Part Two

There wasn't anyone to meet him at the airport. He had received an address with the plane ticket, a scrap of paper bearing the familiar scribble of Mello's handwriting. The address was a mess of numbers and cross-streets; it meant nothing to him. The American cash in the envelope was just enough for the cab ride from the airport. He wished there had been something left over; he'd smoked his last cigarette in Heathrow.

Matt stared back and forth between the looming industrial building before him and the scrap of paper in his hand. This is it. His hand sweated around the suitcase's handle as he pushed the door open. There was no elevator; he had to walk up the five stories. He craned his neck, counting the landings up the metal staircase. There. He could barely see it, but that had to be the door. That's where Mello was.

He took the steps slowly, dragging the suitcase behind him. The higher he climbed, the more difficult it was to take those steps. The nerves in his legs tingled, and he felt his stomach twisting into itself. Maybe it was better he was out of smokes. He already wanted to vomit.

The building felt eerily quiet when he reached the fifth floor, standing outside room number two. He stared at the bronze number on the cold, metal door.

"It's open."

Mello. He obviously knew he stood out there like an idiot; Matt's clanking up the stairs had long since stopped.

"And lock the door when you come in," he added.

Matt twisted the knob and pushed.

Mello didn't turn around. It felt like a dream, being this close to him. Matt stared without seeing him, without understanding. He stood at the window, peering through the parted blinds, his hair knotted into a ponytail. Matt stared at his naked back, at the leather pants sitting low on his bony hips. A blistered scar crawled down his arm.

"Mello..." Matt dropped the suitcase, easing into the room to close the door. He twisted the lock behind his back, not wanting to avert his eyes.

He turned, finally, to face him. "Matt. It's been a long time."

Matt took his time removing the vest and gloves, hoping his shaking hands weren't too obvious. But Mello watched, studying in the same way Matt had studied him. Did he look older, too? Had he changed that much? Mello wasn't the same hot-headed kid who bolted out of Wammy's House, that was for sure.

He finally found his footing to approach, reaching for Mello's unscathed shoulder. The skin was rougher than he remembered, but he liked the change. He ran his fingers up his neck and across his jawline, then rested a cheek against his face.

"It's good you're here," Mello whispered.

Matt squeezed his eyes shut. "My God, I've missed you." An arm wound around his waist, a hand slipping beneath the hem of his shirt. But the gesture was stiff. Mello had a lot on his mind, he knew. He was too focused on Kira and Near to give him undivided attention. But Matt pulled away and frowned, staring into his empty eyes.

He had been with someone else.

"Matt?"

Matt turned to the window, parting the blinds to stare at the building across the street. What was over there, anyway? Why had Mello picked this particular location; who was he watching?

He felt hands on his hips, lightly, not like Mello's usual greedy touch. He shivered when his nose nudged the base of his skull, when his lips pressed against his neck. Mello rested his forehead between his shoulder blades.

"I'm not an idiot, you know," Matt said.

"I know." His voice vibrated through his shirt.

"Who was he?"

Mello's grip tightened. "You didn't have anyone else?"

Typical of him to avoid the question, to make Matt feel embarrassed by his own twisted sense of purity. "Like who?" He hadn't left Wammy's until he received that plane ticket, and Mello knew it.

He felt cold and naked when he let go. The space wasn't very large, but the distance physically pained him as he watched Mello cross the room. He rummaged through a small cardboard box, pulling out a tattered cloth and an indistinct brown bottle. He dabbed its contents onto the cloth and held it to his injured arm.

Matt grabbed the cloth with a sigh. "Here." Mello winced when it was pressed to his shoulder, but silently passed him the bottle. The skin on his neck had begun to scar, but his back was still a mess. Mello cried out when the saturated cloth touched it. "You should have called me sooner."

"It was a she," Mello mumbled.

"Really?" Matt's hand froze over his shoulder.

"Why would I lie about that?"

"But... why?"

Mello shrugged the uninjured shoulder. "It was for the case. She gives me information."

"Gives? So..."

"No, Matt." He grunted. "God. I wouldn't've called you if I was still fucking her."

Matt pressed the cloth hard against his back, and Mello bit down on his lip to silence the scream of pain. He wasn't sorry.

"So, you gonna tell me how you did this?" Matt screwed the cap back on the bottle.

Mello's head dropped. "All right."

They sat on a battered couch, as far from each other as possible, Matt's fingers playing with a tear in the cushion. It was a typical Mello story; he wasn't surprised. Matt didn't care about Kira, really, except that he killed L. He couldn't stop staring at Mello's scarred face as he talked about Kira and the task force and the explosion. He shared his plan, too, though Matt only half-listened. He was distracted by Mello's hair, by the way it looked tied up. He kind of liked it that way.

"You get it now?" Mello asked. "Why we need to do this?"

"I always knew why we needed to do this."

He only cared that he has used the word we.

Matt leaned in to kiss him, careful not to touch his seared flesh. When Mello pulled him closer, it was familiar and comfortable. Matt traced the grooves of his spine, resting his hand on the edge of his leather pants. Mello threw a leg across his lap and the leather tugged and creaked as Matt pressed into the kiss harder, feeling tears that were not his slip down his cheek and into their tangled mouths.

Mello broke away, his breath hot on Matt's lips. "I'm sorry."

"S'okay, Mells." He hoped the lie wasn't too obvious, that he couldn't sense just how hard his pulse beat in his neck. But Mello could do anything—anything—and he would forgive him. "What's the plan now?"

A kiss brushed the bridge of his nose. "Now?" Mello tucked his thumbs beneath the hem of his shirt, and he could feel the air on his skin as the fabric lifted off his stomach. "You're tired after that flight, aren't you?"

He shrugged. "Kinda."

He glanced at the drawn blinds, his thumbs mindlessly stroking Matt's stomach. It was the middle of the afternoon, and there was likely something going on in that building he kept on watching, but he didn't move from his lap. "Patch up my back and we'll take a nap, okay? It's a bitch to sleep on."

Matt traced the scar on his shoulder, then leaned in to kiss the hollow at the base of his throat. "Yeah, okay," he muttered, burying his face in his neck. "I'm not letting you leave again." He spoke so softly that he doubted Mello could hear, unsure whether he even wanted him to. But he felt a kiss on the top of his head and fingers through his hair, and it was all the confirmation he needed.