Mail scooted forward in the hard diner seat, elbows balanced delicately on the edge of the greasy tabletop. Usually she gave fuck all about crinkles or stains, but the suit was rented and she couldn't afford to pay extra for damages, not when she was saving up for a decent ride, one that could hit 90 mph on the highway without trembling. She touched a fingertip to the hint of light pink fabric peeking above the jacket cuff. The pink was all wrong for her coloring, apparently, but Mail had insisted on a pastel-colored shirt, to prove that she wasn't a complete dyke, Mel. Her best friend had simply scoffed at the tux store and grinned savagely at the Filipino saleswoman. "Don't you think she'd look fucking hot in just the blazer, with no shirt on? Very 1966, le smoking, right?" Making a swiping gesture with his finger, drawing the lower swell of breasts. How the petite, long-faced saleswoman, probably twice their age with kiddies running around at home, had giggled at Mello's unique brand of erudite assholery.

Her thoughts halted as Mello plunked down their order of two King's Noodles, size Large, extra spicy. Even at 11:00 p.m., he managed to look immaculate, from the purple gloss of the handkerchief tucked in his jacket pocket (purple, to match his date's dress) to the hard glitter of his Gestapo boots. His hair was tied back in a low ponytail, for once, and Mail had yet to decide whether it was attractive.

"How much do I owe you?" Mail stuck a hand in the shredded messenger bag behind her and pulled out her wallet.

Mello shrugged. "Whatever."

"Easy there, tiger." Mail set the wallet on the table, between their two bowls. "I'm not your date, you don't have to impress me."

"Don't be such a cunt." Mello raised his eyes to the fluorescent-paneled ceiling, and the simple fact that he wasn't glowering at her, couldn't look at her eyes, was enough to make Mail give in, tuck the striped wallet back into her bag.

"You sure Halle won't be upset?" Mail said quietly, rubbing two plastic green chopsticks with a translucent napkin and placing the cleaned chopsticks on Mello's bowl. "Seeing as you ditched her and all." Halle — statuesque, sarcastic Halle — seemed like the type who'd demand flowers-dinner-prom-hotel. Not nag or wheedle: demand, like Mello demanded, blithely expectant, like one would dive into water with the anticipation of blue and wet. The two of them had looked good together, Halle in her purple gown touching Mello's arm, Mello smirking winding his arm around her waist, so confident that Mail had to bite her lip and turn to Rester to argue the merits of FFVIII versus FFX, because no-one ever played FFIX.

"Nah, Halle's cool." Mello waited for Mail to finish cleaning her own chopsticks before starting in on his meal. "Her real boyfriend is some thirty-year-old podiatrist or proctologist or something who doesn't want to come off as a pedo in public."

"Huh. I guess she can pull it off," Mail swallowed, suddenly careful. "Lady in the streets…" She idly nudged Mello's foot with a red canvas sneaker. Mail wasn't smart the way that girls are supposed to be — neat handwriting, fervid studying, hand-raising straightened-hair pleated-skirt genius like Halle and Naomi and Takada on her better days. Mail wasn't dumb the way girls are supposed to be, either — simpering squealing beguiling nail-filing lip-lubricating like Misa and Wedy and Takada on her worse days.

Mail ran a hand over her hair; she had dumbly slapped it back with mousse that afternoon, but at this hour tiny strands were starting to sprick out. Mello's hair, flat and shiny as usual, remained snugly consecrated in its ponytail. Biting into her extra-spicy peanut noodles, Mail wondered what Halle would have preferred, in her powdered hotel room. Letting the dress slink to the floor, rubbing her nipples, settling into Mello's arms with a sigh. How hard Mello would be, his hands fisting her gauzy white panties, how flushed his face would be, how long and white his exposed neck would be, how grateful Halle's teeth and tongue and lips would be.

No, Mail wasn't girl-stupid. Just regular stupid.

"So. How did wonder boy treat you?" Mello sneered, and in her interrupted shame Mail took the bait.

"Near was the perfect gentleman, really." She raised her chin and swallowed. "I changed my mind about the guy."

"Really." Mello reached over, natural-like, and touched a fingertip to Mail's cheekbone. "End of the dance, did he kiss you here?" He dragged his finger lightly down her cheek, to the corner of her mouth. "Or right here?" He tapped his fingertip against the center of Mail's lower lip. "Or did he hit the spot?"

Mail pulled back, smiling hard to ignore the tingling in her lips. "Why, I'm touched by your concern for my virtue."

"What virtue?" Mello drawled, and underneath their postage stamp of a tabletop, she felt his legs jostling hers, angry, insistent. They were the only two patrons in this side of the diner, tucked away in the corner.

"I was planning on being nice, tonight, on account of your darling Lawliet essentially sucking Light Yagami's cock at prom, in front of God and everyone." Mail raised her voice. "All those little touches, like the neck grab on the dance floor? Misa looked like she was going to shit herself right there."

"Mail." She was in so much trouble now, it was fucking amazing. The redhead continued, feverish, venomous: "L's a logical guy, if he's going to ruin his entire goddamn teaching career it might as well be for the hottest, brightest, tightest piece of ass in the academy. Meaning, not you. And while you and Halle were busy sucking down vodka and chocolate milk from that super-gay monogrammed flask of yours, Near and I were on the balcony, and I can't even show you where he kissed me."

And with that, Mail Jeevas slid out of the booth, bag in hand, and sauntered out the restaurant. She made it to her car, on the far side of the parking lot, when Mello whipped her around by the shoulder and kissed her, bulls-eye.

Her bag whumped to the ground. Mail reared back. Mello grabbed her wrists. He kissed her again. She couldn't taste anything in it, just wetness and pressure. He pushed her against the side of the car. She kicked him in the shin, more scuff than actual kick.

He was panting, soft spicy puffs of air against her open mouth. "You're going to show me. Where he kissed you."

Her car was filthy; her suit was ruined. Back still pressed against the driver door, Mail wrenched her left hand from Mello's grip, and coolly unzipped her pants, easing them down her thighs. She couldn't see his face. She guided his hand—was it shaking?—into the waistband of her panties. "Right there," she breathed.

Mello surged forward with a groan, and crushed his face against the curve of her neck. Right-hand fingers pumping. "And this is Near's saliva, right?" he hissed. "This is why you're so wet, right?"

"Y-yes," Mail shut her eyes and angled her hips toward her best friend, her very best friend. The backs of her bare thighs crushed against grime and calcified bird shit on metal and her free hand fisted in Mello's hair. Pulled his face to hers and lapped his cheek as she came.

Afterward, Mello slumped in the passenger seat, eyes down: "I'm sorry, Mail."

Mail, tossing her dirtied rented trousers and jacket in the back, sitting bare-assed: "What?" She dipped her head to the steering wheel, bumping her sweaty forehead against faux leather.

" 'm glad you're going away after graduation. You deserve better than anybody here."

At this, Mail laughed like sandpaper cracking. She stuck the keys in the ignition. Above the wheezing of the engine, she might have heard Mello say something more, but then the car was revving with the radio switched on and the highway entrance was greeting them and by then it was gone, gone, gone.