Chapter two! Enjoy :]
My apartment is a mess. And I hate being here. There are too many memories.
Like the settee—Mello and I fucked there one, two, three times in one night when the power went out and I was stuck game-less. And the windowsill, where I smoked countless cigarettes and Mello checked out my ass from the armchair. Let's not forget the innumerable chocolate wrappings scattered around my flat.
This place taunts me, screaming MELLO everywhere I turn. I can't stay here, I can't live with constant reminder of him, I want to forget, I want to die, I want to— my train of thought ends abruptly as I feel the very distinct sting of teeth against my ear.
I whirl around, but no one's there. I'm shaking now, because it felt so much like the way Mello used to come up to me from behind and wrap his wiry arms around me, biting whatever skin was showing at the moment. After a haircut, I would have red marks all along my neck.
"Everyone will know that you belong to me," he'd say, and give me that wicked smile I loved. "As if anyone would doubt it in the first place." I'd retort, and in turn he'd kiss me incoherent.
Tears were stinging my eyes before I got a hold of myself. No, no, no, stop it, Matt. Going crazy is one thing, but becoming a pathetic, quivering, lovesick person—the kind of person Mello despised, incidentally—is completely out of the question.
I snapped my goggles over my eyes with more force than necessary, and walked out the door. I'd never pull it together if I stayed there.
One thing I'm thankful for is that the city of L.A. never slows down. Be it massive serial killer or the death of the love of my life, this city will always, always, thrive with energy.
I smoke the last cigarette of the pack and toss it to the ground thoughtlessly, striding into the nearest bar. I order the strongest drink they have and turn to the person sitting next to me.
"Any chance you've got a fag?" I ask wearily, forgetting the many, many gay jokes I've heard after using that word. The girl shakes her head, "I don't smoke. And you shouldn't either."
"Right." I turn away but she pulls on my arm, "Wait—South England?"
"Sorry?"
"Your accent. My friend sounds just like you, and she's from Winchester, you from around there?" The girl is quite pretty, really, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Blue eyes like—no, no, no. I drain my glass in one long swig.
"One more," I say to the bartender, and ignore the girl's question. It's going to be harder than I thought to make friends.
I'm well into my second drink when she pokes me. I turn, about to tell her to bugger off, but it's an old classmate of mine. Linda. She's holding a cigarette out to me, a smile on her sweet face. "My friend mentioned you wanted one."
"Thanks Lin I… shit, Lin, it's you." I'm actually really pleased to see her. Maybe she can help me make sense of this mess.
"Matt, you look like shit." She strokes my cheek, and I find myself leaning into her touch, wanting more than anything to be close to someone to make up for this terrible loneliness I felt. If she knew about Mello—and she had to have—she didn't say anything, and for that I was extremely grateful.
"There's this art show—starring my work, but afterwards, there's a… a gathering, if you will, of Wammy's kids."
"No, that's the last thing I need. A roomful of-of reminders, and people feeling sorry for me."
"Matt, please, look at it from my point of view. You disappear off the face of the Earth one day, we see you on the news getting shot, next we hear, Mello's dead and Kira's gone. And now… you turn up looking worse than you did when you tried killing yourself when Mello left at Wammy's."
I flinch every time she says his name, and her face crumples, "So it was true. You guys were together before he died, and now… now you're alone. Oh, Matt!" she throws her arms around me, and I figure, I might as well humor her into thinking she's helping me.
Her speech is a nice one, but I hear only one thing—
'Now you're alone.'
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