[A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading and supporting this story. It means so much to me. Enjoy.]

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"O, dreadful is the check — intense the agony

When the ear begins to hear and the eye begins to see;

When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again,

The soul to feel the flesh and the flesh to feel the chain."

~ "The Prisoner" by Emily Bronte.

II

Obsession

Hazy moonlight poured into their room at Wammy's House, turning everything, including Matt himself, into a patchwork of sliver and onyx. While the rest of Quillsh Wammy's prodigies were huddled snuggly in their borrowed beds in the rooms that weren't truly theirs, two of the orphanages brightest were, as always, rebelling against the system--along with the laws of God, man, and biology.

The aged, Victorian mansion was completely silent except for the muted, utterly human sounds coming from the bedroom that Matt and Mello shared. They were so soft, you would most certainly have to pay close attention to catch even a murmur. But they were surely there and, like everything else from this night, they would be burned in Matt's mind for all eternity.

The pain was, of course, one of the most glaring examples. Despite Mello's rather intense warning, Matt hadn't been prepared. Never in his wildest dreams did he think it would be this bad. Maybe if he had had even a inkling of the agony that would sear through his flesh and bones, he wouldn't have agreed to this little encounter. . .

No, that wasn't true. He would never change his mind, ever. Matt wanted this more than he had ever desired anything in his short life. In a twisted way, the pain was welcomed--it reassured him that this moment was real. That, no matter what happened between them in the future, even if it was just in the blink of an eye, they had had each other in a way nobody else ever had before.

Despite his heart's impossibly strong resolve, Matt's body was either not registering the message or choosing to ignore it. Involuntary tears poured from his narrowed azure eyes, forcing him to sniffle in order to properly breathe. At that, Mello hissed slightly and clamped his bony, puberty-stretched hand over Matt's damp lips.

"Would you shut up? If you keep bitching and crying, we're going to get caught!" He growled, bending dangerously close to Matt's face in order to keep his volume low. Matt was amazed that, even though they were already so close--literally attached to one another--Mello's close proximity was still enough to make him blush.

"It hurts. . . " He whined, tiny voice muffled by Mello's fingers.

"I told you it would, idiot," Mello scolded, though his fine golden eyebrows drew together in concern. After a moment, his expression softened and his face was very unsure. That expression made him look so much truer to his childish age than the bitter, arrogant smirk his handsome features were usually twisted into. It made Matt love him even more, if such a thing were possible; he didn't think it was. "Should . . . should I . . . stop?" He asked in a whisper, clearly a bit fearful of his friend's response.

Matt frantically shook his head from side to side, eyes wide in pleading. He didn't trust his voice at all and the last thing he wanted to do was say something ridiculously stupid--like what he truly felt. For now, it was enough just to have Mello here with him like this--he wasn't going to push his luck and beg for more. Matt had no illusions about his companion and even if he indulged in the occasional silly fantasy, he was never desperate or dumb enough to truly believe in them. Even if it hurt, he recognized the very clears lines between his dreams and Mello's reality.

Mello bit down on his lower lip slightly, sucking it into his mouth and nibbling on it. It was a nervous habit that Matt had always remembered the blonde having, but now it nearly made him quiver with desire. Even if Mello was re-thinking their fairly disastrous attempt at sex, Matt certainly wasn't. If anything, he wanted more and his body was certainly making that obvious. A bit subconsciously, his hips had began to thrust upwards and pull Mello deeper, making them both shudder and causing small noises of both agony and ecstasy to spill from Matt's parted lips. He was honestly expecting Mello to reprimand him for his outburst, but the blonde was too busy trying to keep his composure--and break Matt's--to make note. In fact, he seemed to be trying to recreate the occurrence, which made Matt equally exhilarated and terrified. While he wanted Mello close, he was painfully afraid of making a mistake or not satisfying his friend. That thought a lot was enough to make him a bit queasy. He absolutely wouldn't be able to stand himself if Mello hadn't gotten some sort of pleasure from their encounter. Well, there was only one way to make that happen, Matt realized, though his stomach spun as he considered his options. He was far too young to know exactly what he was doing, so he went with instinct and the four or so minutes of experience he had just recently garnered.

Experimentally, Matt bucked his hips once again, eyes trained on Mello's face as he waited to see what type of response he would receive. Apparently, he had done something right, for he watched as Mello's eyelids fluttered and his teeth drew faint droplets of blood as he sunk them into his lip to restrict his cries. Feeling a bit smug--though still ready to vomit with nerves nonetheless--Matt reenacted the move, though he gasped in surprise and electric pleasure as Mello ground down into him.

They continued this slow, swirling awkward routine for what felt like an eternity until finally, the release they both had been seeking for years burst upon them. Sweating, shaking, concealing soft mewls of pleasure and still a bit of pain on Matt's part, they clung to each other throughout the night, a strange sort of peace hovering around their delicate selves for the first time in years. Matt quite literally felt like he was in heaven and oddly enough, the bliss had nothing to do with the fact that he could still feel Mello inside him, even though the blonde has disengaged himself minutes, maybe even hours ago. It was because Mello had finally, finally let him in, even though to others it would appear that it was the other way around. No, Matt knew differently. He had spent years praying to the god that Mello cherished and he himself had no faith in, asking for Mello to drop those walls just the slightest bit. And, that night, he had.

In the morning, everything was different, but not the sort of "different" Matt had been anticipating. He was expecting a rocky, unsure atmosphere to swarm him the moment Mello saw he was awake, since the blonde always rose first, if he had even slept at all. Instead, he woke up alone and the minute he opened his eyes to the empty bed and stained sheets, a wave of utter terror tore through his body. Had Mello left him because he wasn't good enough? Was Mello mad at him for starting the whole encounter? Did the blonde not want to be his friend anymore, not even want to talk to him? Matt had to wait three agonizing hours to finally get his answer, too sore and scared to leave their room and track down his companion.

At that time, Matt had felt like he had lost his innocence. Not because of the way Mello had pounded into his and the feelings that quite literally bubbled up from that embrace. No, he had thought being a part of the Wammy's House had stripped him of all childish notions. After all, what creature could still be reasonably called a child when they were bred to blossom, crumble, and die all in the span of a few scant years? It was impossible, or so he thought. Looking back on it, he had so much to learn, so much to see, but if he had the opportunity, Matt wouldn't spare his younger self the pain. Because, even if it would have helped the troubled little boy avoid the years of absolute misery that were soon to consume him, at least that small, frail, loving child had had one night of peace and passion. And that was more than the almost-but-not-quite adult Matt could even dream of.

That morning, the day after the Matt had lost his virginity, the world that he had cherished and certainly taken for granted was destroyed. L was dead, Mello has disappeared, and the redhead was left alone.

Again.

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Matt had always suspected that Roger had a bit of a twisted sense of humor. Maybe he was over-compensating for the fact that Wammy's House wasn't really his, that he was just borrowing the keys to Watari's Barbie Dreamhouse. Or maybe he was just taking rather merciless stabs at the children it was clear he didn't care for or even like. Whatever the reason, there was really no other way to explain the ridiculous codenames the children were assigned.

L had been lucky--being the spoiled little brat he was, the child prodigy was allowed to pick his own title. And so, he decided upon the most simple of choices: his own name. Of course, no one would ever guess that the twelfth letter of the English alphabet was the infamous detective's real name. After all, what person in their right mind would name a child "L"? The answer was simple: no one would. L had not had normal parents, nor did he even get to savor his childhood. But Matt chose not to think about that; he found it disrespectful to think of their fallen idol in such crude terms.

The point was, only L had had any choice in the matter. The rest of the children of Wammy's House were subject to suffer whatever insane title Roger wanted to give them. Matt had noticed a pattern and, for once, he seemed to be the only one to pick up on it: the more gifted the child, the more impossible the alias. For example, there was Linda, a girl who was a gifted painter but about as smart as a box of rocks. And then there was Mello and Near. In theory, Matt had always suspected that their names were somehow in relation to their personalities. Like Near, who was brilliant beyond belief, but simply wasn't L. He was close to the perfection Watari demanded of his children, but not quite there. Still, that was no comparison to Mihael Keehl--popularly known as the one thing he wasn't: Mello.

But where did that leave Mail Jeevas? The redhead had always wondered why Roger had bequeathed such a bland name upon the third successor of L. It wasn't as if Matt was unremarkable; in his own way, he had skills that Near and Mello could barely dream of, which why he was such an asset to the computer-illiterate blonde. He had a habit of playing himself down, borne from his childhood and nourished by Mello's thirst for power and recognition, but it was clear that Mail was not your average child. So why had Roger given him such a title?

Another of Matt's theories was that Roger had given them these names to show what they were lacking. Near's was a sign that, unlike L, he could not work alone, that he would need help. And, the cold albino has seemed to take to that lesson rather well, given that he was even willing to work with Mello of all people to catch Kira. Mello's--well, that was quite obvious: calm the fuck down, idiot. So what the hell was "Matt" supposed to mean?

Surprisingly, it had taken the name maverick quite some time to place "Matt" with his alias. For the first few months at Wammy's, the shy redhead was simply known as he true name. But, eventually Roger, with an odd sort of smile on his face, had baptized Matt nearly a half a year after he walked through the orphanages' wrought iron gates. And Mail had been Matt ever since, even though he didn't much care or understand such a name.

Now, almost a decade later, sitting in Mello's expansive New York City apartment, his face bleached by the glow of his many computers while his "boss" brooded in his bedroom, Matt thought he might've had the slightest inkling of understanding. Matt was just a letter away from "mat," and that's exactly what he was: a doormat, so pliable and unimportant that, if one was a certain temperamental blonde ex-Mafia boss, they could feel free to stomp all over him and wipe their muddy boots upon his face.

The mere thought of being the dog to some brat with an inferiority complex made Matt quiver a bit with rage. Yet it was undeniable, for here he was, plucked from the safe confounds of Wammy's and now assisting his former friend on the hunt for the most bloodthirsty killer in the history of the human race. And he was doing all for a man who would never even thank him, let alone---

No. The word was firm in Matt's mind, as solid and cold as Artic ice. He wasn't going down that road again--he couldn't. It was a train of thought that would only bring him misery and plunge him into a state of numb despair that would render him utterly useless to Mello. So Matt froze out his mind and his heart and continued the job that Mello expected him to do.

For once in his life, the hacker was stumped towards his objective. The firewall that protected the SPK's system was one of the strongest he had encountered, if not the strongest. After all, Matt had been making a living as a technological invader since the tender age of twelve, giving him plenty of time to perfect his craft and hone his already impressive skills. He was cracking systems and hacking countries and getting paid more money than imaginable before he could even drive. And yet, for all his ability, this task, the most important one of all, was damn near impossible for him.

Sighing in frustration, Matt stretched, his thin muscles and lean figure cracking and popping after being hunched over for hours. Flopping back on the couch, he snuggled into the leather for a moment before, blushing slightly, he caught himself and simply laid down. He had to be careful now, lest Mello beat the crap out of him at even the slightest thread of humanity faintly breathing beneath Matt's hardened exterior.

Matt honestly wondered at times whether or not Mello was capable of harming him and the conclusion he reached was not a good one. Many, many times daily the redhead had to remind himself that the creature he lived with was not in fact "his" Mello. This blonde menace was not the same full-faced, ruffled haired fair angel whom had befriended Matt as a child partly out of pity, partly out of curiosity, and maybe a bit out of kindness. This wasn't even the moody, zealous teenager that Matt had begrudgingly accepted and eventually came to love just as much the rascal that had once been there. No, this leather-clad monster was something else entirely and Matt couldn't deny that he feared the "new" Mello.

But he also couldn't deny that he still loved him. no matter what visage the blonde took, Matt's feelings didn't change, didn't even dim. If anything, there were stronger, the chains wound around Matt's neck made even stronger by the fact that the master on the other end was so very cruel and merciless.

He had to be one sick fuck, to keep putting himself through this, to chase after some intangible, inhumanly dazzling monster that was forever just out of his grasp. There was a point when he had been close, so close he was literally clinging to Mello, but that time had long passed, a memory that Matt wouldn't believe was real if it wasn't permanently carved into the unwavering stony canvas of time and space. And now he was back at square one, with absolutely no clue how to handle the person he once knew better than himself.

He had to be a fool to agree to this, to think there was still a piece of the person he once knew beneath this thick, leathery hide. But that was it, that was the key: agreement. Matt had never agreed to this, not in words. One moment, he was at Wammy's, staring into Mello stern, wounded face and the next he was on a plane to Los Angeles, still dazed and delirious over the way that his life had been turned on it's ass. Mello had called and Matt had answered. There were no thoughts, no words, no consideration at all--it was instinct, a reflex programmed into him to simply bend to Mello's iron will. He couldn't have fought it, even if he'd wanted to and he surely didn't.

The children of Wammy's House were cursed before they even entered the notorious building. They all came from broken homes and emerged equally damaged children, wise and brilliant while being trapped in bodies still packed with baby-fat. It was evil, to be frank, and maybe that was why they all clustered together. Perhaps the Fates had smiled upon these forgotten, unholy demons and threw them together so that they would not live and die in utter misery. It was the only conclusion Matt could come to, of why he would so blindly follow such a beautiful disaster.

For it wasn't just love. It had to be something more, something darker, something so raw and wicked and lovely no normal human being could comprehend it.

It was the same insanity that pushed Mello to the brink of life and death just to prove he could, the same poison that coated L's veins and caused him to die at the hands of Kira, his most adored lover and bitterly hated enemy. And it was the same blind devotion that would most likely lead Matt to his death. It had been driving men and women mad for ages, pulling apart their brains and spitting in the synapses left naked and empty. It had been tearing out hearts and feeding them to the lions, leaving nothing but icy darkness in their wake. Clear as night, dark as day, as sensible as schizophrenia.

Obsession.

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All his life, Mihael Keehl had been a golden child--and that statement has nothing to do with his fair locks of hair. It would seem that from the moment he left his mother's womb--approximately two minutes and seven seconds after his twin brother Aleksander--Mihael was blessed. He was an intelligent, sweet child, beautiful in both his appearance and his heart. The center of his wealthy brood, his family lavished affections on him beyond belief. It was as if the child existed in his own paradise, a perfect fantasy world.

But, in every fairy tale, there is a monster, a force of evil ready and willing to pull the poor, innocent heroic child in darkness, into death. And Mihael was no different. Seven years (seven--isn't that always a magic number in folklore?) he was found by Russian police laying in a pool of blood. It wasn't his own, but God how he wished it was.

The scene was eerie enough without the mirrors. Not mirrors of glass--no, true mirrors, the kind that only two humans, so alike and so different but still so close, could form. Even in death, the twins were still attached. Hand in hand, but not in death, though Mihael was so pale and so very still it was amazing he was alive. To this day, sometimes he still couldn't believe he wasn't dead. If he was, this life was certainly Hell.

Years later, on a day when Mello was feeling particularly masochistic, he had had Matt hack into the Russian's police's data-frame. With the redhead being his usual dangerously curious and overtly nosy self, Mello read the file in stone-faced silence. He refused to vomit--or, worse, cry. That was simply not an option for Mello. But, no amount of walls could kill his reaction to the photos, the images of his slain family that conjured up memories with more than just the sights of that horrible night.

Despite this, Mello would never regret his trip down memory-lane. No, it was simply fuel for the fire of rage, inferiority, and determination that boiled within his teenage self. It was the reason he would never look back. It was the reason he had to win.

Or die trying.

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Droplets of blood spotted along the contours of the pristine white bathroom like a macabre attempt at decoration. Like the tears of Christ himself, the semi-healed scars along the sharp planes of Mello's handsome face were leaking, as they had a tendency to do. But only because this martyr was not as peaceful, patient, or even as sane as the one he admired.

In truth, the wounds had been healing up nicely--"had" being the operative word, of course. With Matt's stubborn healthcare and Mello's bitter, begrudging acceptance of the TLC, the infection that had turned his blood to poison slowly, but steadily cleared away, giving the mangled tissue its first real chance to mend. True, Mello's once-perfect pretty face would never be completely smooth and whole once again, but it was better than said pretty face rotting cell by cell six feet under his grave. Mello hadn't given much thought to the loss, although he was certainly not pleased with the fact he was most likely permanently blind in his left eye and partially deaf in that ear as well. Other than this, the ripples of scar tissue that zigzagged around his leanly muscular form like a child's map didn't affect his ego. After all, he was gorgeous and he knew it--why fret? And, if his arrogant charm ever wavered, all he had to do was look into Matt's eyes and any distortion faded--as long as he determinedly ignored all the messy emotions that were reflected back at him.

No, what bothered Mello about these wounds, about the face staring back at him whenever he sullenly glared into the bathroom mirror was, as always, the subtext. Mello could never take anything at face-value--pun not intended. He was forever plumbing the depths and meanings of the simplest, and sometimes stupidest, things life had to offer. Perhaps it was a left-over facet from his ultra-philosophical parents or maybe it was the product of forever being second-best. Whatever the case, Mello was certainly the type who could sulk away his life. And, for all intents and purposes, that was what he was doing.

Sure, he was putting on a brave face--again, no pun intended--peering at the computers and listening to the explanations and theories and facts of those around him with falsely intent interest. But the truth was, he was lost. He was lost to go about searching for Kira now.

He had once had a plan, a strict and methodical--though rationally foolish--idea of how to take down the stupid man-child-God-bastard that had murdered his mentors. But, when his Mafia minions and his own flesh had been blown to high-Hell, all his careful, puzzle-pieces strategies had left his genius mind, washed out of his brain and mixed with the blood that still stained the alley-way he had crumpled in. And now, in the unintentional reprieve his failing health had cornered him into, the gears of his prized intelligence simply weren't turning like the once had, too dulled by time and too jammed by his dark musings and twisted, broken off plots.

Maybe, all those years ago, Roger was right--maybe Mello simply wasn't meant to be L. More and more lately the stark differences between master and apprentice, if one wished to be so dramatic in wording, were becoming painfully black and white. If anything, Mello was, to his horror, more like Kira: a power-hungry mad-man with a brilliant mind sick with insanity. And, despite his strict faith, the idea of being a God was appealing to the all too human blonde. For if he were a deity, he could shut off all the regrets and taunts and self-loathing buzzing around his skull like manic bees.

It was all so ironic, how the Wammy Children lived and died. Their brains saved them, at first, on the surface, but as the years drew on it slowly destroyed them, picking at the pillars of their thin sanity and plucking them apart piece by crazed piece. There was a time when this certainly hadn't applied to Mello. So deprived of conscience and second-thought was the young Mafia tyrant that he had no need to question or attack himself. While running the Mafia, he'd had enough enemies that he had no need to add himself to the battle. But, that was a time when he was surrounded by people. The fact that he despised these filthy excuses for men had no barring, for their idiocy and inquires had prevented the sort of "in-your-head" world that had unraveled his predecessors. But now, with the exception of Matt, Mello was on his own. And really, Matt hardly counted, since, other than giving orders about the case and snapping at the redhead for constantly picking at his humanity, they didn't speak. It was far-cry from the connection between two teenage boys that had been so strong things like time and gravity and even death seemed flimsy in comparison.

Mello was becoming the one thing he swore he wouldn't become, a tiny promise shadowed by all that he swore he would claim for himself: a true Wammy Child. When he lived in that hellish funhouse of childhood nightmares, Mello had never once considered the orphanage to be anything more than a stepping stone, a stop on the path that was winding towards his goal to be the best. True, it was only through Quillsh Wammy's guidance that said dream was fully realized, but other than that Mello gave no personal consideration to the place he has swallowed almost eight years of his life, nothing more than a human butterfly pinned to the wall. After all, he had a home, even if that place only existed in his memories and just barely lingered in the wood and concrete of his Russian mansion; he had no desire to overlap those bittersweet recollects with any particle of the institution. But, to the children who had nothing but blank voids for their childhoods, Wammy's was all they had, always a frightening notion to Mello, and he had worked hard to keep Matt from falling into the stereotype; in hindsight, perhaps the redhead would've been better off not being welded to Mello at the hip--perhaps the separation might've been less painful, if such a thing were even possible.

Sighing faintly, Mello flipped his wrist and began to wipe away the blood that had piled on his ridged skin. Thankfully, it seemed that the flow had calmed, meaning he hadn't done so much damage when he had literally clawed his own face off. Spiffy, he thought dryly as he reached over and began mummy-wrapping his good hand in toilet paper. Matt is going to fucking kill me for this.

Over the past few weeks, Mello had become something of a pet project to the hacker. His eyes seemingly infinitely brighter whenever Mello mumbled and whined for Matt to help patch his blonde Humpy-Dumpy back together again, fingers so much softer and thoughtful as they traced the broken flesh then when they were slamming away at the keys of his many computers. Perhaps, unbeknownst to Mello, the boy had had a secret interest in medicine. But the concept of Mello not knowing something about Matt was all but impossible for the former Mafia boss to grasp. After all, he knew everything about Matt--he literally knew the boy from the inside out.

Despite the fact that Mello had been wavering on the edge of death for much of their recent quality time, he wasn't sick--or stupid--enough not to catch the stench of rotted emotions. It was not an easy brew to swallow and it got harder to taste every time he opened his after the acid-trip dreams his painkillers provoked. The tension was so awkward and so thick, it was a wonder either of them were still alive. Things hadn't even been this bad after those first few years of puberty when they couldn't even so much as look at each other without getting a hard-on. It had seemed monstrous at the time, but maybe that was just a sign of how very sheltered they were. Not that Wammy's House had anything to do with since a disjointed paradise; the only reason Roger let the two boys continue to share a room when the rumors of sexual deviance rolled around was because L had told him that Mello would rampage if his Matt was taken away. And L was right. He always was.

Not that they had actually been involved then, of course. Only Matt and Mello knew when that pivotal red dot on their relationship timeline had taken place. But they had been close enough and that was simply dangerous. Human emotion was frowned upon in the harsh breeding grounds of Wammy, but it was impossible to permanently stunt their hearts. They were children, for God's sake. No matter how much testing and punishment and bloodthirsty competition they had shed their blood and tears for, at the end of the day, all they wanted were the same things that all children, all people, wanted: love. And love was perhaps the worst thing that could happen to a Wammy Child. It would ruin them, break them, leave them alone and lonely and with nothing.

Against his iron-will of denial and arrogance, Mello was unfortunately forced to see exactly why personal relations had been so forbidden. Already he could tell how muddied his judgment. Already his biggest concern had slipped from catching Kira to protecting Matt. It was almost laughable, in a way: for all the horns and thorns his metamorphosis had mutated, he really hadn't changed at all. He was still the same stupid kid who would throw everything away just to see Matt smile at him.

The slam of the front door made Mello flinch in surprise and he pressed the thin cloth of the paper harder against his skin. The white was already coated and consumed with his blood and felt moist in his clenched fist. Shooting his reflection one last scowl in that merciless mirror, he sat on the edge of the tub and listened to the clattering of life in his apartment.

It never ceased to amaze him just how loud Matt was. Maybe it was because, in his years in the Mafia he had grown accustomed to living like a shadow, very much the walk softly and carry a big stick approach. Or maybe it was because they hadn't lived together in years that Mello had forgotten the way Matt seemed to an exude an aura of breathing individuality.

The sound of whistling, sharp and joyfully out of tune, made Mello's eyes narrow. This whole situation was so bizarre: they were drowning in the Kira case, fighting for their lives, not too mention dueling over their own personal differences, and here Matt was, prancing around like the fucking Pied Piper. He took nothing seriously--was it possible he really wasn't worried about what Kira could and would do to him? That he trusted Mello enough to guide him in the right direction? At that thought, Mello frowned. It was certainly a viable option, considering that since the age of ten Matt had always been his blonde friend's number one cheerleader. Hopefully, that faith would be rightfully rewarded. Hopefully they wouldn't both close this little fairy tale in coffins.

Keys clattered on the marble counter and the rustling of bags made Mello breathe a slight sigh of relief. After a week of playing games with their blood-pressure from subsisting on Ramen, coffee, cigarettes for Matt and chocolate for Mello, they finally had decent food in the house once again. Thank God, Mello thought coolly. He would shoot his idiot roommate if he hadn't followed the list exactly as Mello had delivered it. Considering how Matt usually worked, Mello was already mentally cleaning his gun.

"Honey, I'm home!" Matt called out and Mello could picture, with effortless clarity, the pronounced smirk on the redhead's face. After a silent pause, he laughed and added, "Aw, don't be like that, Darling! After all I've done for you, this is the thanks I get? Bull-fucking-shit."

Smirking faintly, Mello replied, "I'm in the bathroom."

Instantly, Matt's tone changed. The stomping of boots was a prelude to the fit that Matt was about to pitch. "If you're bleeding, Mello, so help me God--!" He began angrily, cutting off mere seconds before his handsome face, contorted in a strange form of anger, appeared in the doorway. Silent for a moment, Matt simply stared at Mello before sighing heavily. "Jesus, Mello," he murmured, sounding exasperated at all his unraveled work and perhaps in wonder at Mello's self-mutilating persistence.

"Matt, don't take the Lord's name in vain," Mello chastised in a flat voice, seemingly unaffected by Matt's concern. In reality, his sharp gaze was picking the boy apart and analyzing every piece. Not that he needed to.

Not appreciating the belittlement, Matt snorted in a very unladylike fashion. "Mel, you know I don't drink the Kool-Aid."

"And you know I guzzle the grape by the dozen, so don't fucking start with me," Mello snapped back, though much of his tone's impact was lost when the gesture made his features contort in pain.

Chuckling blackly, Matt began to dig through the cabinets in search of the medical supplies that were quickly replacing Mello's position as best friend--if that claim was even still his. "Chill, Goldilocks. You'll burst even more blood-vessels at this rate," he muttered as he lay his tools on the polished clear title with a heavy clunk!

"Ha-ha--so humorous," Mello muttered, watching Matt in unpleasant anticipation.

"Oh, no, it is. Though, probably best you don't think so. Laughter can only hurt you at this point."

"And here I thought it was the best medicine," the blonde mused in a flat voice.

"Heh. No shit," Matt said with a pronounced smirk as he over-turned a bottle of four-smelling chemical in his long-fingered hands, spreading over the cluster of cotton balls in his palm. Swallowing a bit, Mello's expression was not welcoming as the peroxide-soaked cotton in Matt's hand inched near his face. Sighing heavily, the redhead muttered in frustration, "You do this every time."

"It hurts," Mello whined, still sounding surprisingly manly given that his ass was sliding across the linoleum and away from fairly harmless mountains of fluff.

"Of course it does, dumbass! And who's fucking fault is that? You blew up the fucking building. You refused medical treatment. And you keep picking at it. So let me see!" Grimacing, Matt all but pulled Mello into his lap as he dragged the blonde by fisting the leather of his jacket. "God, Mello, you're such a girl sometimes. And here I thought that was just your appearance," he jabbed to distract Mello as he pressed the sodden cotton just beneath his jaw, gracing over a broken scab that was particularly large and still slightly infected. "Stubborn little wanker," Matt cursed softly, sliding closer to inspect the damage. "How the hell does this keep happening? I've been pumping you with drugs and sewing you up like a freakin' rag doll for weeks and you still manage to fall apart on me, how?" Catching sight of the blood on Mello's fingertips, he sucked in a harsh breath but said nothing.

Silence swallowed them and the quiet was stifling. Frowning both in both physical and psychological pain, Mello said stiffly, "If there's something you want to say, do it, or else pull the stick out of your ass."

"I hope you realize how easily I could be pouring acid on your skin," Matt muttered back, eyes trained intently on a mound of healthy skin tissue circling Mello's collarbone. Feeling Mello's gaze burn through him, he sighed and reluctantly met it. "I have nothing to say to you. Your inner ear must be made of Teflon because you don't register a word."

"Selective Teflon," Mello corrected with a predatory smile. "It's not that I can't listen, I simply choose not to."

"Oh, I'm well-aware of that." Lips pulled him in a snarl, Matt jabbed the cotton beneath Mello's eye in retaliation, making him swear in pain.

"Matt, what the fuck?! What is wrong with you?!" Mello demanded, prepared to bend the skinny wrist into uselessness if it attacked him again.

"You're lucky I took mercy on that busted-up mug of yours--I could've slapped you, like I wanted to. Like I should have. I'm too nice," Matt concluded solemnly as he continued to tend to the wounds, albeit much gentler and more thoroughly.

"That and slapping me would be distinctly not a manly reaction. Men don't slap."

"True, true--fine, then I'll punch you next time."

"Hell no. Like I'd let you."

"You underestimate me. Makes me wanna cry a little," Matt mocked, adding a tiny sniffle for effect as he began to gently trail the cotton over the worst part of the scar, Mello's cheek.

At the movement, Mello shivered slightly, but not in pain. Well, not physical pain, at least. "Poor you," he muttered, ignoring the heat coursing through his veins. Matt smirked before pulling his hand away to his patient's mingled pleasure and disappointment, tossing the rest of the cotton balls in the trash. Mello breathed an audible sigh of relief. "So, Nurse Matt, what's the diagnosis? How much longer do I have?" He asked, words taking on a much darker tone than their current context warranted.

It was one that Matt, familiar with Mello's merciless taunts and cold, nasty humor, naturally caught. Frowning, he twisted himself to face the blonde directly. "That isn't even funny," he said quietly before adding, "And however long your life lasts depends on you." Oh, how very true that is, Mello thought, but didn't comment. His answers would only drive Matt into a hysterical tizzy and that was so not needed at this moment. "In all seriousness. . . Mello, you can't keep doing this to yourself. Modern science has come pretty far, but I don't think they can transplant a human head. And we kinda need your smarts to survive this all this Kira jazz."

"Ha, of course. If I was a vegetable and all that stood between Kira and world domination was your sorry self, humanity would be fucking screwed," Mello muttered with a bark of a chuckle.

"I'm glad you find your death so funny. At least one of us does," Matt said sharply, all traces of humor gone from his face.

At that Mello stopped short, eyes widened in surprise. "Matt, I didn't--"

"Because that's what is happening here and I don't mean this fun new self-injury habit you've developed."

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"The only person in this God-forsaken world that still gives a flying fuck about your miserable existence," Matt replied, fiery green eyes boring into Mello's in a way that nearly made the blonde twitch with discomfort. "And, more importantly, I'm the sorry bastard who has to put up with you."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you seen yourself lately? All you do is sulk and mope and hide like you're the Hunchback of fucking Notre Dame? You won't help me on the case, you won't touch your chocolate--shit, you won't even yell at me for not cracking Near's server! Who are you?" Matt demanded suddenly. "Because you're certainly not the person I know and you're not even the person that you know." Frustrated, Matt made a strangled sound that was somewhere between a groan and a sigh, hands going to his hand, fingers feathering in and pulling at his tussled red hair. "This is impossible, I don't know why I even bot--"

"I don't know," Mello murmured with a frown, ignoring Matt's shocked expression. Biting his lip in an age-old gesture of hesitance, he continued, "I . . . I think. . . maybe the explosion. . . Ugh, it screwed me up . . ."

"Well, yeah. Obviously. You lost part of you face and your hearing and your sight--"

"While that was a very uplifting recount of my excellent health, that isn't what I meant."

"Then. . . ?"

"I can't think. I'm losing my mind," he confessed quietly.

"Like, a brain injury?" Despite Mello's withering look, Matt continued, "Hey, I'm serious. Look, that was pretty intense trauma you took. It could've done more damage than we realize."

"No, I've had all the tests done, my brain is fine--or so they tell me," Mello added darkly. He'd never had any faith in doctors.

Matt chuckled a bit. "Mel, whatever brain injuries you have are far beyond the repair of any doctor--not even a shrink." At that, Matt's smirk faded and he frowned. The sight was rare, but powerful, the way Matt would stare at him, eyes trying to bleed some sort of sense into the crazy idiot he adored. "Ever think maybe that's the problem?"

"What, that I'm a fucking nutcase? Matt, I learned that years ago," Mello said tartly.

"You're not crazy," Matt sighed, exasperated. "You're just a Wammy Kid. But still. . ." Pausing a bit in apprehension, he decided to just spit it out: "Are you scared?" Matt asked in a soft voice.

"Of course," Mello answered instantly, shocking his companion. Without thinking about it, his hand crawled towards the rosary draped around his neck, fingers knotted anxiously in the beads. "I failed quite epically. I lost the Death Note, I lost all my Mafia men--not to mention my dignity, that's fucking shot. And now Kira has my name. I don't want to make a move because I'm terrified that either I'm going to end up dead or the same loser I've always been. Or--worst case scenario-both."

"Hey, that's my best friend you're talking smack about," Matt said, lightly punching Mello in the shoulder. Some friend, Mello thought coldly, but kept his opinions to himself. Eyeing the unusually quiet blonde, Matt moved a bit closer and murmured, "You know what I'm going to say. . ."

"I can't hide from Kira forever. I've started this mess and now I have to clean it up," Mello recited, feeling a bit like an alter boy again.

"And you know what I'm going to suggest . . ."

There was absolute silence before Mello, eyes narrowed, replied, "Yeah, I do. Been thinking it myself."

"You have to see Near," Matt said firmly, eyes trained on Mello's avoidant gaze. Hesitating at first, Matt reached over and slipped a finger underneath the blonde's chin, pivoting him so that he could meet those shifty teal eyes. "You have to meet him face-to-face--Er, face-to-half-face, anyways," he corrected with a self-satisfied smile.

Mello rolled his eyes. "Asshole," he muttered, tone strangely affectionate.

"I couldn't help myself," Matt said with a laugh before he was serious again. "Want me to come with?"

Mello eyes widened in horror at the thought. "No! God, no--Lord forgive me," he added, making Matt raise an eyebrow. "Near doesn't know that we're together--working together," he corrected swiftly, grimacing at his awkward phrasing. It was amazing--he was one of the most feared Mafia bosses in all of North America and he couldn't handle a little redheaded kid's crush on him? Insane. "I mean, I'm sure the little bastard has figured it out by now, but there's no need to confirm his suspicions. The less danger you're in, the better."

"Don't be stupid," Matt said, an odd smile on his full, pouty lips. "I knew what following you would mean and I did it anyways. It's not my life I'm worried about," he added, voice soft, tone not subtle.

Frowning at that, Mello replied, "I didn't drag you from Wammy's to get you killed--that's not your job---"

"And yet it's yours? Mello, I'm not going to just sit back and watch you die!"

"Enough," the former mobster snapped, fist clenching around the prayer beads and nearly snapping them. Carefully, he untangled his fingers and rested his hands in his lap. "Nobody is going to die, except Kira, and that's a promise."

"Right," Matt agreed, nodding in determination as he rose to his full height, making Mello feel small in comparison. Smaller, actually, given that his emotional fit had killed whatever falsely confident walls he had built up. "So, you're okay then?"

Mello shrugged. "Something like that, yeah." A wry smile twisted at his lips. "Get back to work, you lazy bastard."

Matt scoffed as he stomped out of the bathroom. "Pfft, I'm the bastard, you ungrateful douche bag?" He called out with a harsh bark of a laugh.

You're not wrong, Mello thought with bitter, aching sadness, the smile he had put on to comfort Matt falling from his lips. I am the bastard. The bastard that's going to get you killed. I'm so sorry, Matt--but. . . please don't hate me.

Maybe Mello was wrong or right or whichever--his thoughts were still too muddied for him to keep them from straying off into never-never-land. But one thing was certain--even if his brain didn't recognize it, his heart surely did

The issue that was gnawing at Mello was the realization that he was just as obsessed with Matt as he was with Near, though for two entirely different reasons. But the problem with that was that an obsession was overwhelming, all consuming. Having two at once was like trying to merge water and fire: utterly impossible. And one could only be destroyed in the crossfire.