Author's Note: …Holy fuck, has it really been a month? o.o Uhhh… Please don't kill me, guys. My life has been a little bit fucked up recently. Can we just pretend this didn't happen and I will try not to let it happen again?

…Please, please put down those pitchforks!

Secret Admirer

Chapter Seven: Text

It had been getting worse each year.

But then again, maybe Matt just hadn't noticed it as much when he was younger. Maybe his father had simply been better at hiding it, or maybe it was just that now he was too damn drunk to hide it anymore. Sure, he was a very high-functioning alcoholic—he was able to hold down a job, paid the bills on time, and always made sure Matt had enough money for food and clothes and the like—but that didn't change the fact that come nightfall, he became a different person. One that Matt was honestly afraid of.

Not because he would ever hurt his son, of course; no, Matt was afraid of what his father would to himself.

The only blessing here was that his father never started the night intending to hurt himself; if he did, and if he planned accordingly, there would be very little Matt could do to stop him. As it stood, all he had to deal with was the morbid pressure of trying to drunk-proof the house in case the man decided in his stupor that yes, tonight was a good night to die… but hey, at least Matt was getting damn good at the drunk-proofing. The knives had been taken out of the kitchen and were safely hidden beneath the piles of crap in Matt's closet. Same with all of the painkillers and other assorted pills that had been in the medicine cabinet, just waiting for his father to remember them through his drunken haze. Hell, Matt had even taken everything he could think of that could possibly be used as a noose. When his father had figured out what he had done, he had spent a good ten minutes pounding at the locked door, demanding that Matt tell him where they were. Eventually, that had devolved into a dejected sobbing that tore at Matt's heart, and then to the drunken snoring that had become so familiar to him.

He still wouldn't open the door. Every time he thought about it, his hands shook. He didn't want to see his father that broken again.

Stubbornly blocking those memories from his mind, he turned his eyes back to his computer screen. To better memories. Every hard-copy photo of his mother had been destroyed—his father had burned them all on one of his bad nights a few years ago, and then spent the next day in tears with a bottle of vodka when he'd realized what he'd done—but Matt still had a few saved to his hard drive. His father didn't know (because Matt valued that machine more than life itself, and he didn't need it being set on fire, too), but every now and then, when the night got really bad, he would click through them, trying to remember. Trying to keep her alive in his mind.

It was a strange ritual, never as comforting as he thought it would be for the mingled grief and confusion that the images incited, but he did it anyway, steadfastly ignoring the ache in his chest. He could barely remember his mother anymore; she had died when he was very young, still in second grade, but he knew from the pictures that he looked like her. Same dark red hair, same grass-green eyes, same spray of freckles across the same nose… He wondered if it would be easier on his father if he looked less like her, but he supposed it was useless to ask. Not like he could change anything.

He also wondered whether his brother would have looked like her or like their father, but he would never know that, either.

He could still remember the day it had happened, though—long after he had forgotten the sound of her voice, the feel of her hand as she stroked his hair, he could remember that chilly day in January when the world changed. His father came to pick him up at school, and he remembered being upset because it was almost time for art class and they were going to use the paints, and he knew that he and Mello would end up making some kind of a mess. But his father was insistent and a bit frantic, telling him that something was wrong, that the baby in Mommy's belly was trying to come out too early and that they had to go to the hospital to take care of both of them. Matt went, crying without knowing why, just knowing that he was afraid.

She had been gone by the time they got there. His brother, born too soon with lungs too weak, didn't last much longer.

And while Matt had been too young to fully comprehend what had happened at the time, he realized now that his father's world had been shattered on that day. It was still shattering, actually—the pieces were falling all around him, and soon, too soon, the man would break with them.

Matt wondered how much longer his father would last. How much longer Matt could keep him safe from himself.

He had been twelve years old when he first walked in on his father with a bottle of aspirin in one hand and a bottle of Jack in the other. Wrestling the former away—quite the feat for a scrawny kid like him, but his dad had already been pretty wasted at that point—he had left the man alone with the latter as he retreated into his room and locked the door, shaking. Then, as now, he had heard him crying through the door before he finally finished the bottle and passed out. Matt didn't tell anyone, didn't even mention it to his father the next day when things seemed normal again. It had been a moment of weakness, that was all. For a while, Matt was able to convince himself that that was all it was, that it wouldn't happen again.

But it wasn't the only time. Again and again, he either listened to his father drunkenly threaten suicide, or stopped him from drunkenly attempting it. And he soon realized that someday, he wouldn't be in the right place at the right time, and his father would succeed. Luckily, the man still made it into work most days—thank God for the long hours of a lawyer—and Matt didn't need to worry about him there, at least not yet, but every other moment that the redhead spent away from home was potentially the moment his father died.

Matt's eyes stung as he clicked through picture after picture, until he couldn't stand it anymore and he closed the folder. He crossed his arms on the desk and laid his head on top of them, refusing to cry. He couldn't break, too. Not now.

Luckily, he was very stubborn. And very skilled in the fine art of repression.

Forcing his mind away from the thoughts currently terrorizing it—he was safe for now, and that was all that mattered, right?—Matt pulled out his 3DS and started it up. Beating up a few pixelated ass-hats always made him feel better. Even today, he could feel his body relax as his thumbs tapped at the controller and he left the problems of the real world behind, because Hyrule needed to be saved, dammit, and he couldn't let personal problems stand in the way of that.

He had to wonder, why couldn't the real world be more like that? Just special-attack your way out of any dilemma? Once it became possible to download his mind into a robot body, with all of its attendant death-rays and rocket-punches, life would be so much easier.

Then he thought about Mello being given death-rays and rocket-punches, and shuddered. The blond tempest could do enough damage with what he had; Matt didn't want to imagine what he could do with superpowers.

Speaking of Mello, though…

Matt glanced at the clock, realizing it was 4p.m. already. School would have ended over an hour ago, which meant Mello should be home soon, if he wasn't already. Curious, Matt put his game down long enough to pull up his email account.

So far, there was no message from Mello to Mail, but he knew it was only a matter of time—Mello had been sending him something pretty soon after he got home every day so far this week. Matt left himself logged in with his inbox pulled up on the screen as he went back to his game. He could be patient. Not like he had anything better to do, anyway.

And besides, he found himself looking forward to Mello's emails. Especially on a day like today.

He felt like he should feel guilty about deceiving his friend like this, but honestly… he was kind of enjoying it. Getting to know a different side of his friend, getting to see how he acted with someone who didn't occupy the coveted role of "best friend," seeing how he flirted—and oh lord, was he bad at flirting! Then again, maybe it was just a distinctly "Mello" sort of flirting, where compliments were peppered with threats of bodily harm… Matt supposed that anyone wanting to date him would have to be willing to deal with that sort of thing (and probably be slightly masochistic, to boot), but still, it was a riot to watch. And because Matt was still Matt, even when he was Mail, he had fun teasing the other boy, and then Mello would tease back, and it was just… fun. Like a game.

The Mello Dating Experience. The most bizarre, potentially life-threatening dating sim ever.

His thumbs still clicking away, Matt wondered absently if all those years of playing video games had maybe caused him to detach from reality a little bit too much, just like Mello always said he would, and if maybe that was why he didn't feel guiltier about all this.

He felt kind of guilty about not feeling guilty, though, so at least there was that, right?

A faint "blip!" from his computer drew his eyes away from his game. Not a new email—but there, in the lower right corner of the screen, was an instant message, blinking insistently away at him.

"Hey, Stalker—what's up?"

Matt grinned. A new level. Excellent.

Matt saved his game and put down the console, pulling his keyboard closer.

"Not much," he wrote. "So, we've progressed to IM'ing, I see—does this mean we're official? Wanna have chat sex? Oooh, tell me what you're wearing!"

There was a pause as the other boy wrote back. Matt could practically see the flustered look on his friend's face, and he snickered evilly to himself.

"You wish, Creeper," Mello wrote. "Just thought this would be quicker than email. Objections?"

"None, your sexiness," Matt typed. "So, how was your day? Beat anyone up lately?"

"Ah, so you heard about that, then?"

Matt groaned. Seriously? He couldn't even leave him alone for one day without him getting into trouble? Then again, he supposed he shouldn't be surprised… It was Mello, after all.

"Haha, I was kidding, actually, but not a huge shocker," Matt wrote back. "Who was it?"

"That asshat Jake Roy," Mello wrote. Matt was vaguely familiar with the name—some guy on the… football team, maybe? Or basketball? Eh, sports of some manner, Matt didn't really care. Mello had never had an issue with him before, but the blond was notoriously capricious and his (rather lengthy) shit-list was prone to change at a moment's whim, so…

"And what did the fucktard do to incur your wrath?" Matt typed. He assumed that there was a reason, anyway.

"Well, as my stalker, I'm sure you noticed that my friend Matt was out today, yeah?" Mello asked. "This douchenozzle had some choice theories on why he might be out. Sex change operation, stupid shit like that. He had a lot of people laughing, too, until I broke his fucking nose for him."

Matt had to shake his head at that, grinning. Despite his relatively small size and effeminate appearance, Mello was a fucking powerhouse fueled by pure rage in a fight. Most people didn't walk away from him without at least something broken, and he didn't often walk away without a detention or two—the only dark spots on his otherwise impeccable academic record. And while he didn't normally like using his badass powers for the forces of good, his stalwart defensiveness of his best friend was the one exception. Matt kind of wished he wouldn't—after all, what did he care if a few assholes thought he was a loser? He knew better, and so did the Elite Four—but a part of him also really loved knowing that he was protected. Like he had his own personal bodyguard, one who may or may not have escaped from a mental institution.

"Ha! Nice," he wrote back. "I'm sure Matt will appreciate it."

"Eh, not really," Mello wrote. "He doesn't really like it when I get into fights. He's too laid-back to truly appreciate the concept of pounding someone's face in. But it sure as hell made me feel better—like I was actually doing something to help him."

Matt's brow furrowed at that. "What do you mean?" he asked, genuinely confused. Help him? What did he need help with?

Well, stupid question, really—and as if to punctuate just how stupid, his father let out a drunken snore from the hallway at just that moment—but what did Mello think he needed help with?

There was a long pause before Mello started typing again. "Well, it has to do with the real reason he was out today," he finally wrote. "It's no big secret, but his mom died ten years ago today—he stayed home to, I dunno, grieve or someshit. Whatever people do on the anniversary of someone's death. And I have no fucking clue what that is, or how to help with it, because I haven't lost anyone like that. I don't even know what to say to him. He was acting really weird when I saw him yesterday (well, weirder than usual), and I had no idea what to do. It kinda pissed me off."

"Awww, Mels!" Matt gushed out loud, chuckling to himself. He had noticed that Mello had been extra-awkward yesterday, but he couldn't believe that it was because he was actually concerned about his best friend. That was just adorable, especially coming from someone whose motto in life seemed to be "If I can't solve the problem by punching it, it's not worth my time."

Of course, now Matt felt kind of guilty, because he hadn't told his friend the real reason he had been acting so strangely yesterday, but oh well. He'd deal with that later. Or preferably, never.

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Matt wrote back after a moment. "I highly doubt this guy befriended you for your expertise in all things warm and fuzzy. Just act like you normally do, but, y'know, be there for him if he needs more."

A long pause, and then, "I find your advice decidedly unhelpful."

Matt had to laugh at that. Here he was, giving Mello advice on how to deal with him, and the blond was shooting him down. Only Mello would be this uncooperative.

"Hm, too general?" he asked. "How about this, then: reach out, let him know that you're thinking about him. I mean, I'm sure you've done the whole 'Let me know if you need anything' shtick"—of course Matt was sure, since he'd heard it first-hand yesterday—"but he probably won't take you up on it. It'd be nice to just remind him that you're there, even if he doesn't need you to do something for him. I bet he'd like that."

Another pause. "Man, you really suck at this."

Matt shook his head, grinning. "Yeah, probably," he typed. "Sorry, I'm no shrink here."

"Clearly—as far as you secret identity goes, I guess I can rule out anyone in my Intro to Psych class now."

"Oooh, secret identity—you're making me sound like a superhero!"

"Calm down, fanboy," Mello wrote, and Matt laughed aloud. He was sure that Mello was rolling his eyes at him. "If anything, a stalker like you would be a supervillain, not a hero. Anyway, I've gotta get going—homework and all. Talk to you later, I guess."

"Yeah, see ya," Matt typed, then couldn't resist adding, "not that you'll know when I'm watching, of course, mwahaha!"

"Creeper."

And with that, Mello logged off. Matt, still snickering to himself, followed suit, then put his computer to sleep and relocated to the bed. Lying propped up on his elbows, he opened his 3DS again, intending to finish this level before he tried to brave the hallway in search of something edible.

After a few moments, he heard his phone buzz, and automatically reached over to check it. Pausing the game, he saw that he had a new text message.

"Hey Matty—just wanted to check in on you. Missed you at school today. You're right, Mrs. Albritton's class does suck when it's dick-free."

Matt felt his cheeks heat up, and a goofy grin spread across his face as a pleasantly warm feeling settled in his chest. Mello had taken his advice after all. Mello was reaching out to help him, even though he didn't need the help, at least not in the way he thought. Mello was there for him. The thought filled him with a strange sense of elation, one that he didn't entirely understand, but hell, on a day like today, he was going to cling to it for all he was worth.

If he hadn't been Mail, would he ever have known how important that message was? What it really meant? He didn't think so—he probably would have just thought that it was a weird message from his weird best friend. Being Mail let him see so much more of Mello than he had before, and he found himself looking forward to each new revelation. This, this was why he had to be Mail as well as Matt, at least for a while longer, or so he justified to himself.

He wondered why it was so important to him.

He wondered how he would ever be able to stop.

End Chapter Seven

Author's Note: OKAY, SO LET ME EXPLAIN A BIT HERE. Is this a dark little twist? Fuck yes. Will it remain a major focal point of the story? Not really, no. It'll be hanging out in the background for a while, serving as Matt's motivation in a lot of ways, but we won't have another chapter this explicitly focusing on it for quite a while. Next chapter will definitely be much lighter.

And if you're wondering why I did it… Okay, I think I've mentioned before that a lot of what I write references in some way on issues that I personally have and am currently trying to work through. In this case, I was recently in a relationship with someone who would occasionally threaten suicide to get me to do what he wanted, sometimes vaguely, sometimes not-so-vaguely, and then would be perfectly-fine-everything's-awesome once I complied. Needless to say, it seriously fucked with my head. If anyone reading this is ever in a relationship like this, GET HELP. That shit is not right, and you can try to do what you can to help that person without letting them emotionally blackmail you like this.

Obviously, what Matt is going through here is quite a bit different… but I hope I still managed to capture that same helplessness and confusion in his reaction. And like me, once the danger has passed, he's repressing it, just pretending it didn't happen, because fuck, maybe that was the last time, right? (These are not healthy thoughts, by the way.)

Anyway, TL;DR; next chapter will be posted more quickly and will be less full of dead parents.