... I want a pair of boots like yours. And I'm pretty sure they're not Nike or Reebok."

And Mello's agitation melted all over again.

-They picked up a pair of boots and began to look through coats, jackets, coveralls and things of the like.

"I suppose you want a leather jacket like mine?" Mello asked with a knowing smile, but his expression changed when Mail shook his head.

"Nope. I like that fuzzy vest."

"But a coat will keep you warmer and-"

"Don't argue with a child, Mister. You won't win."

"Alright, the vest is an eye sore, but whatever. You're the one who has to wear it."

With that, they hit the checkout line, paid, and were on their way.

...

Getting back to the base, Mello had to carry Mail inside, for exhaustion had taken its course. He had a couple lackeys unload the car as he entered and laid the redhead on the ratty old chair he'd taken a liking to.

"You were good today. I'll find you something to play with soon. Maybe a videogame. Would you like that?"

But child was already dozing off, eyes closed as he curled in on himself.

Mello ran a hand through the 8 year old's soft hair and thought about how it felt to spend the day with him. The thought brought another smile to his face, and he knew the last time he'd smiled half as much... was when Matt was alive to take up space, offer bitchy comments, and shower him with the most precious and serene sense of love that had ever boasted existence. His face screwed up at a sudden assault of emotional pain as he recalled his lover again.

More appropriately, he recalled the absence of his lover- the Lord's cruel repo of the only good thing he'd ever had.

His thoughts of anguish, however, were interrupted by a small chubby hand loosely clasping his arm and a sleep-slurred voice saying something he never thought he'd hear.

"I love you, daddy."

...


/So little happened here, and it wasn't well-worded, but... oh well. Maybe next chapter. This just explains why I usually touch up on more emotional things; I can't write shit like this. But, I tried./