"When you become L, what will happen to me?"

He's damn lucky they're both past drunk and post-coital, because sober Mello would have kicked him, then kicked him out. A ridiculous question. When you become L. As if there was any tattered mantle left to assume. As if he didn't know this was a one-way trip to forevernever the moment he flipped open his phone at 4 p.m. on a limp workday, and that voice transfigured him into platinum flame (with this ring, I do thee wed).

Mello lolls on the floor and idly reaches into the pocket of Matt's discarded pants, pulling out a cigarette on the third try. It's fucking hot, they'll be stuck to the goddamn carpet at this rate, and Matt really needs to take a piss, but he lies still, watching. The blond licks the sweat off his upper lip and sticks the unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"What d'you mean?"

Matt reflexively shrugs, his raw shoulders scraping against dirty, itchy carpet. His head feels too heavy for his neck, like maybe it'll snap off if he gets up too quickly.

"Would I be like Watari? Lugging around a laptop with a hugeass 'M' on it? And I'll have to wear suits all the time and you'll stick your hand up my ass and I'll flap around and that freaky synthesized voice will come out?"

The cigarette jerks up and down as Mello laughs. "Jesus, Matt," and the dismissive tone garrotes him.

"Fuck you. Forget it," he says, turning his face away. The couch is within sprawling distance; if he can just get enough momentum, he'll be able to hoist himself up.

Instead, Mello rolls over and straddles him.

"You won't get clothes." The blond takes a fake drag from the cigarette and digs his fingernail down Matt's chest, skimming the right nipple. "No one will ever see your face. And," — he leans closer — "the only 'M' you'll carry will be the one I pound in your ass, you little slut."

Despite himself, Matt grins and hardens, and he's thirteen and certain again. "So, I'm your right-hand man."

Mello scoffs as he slides the bent cigarette in Matt's mouth. "You're just mine."