Pumpkin and Honey Bunny
The first time Matt considered him and Mello 'partners' had nothing whatsoever to do with a job, or even fucking, which they were both good at in carnal, twisted ways that no fifteen year olds should be. It happened the morning after Mello had first seen Pulp Fiction, which he had never seen, and in Matt's world that was a crime deserving of capital punishment unless immediately rectified. Mello's expression, while the credits rolled, was half 'The Scream' and half post-rollercoaster, and Matt had fallen off the couch laughing his ass off just from sheer delight.
It was getting close to Mello's birthday, and jobs were winding down with the onset of Christmas (or picking up, depending on who L hired you out to).
It was early for most people, but they hadn't gotten any sleep, having had a marathon of Tarantino and Captain Kangaroo up until Mello got so inexplicably frustrated at the latter's extravagant facial hair that he put a bullet right through the television screen.
They were at his diner; Matt considered it, like a little kid's fort.
Mello was ravaging his chocolate chip pancakes, and Matt, after learning of his (friend? comrade? boyfriend? –wince-) addiction, had finally mastered the urge to gag at the smell. He still wouldn't touch the shit though.
Mello speared a strip of Matt's leftover bacon with his fork, narrowing his eyes at it thoughtfully.
"Maybe Samuel L Jackson had a point," and he held the fork aloft like a sword aimed at Matt's throat, and the edge of the table dug painfully into his stomach when Matt leaned forward, but the obvious double take the waitress did was so, so worth it.
Mello just continued drowning his pancakes in syrup, and Matt observed him in bored fascination, drumming his fingertips on the tabletop because now all diners were nonsmoking, damn legislative bastards (Public health, bah fucking humbug).
Mello was explaining something, some tangent on logistics or ballistics, Matt couldn't remember exactly, but there was something disgustingly enthralling about the strands of golden syrup stretching from the plate to corner of Mello's mouth, something in the jerking, concentrated flickering of his eyes from Matt's eyes back down to his plate. It made Matt pay attention to all the wrong things. It made him smile, foolhardy and easygoing, in defiance of all his training.
"What do you think?" and Mello chewed on the prongs of his fork, widening his eyes.
Matt, of course, had no idea what the hell he had been talking about. He rubbed looming sleep out of his eyes and rested his chin on delicately folded hands, like a girl.
"I love you, Pumpkin," he said, simpering and batting his eyelashes for good measure, fully expecting Mello to fling the fork at him and drag him out by the ear.
He went lobster death red, but the waitress, passing by again, had literally stopped in her tracks like a scared rabbit, and Mello's grin unsheathed itself like a hunting knife.
It was more than friendship, it was more than fraternity, more than love (because Matt couldn't count how many times he had misunderstood his lovers), it was in the simultaneous wicked lock of their eyes, it was the erasure of all boundaries, the syrupy strands of sinful understanding stretched between them, it was the connection which just made Matt drive faster when Mello was around, or the fact that Mello never missed a single shot when Matt pressed his back against his.
"I love you, Honey Bunny," and Mello hauled him up and over until they crashed together into a million puzzle pieces falling perfectly into place.
The waitress promptly dropped her entire tray of dishes, but of course they'd left by the time she fetched the manager.
And that was it.
They were partners.
