A/N: (sob, sob) This chapter squeezed my brain until it popped. Mostly in the editing stages, but that's because I have an incredible beta that makes me fess up to every shitty thing I write and polish it until it shines (like Mello's leather). Also, we're on a schedule-ish thing now, she and I, so I'm hoping that now I'll get the chapters to you lovely readers with less of a wait in between.

As always, please critique me if you have something to point out. I appreciate having feedback on a piece that's this complicated.

Ricochet

The problem with stained glass was that no matter how dark it was tinted, it never truly hid anything.

Maybe the cathedral was to be Mello's arbiter of truth. There were so many cathedrals in England — elegant, Gothic monstrosities, with flying buttresses and stained glass like crushed jewels. The windows formed pointed arches, lining the high walls of naves that rose to rib-vaulted ceilings. Massive, thick columns held the building together on the inside; rich carvings adorned the stone. Cathedrals were old — they reared up, sentinels of God-fearing ages long past — and they filled Mello with a sense of control. There was order in the world; there was a heavenly structure that dated back to devout foundations. God still existed, and He wasn't Kira.

His boots scuffed the old stone floor as he walked the length of the structure's interior. He'd been trying to lie to himself, but lies were like stained glass — all it took was the right kind of light to see through them. So he'd gone to a place where he'd known truth would shine. His answers would come out in the church, before God, where all closet skeletons fell prostrate at divine feet. And if Mello couldn't get his skeletons to bow, well….

Mello hadn't thought that far ahead yet. But if he didn't string himself out like a tapestry and let God add His healing threads, he'd be right back where he started. Back where he'd been when Matt had stormed out to go to Wammy's — unraveling like a madman.

The cathedral smelled ancient. A draft from somewhere above caught Mello's hair and shifted it. He could feel the presence of the dead in the way the air stirred. His footsteps echoed, tremulous and eerie, as he walked through a vortex of ages where past and present mingled. Low murmurs buzzed from the warm bodies occupying the space in Mello's peripherals, but their tones were muted. There were crypts in the cathedral's basements; there were wooden passages between ceiling and outer roof where only the brave dared climb. The bells had chimed for centuries, seen time pass; the ceiling had looked down on a history of saints and sinners. Cathedrals were the embodiment of God himself, His glory in the highest, tall spires and gargoyles and statues in niches both inside and out. Mello passed a likeness of Saint Peter. It was headless, jagged where iconoclasts had sought to wipe out superfluous idolatry, because God's disciples on earth had made it too physical a pursuit.

But the iconoclasts had failed. The cathedral still stood, a testament to pious strength — something that Mello knew he lacked at present.

It wasn't that he was weak. Mello knew his God was far more intricate in his judgment than Kira could ever be, and as the child of such a God, Mello surpassed the followers of Kira. Mello had trimmed and hedged his conscience to perfection until it was as labyrinthine as his God was complicated. He anticipated whatever consequences he could, and took measures to counteract them. He stayed a step ahead of divine punishment. That took strength. But Mello wasn't stupid. There were things he had done that he wasn't proud of, that didn't fit into the realm of the forgivable. Mello couldn't escape the judgment that went with certain sins; his God wouldn't brush those sins aside. …Would Kira? Mello felt sick thinking about it, but Matt's image came to him unbidden then, and he grimaced at the thought of how Matt was wrapped up in the turmoil.

Mello felt another pang of guilt for making Matt go alone to Wammy's, and he questioned his selfish motives as he rounded a corner. Just what the hell was the matter with him? He was wavering in his resolution, so much so that Matt had noticed something amiss and grown angry. It wasn't acceptable.

He stopped in front of a long rack of candles. In the stillness, their lights flickered, tiny flames jumping in an air current that Mello couldn't feel. He let his vision go blurry — watched the dancing licks of fire until all he could see was brightness. After Matt had left their flat, Mello had stretched out across his armchair, feet up on the pile of their bags and belongings. He'd screwed his eyes shut and cursed everything. His selfishness, his indecision, Kira, Near, Hal, and damn it, he'd even cursed Matt. Because Matt was the reason Mello was losing his mind.

Matt was the wild card. Everything would have been running smoothly, if it weren't for the subtle-yet-compulsive hacker and his understated magnificence. Mello caught a buzz reflecting on it, grinding his teeth at the thought of Matt's vitality. Those damned bright eyes that met his and weren't afraid of anything. Mello was dragging Matt in, dragging him down, and soon everything that Matt was would be put on the line.

And they probably wouldn't live through it.

The reason Mello was on edge… the reason he'd asked to get away for their last two days…. It was so he could collect himself. He felt bogged down by responsibility and fate. Nothing could stop what was going to happen to them — nothing — but for some reason, Mello had been having thought-flickers of small regrets, and even flickers of fear. The candles guttered wildly as if to acknowledge his predicament.

Mello couldn't help but grimace when he thought about the things Matt did to him, sure that he'd be more resolute if Matt weren't around to play the hot coals to his malleable iron. Matt made Mello feel things. Matt molded him into different shapes and made him unsure about everything. Mello had worked himself into many a headache over Matt's innate ability to make his blood run deliciously hot. Something coursed through him like a lava flow, something that rose to peak temperatures whenever Matt was with him. Mello knew by now what it was; he saw it and he hated himself for his passion. It blocked the road to other goals. In order to regain his sanity, protect Matt, and focus again on the bigger picture, Mello had to delve into his longing and learn to combat its affects.

There were things he wanted to do, and things he had to do. He sought a way to mesh them both, because there were already elements of each that intertwined. Perhaps he'd find his connecting thread before God. Even if his God had always seen it fit to weave in multiple shades of grey.

Mello didn't know where to begin.

It wasn't quite time for evening mass yet, but the choir stood beyond the pulpit, practicing in a chorus of voices that echoed like chimes. There was a faint ringing in Mello's ears, but he knew it didn't come from those wavering, male sopranos. He often heard the ringing in the quiet, before bed when he was alone with his thoughts. The sound wasn't any more welcome now than it was in times like those. When Mello turned inward enough to distinguish that ringing, it meant he was thinking too hard. His own desires and decisions, no matter how concealed or systematic, were loud enough to draw protest from the last sane segments of his mind.

Mello moved away from the candle rack. Then he halted, suddenly aware that his boots were clomping over memorial stones. He glanced beneath his feet at faded letters in Latin. He was walking atop someone's consecrated remains, damn it — why did they put graves underneath cathedral floors? The chains that he wore at his hip jingled when he stepped back onto plain stone. Even here he was an unwelcome presence, one that interrupted the flow of calm and added to the pains of existence.

But that was the heart of the problem, wasn't it? Mello needed to purge himself of everything that was complicating his objectives. He had to get back to a mindset that would let him work uninhibited. Mello made his way to one of the cathedral's side chambers — sections set off to honor individual saints and patrons. He didn't care what saint's lair he selected. It didn't matter. He needed more than a saint to hear him out this time. No Peter or Mark or Antony could have carried his message to God if they'd tried. Mello knelt at the altar, thankful that he and the musty dimness could coexist without intrusion from the main hall. He clasped his hands and closed his eyes.

He'd start with Matt.

Matt was perfect. There was no use in Mello trying to deny that. But with perfection came temptation, and temptation was something Mello couldn't afford to acknowledge. Not now. Not when his life wasn't the only one hanging in the balance.

"Almighty Father, give me the strength I need to resist him."

There it was. He'd said it. Said it before he'd even known such sentiments would leave his lips. Truth unveiled through the stained glass. His ears were ringing.

"Beneath the laws of your Heaven, it may be wrong to desire him at all, but Father… you and I both know that this isn't why I'm asking you to aid me."

Mello was far beyond real help. It was clear now — he had lost his edge; no longer could he claim to be a step ahead of God's fluctuating temperament where he danced along the line of safety. He'd sinned, he'd murdered, and he'd long ago given up on punishing himself for looking with desire upon people like Matt. Mello was going to Hell, and he knew it. That wasn't what scared him. There were things far more important than his own disturbing afterlife.

"It's not just me that might be harmed by this. It's him in peril, too, and if I don't find a way to subdue whatever it is I feel, Father forgive me, but it'll only add to the mire we're in."

If Mello had thought God was amicable, he'd have asked God to erase his soul entirely. He'd ask God to leave him a shell, an empty vessel, just long enough for him to carry out Takada's kidnapping; then he could die hollow and without agony. But God wouldn't do things like that, so Mello had to compromise.

"I know I'll never stop seeing him as something worth pursuing," Mello gritted, still with his eyes closed and his hands clenched tight, "But give me the strength to protect him from this. He can't find out — not about the Hell that's waiting for us, not about my passion. I don't want him to suffer through that."

Mello was laying himself so very bare. He was in a house of God; it was okay to expose his darkest secrets to Heaven, but… it unnerved him to do so.

"If I'm to pay the price for both of us, Father, then I'll accept that. If I can't accept it I'll die trying. Better I suffer in his place. Give me the strength to keep him just the way he is, and I'll let you send my soul wherever you think it deserves to go. I can't promise you that I'll like the arrangements, Father, but I can sacrifice my own wishes willingly. I think that's a fair enough trade." Mello paused to draw in a reverent breath. His voice lowered. "Please consider giving me your divine guidance until the end this time. Amen."

He blessed himself before rocking back on his heels and staring at the tapestry over the altar. It was the image of Christ and his angels, but Mello was surrounded by demons that jeered. He hoped his prayer would reach the ears of God. If it didn't, he'd unravel at the seams.

The choir had stopped singing, and the organ was moaning a dirge in its place. The ringing in Mello's ears assaulted him over its rolling half notes, and he needed to leave the confines of the cathedral. It had served its purpose.

Heavy as he felt, Mello took comfort in his retreating steps. He would walk away with a determination that he hadn't possessed before his earnest prayer. He wouldn't think of wanting Matt. He wouldn't visit Wammy's. He had one job left to do, and he would spring ahead with guns fully loaded — for L, for Near and the SPK, for everyone Kira had killed. For the people he'd killed, for himself and for Matt and for the rest of the world. For the justice that L had never lived to see.

As he exited the cathedral's high doors, Mello pulled down his sunglasses to hide the scar that cast a net across his face. He'd made one mistake already. He wouldn't fail again.

— x —

Matt hated irony. He hated it. Irony was out to get him. It was the insect that circled his head after being batted away twice; it was the pebble kicked off the street that ricocheted back to sting his calf. Fuck irony, Matt gritted. Fuck it up the butt with a bent metal pole.

He was standing in front of an opera house.

Matt ached to bite down on his latest cigarette. He'd had to buy a new pack, and he'd gone for something expensive this time. Cost him near seven pounds; no way he was going to wreck one by grinding it between his teeth. He rolled it around with his tongue instead, seeking control. Fancy, flavored little things that made crackling noises, they were. Imported from Indonesia, or so boasted the package. Djarum something-or-others…. He hadn't really looked, just asked the clerk for some killer good smokes. The fog they belched was unbearably thick and cloying; his lungs absorbed the poison blackness like a pair of sponges.

The clerk had been a smartass.

Probably made himself look raving lunatic, the way Matt handled smoking his new experiments, because he was sure he kept licking his lips to get the flavor off. But he'd stopped caring when he'd found himself staring at an opera marquee.

He'd taken the train to Waterloo Station from just outside Wammy's House, and his route from the station to the flat led him through the side streets behind the South Bank, where the Thames snaked a line beyond the buildings. It was a section of London well known for the arts. There were street performers during the day, concerts and plays at night. Hell, every music maestro within a ten-kilometer radius flocked there to attend a performance at least once a week. When Matt was little, he'd gone to see the London Philharmonics with his Music Theory class. He'd slept through the entire symphony — hadn't been able to see in the nosebleed seats anyway — but that wasn't the point, because the point was that now he was in front of an opera house nestled on a corner, and the announcement on the marquee said—

RICHARD WAGNER'S 'TRISTAN AND ISOLDE': Mon – Fri at 7.00, tickets £11, £15, £24, £30, £35, £41 (see box office at side entrance).

Matt was an impulse away from slapping a palm to his face. Because there it was, the memory that he'd pinpointed at Wammy's, projected onto his present in the form of a cheap, fringe enterprise in the South Bank. Waiting two days time to end himself seemed unfair now; something this ironic merited a quicker suicide. Matt's eyes flicked to the black taxis and compact little cars that were zooming along the main street. Perhaps he'd let a stubby cab run him down ahead of schedule. Classically cheesy, that type of end.

Matt squinted at the cigarette in his hand, suddenly aware of the nonsense he was rolling round his mind. What the hell was in his smokes?

Except Matt knew that it wasn't the smokes. Knew he was losing it, knew he'd gone batty that afternoon at Wammy's and was only just now experiencing repercussions. There was nothing threatening or prophetic about an opera taking place in London. Irony was not a beast with bloody claws. He needed to be pragmatic. Hell, if anything… this was his chance to brush up on some German.

Matt was checking his pockets for cash before he'd even finalized his decision to buy a ticket. His gloveless hands slid easily into his jeans, but all he came up with was an old yen coin and a few US dollars. Ah, that's right — he'd spent all his pound notes on cigarettes, then flipped whatever pence he'd gotten for change into the lap of a beggar not five minutes back. He couldn't use a credit card, either, because a system could trace him.

Irony was a son of a bitch.

But there were always ways around an entry fee. Matt didn't like to lie or cheat — they weren't criminals no matter what the world said — but his curiosity had gotten the better of him. A sort of defiance had seized him too, bitter like resentment as he thought about Mello's old attachment to Wagner's opera. He checked to make sure he wasn't being watched by anyone in the queue, and then he slipped past the box office and around the back of the building. How's that, Mello? I'm sneaking in to see your beloved opera, and you probably don't even know it's playing.

There was a big green door in the alley, all chipped paint and scratches. The sign on it read ENTRY FOR PROGRAMME CAST AND CREW ONLY, and Matt leaned against the wall beside it. Well, his invasion point had been easy enough to locate. Lord knew he didn't look like a tenor about to burst into song with a lit cigarette in his hand, but it was worth a shot. He could claim he was stage crew — his black clothes were inside. Yes, I'm telling the truth. It's just that I can't smoke without stripes on. My doctor says the OCD might help me quit.

But something made Matt hesitate with his hand over the doorknob, even though he'd scuffed out his cigarette and braced himself for backstage infiltration. Something heavy, something utterly somber descended like a velvet rug on his humor.

This wasn't… funny anymore.

There was a rip inside his chest that was stretching, tearing, opening a void that put a halt on his physical movements and stayed his hand on the knob. It hit him like a massive steamboat, and suddenly Matt didn't want to— shit, he couldn't—

He turned around to face the Thames river. Glanced beyond the bank, just to make sure there were no steamboats cutting the waves, sailing in his direction. No yacht christened The Irony.

It was nearing twilight. The traffic sounded distant, and the water lapped in silence. The only noise Matt truly registered was the pounding in his chest. This opera, this feeling that he had, like the world wasn't fair and that there was just something missing… the empty sensation that had crept up to plague him at Wammy's…. Now it was hitting him tenfold.

The opera had started. Matt couldn't quite hear it — the notes were tinny through the door — but there were strains of music leaking out from inside. In a dream of slow motion, Matt lowered his hand. Leaned back against his spot of wall for support, and then his hands were shaking. Shaking, because he couldn't fucking figure out why his memories were making him panic. He lit another cigarette to occupy himself, breathed another cloud of smog into the air in front of him. Aimed for a smoke ring. Failed because his throat constricted. And shit, the music was louder and he could discern a soprano….

He closed his eyes, his hearing adjusting to compensate for the loss of his other sense, and the opera seemed to grow louder. Now Matt could make out words through the steel door.

Act one. Isolde, calling the sea to sink Tristan's ship, because she loathes him for betraying and ruining her. Matt ached to follow along with the libretti — his German had never been passable and maybe if he could determine the exact words….

He didn't know. Just— damn it, he didn't know. He and Mello had listened to this opera together, time and time again. It was something far away and forgotten now, like a fairy tale or the scent of his mother's perfume.

Maybe it wasn't the opera that was putting him on edge. Maybe it was everything — Mello's awkward distance, the dwindling time they were allowed to linger before they crashed and burned, the way Matt's life was yelling at him to do something that counted or to stay forever stagnant. All of it was ripping at Matt's seams, and the answers were there but he simply couldn't reach them. Why did he feel like there was something wrong — something terribly ironic and wrong about the fate they'd chosen? The key to the mystery dangled on a carrot in front of his face, and it made Matt sick to wonder why he couldn't snatch it. He was a rabbit, too innocent to see the wolf creeping up behind him.

And Mello. Why hadn't Mello said anything about this dilemma? Surely Mello had some inkling of the hell it was to undergo a gradual death — after all, it'd been Mello that had suggested they leave for two days to soften the blow. A move like that spoke of desperate measures. Matt wasn't stupid; Mello was feeling something in regards to their suicide mission, but he wasn't talking, and that cheated Matt of an explanation.

Things had changed between them in the years Mello had been gone — alliances had shifted and Matt had switched the color of his goggle lenses — but their past together still remained. Those nights in Wammy's attic were a buoy, a link. Something to hold onto while they were drowning, because they hardly had a now and they didn't have a future. The past was their crutch — the one record of their existence — but it also screamed a warning that Matt could hear from his agitated present. If he had memories, had possessed such a spirited and dynamic life once, then didn't it mean he might be capable of vitality now? Didn't it mean he could live if he wanted to? Did he want to?

The chords in the music changed. Matt knew the turning point by heart.

Tristan lifts his glass to his lips. After a hanging second, he drinks the poison glinting in the vessel, though he knows it for the deadly substance it is. Isolde, broken-hearted and desperate with desire for vengeance, has prepared the poison for him with her own hands, in hopes that slaying Tristan will end her pain. Yet suddenly, as Tristan drinks, Isolde tears the poison from his grasp and swallows the remaining mixture herself. She decides to die in the same idyllic fashion, that her torment might end more surely than it would with Tristan's death alone. Tristan and Isolde lock eyes with each other, both believing they will die momentarily, and in the tense minute that follows… they declare their love for one another.

Matt sucked on his snazzy import cigarette. He knew the secret that the characters didn't. Isolde's maid has actually switched the poison with a love potion. Thus, rather than die immediately, Tristan and Isolde are destined to live for two more acts — persevering and struggling to make their ruined world right again — before meeting their inevitable end as doomed lovers.

Matt could have sworn the opera was mocking him somehow.

He'd had enough. On the way out of the alley, he aimed a kick at a stray chunk of asphalt. It zinged across the sidewalk, hit a lamppost, and came back to peg the front of his boot.

Irony was such a bitch.