You lovely reviewers you… Reviewing so quickly after I update! I send air hugs your way. It was like a bomb went off, that's how much reaction I got. And now I'm going to make you all mad… by writing Mello POV.
Hah.
Wow, Mello sounds like he's in some serious denial…Hah, I didn't originally plan it this way. It wrote itself out like that.
Mello would be a cat person, if you ask me. Matt would like dogs I think, yes? No? Whatever.
Mello POV
I didn't realize how quickly the days were passing. I honestly forgot about my birthday on the thirteenth until Baba reminded me.
I don't celebrate my birthday. I'm one year older, so what? The last time I even wanted to do anything was years ago, before Mama died. Before illness came and sapped the life out of her.
I honestly didn't notice most of December go by; I was awfully preoccupied with my studying for the semester finals. Now that they are over with, I feel a little more relaxed. They were easy, really. But still, I have a feeling that Near beat me. Again.
But all of that seems… distant, yes that sounds like the right word. Not unimportant, but I'm distracted from all of that by one recurring thought, one thing that refuses to leave me alone. I can't explain it, and I don't have a good reason for it, but all my mind wants to dwell on is Matt.
More specifically, that I kissed him.
I did it just to shut Misa and Beyond up. I did it just to get them to fuck off, to get it over with. I was tired of their bitching, and Matt was obviously through with it as well, so I did what they asked.
I didn't count on being unable to stop thinking about it. And I don't know why, which is the most infuriating thing in the world. It's stupid really, because it's not like it meant anything (despite what Misa would love to think; she spent the rest of the day telling us how cute we are). I have zero reason to be thinking about it again…and again…and again.
I flop back on my bed, trying to find a way to pass the time and not think about some stupid, meaningless kiss. To stop thinking about how cute Matt looks when he's blushing…
And I so didn't just think that, and I'm so going insane.
"Ha, I'm sure someone out there would find this very entertaining, this messing with my head," I mutter humorlessly to myself. I check the time again. It's midmorning, Saturday. Matt's at work right now…
I roll over onto my stomach, grabbing a random book from the small collection on my nightstand. I never get around to putting them away; I just add new ones to the pile until I get around to rereading one of the older ones, and by then it's been long enough that I feel like reading it again. There's only one book that I can read over and over and never get tired of it. It's an old book that belonged to my mother, written in Russian. She gave it to me when I was little, and despite it being written for an adult audience (as in, it actually uses competent language) I read it within a week. I have read it, cover to cover, at least thirty times since I got it at age seven.
So now I'll try and push everything else out of my mind and just read…
It works until I finish all three hundred seventy-four pages an hour and forty minutes later. Of course, I don't feel like reading anymore, so my thoughts drift back to the only thing they seem to focus on. Matt. I groan and shut my eyes, throwing my arm over my head. I would love to know why I can't shake the memory of something meaningless.
What does a kiss really mean? Nothing. It's just accepted as the most common sign of intimacy by society. But in reality, it means nothing. It's just a gesture, isn't it? So why, knowing this, did I have to remind, almost force, myself to pull away? Why did I have that moment of complete confusion? My mind collapsed in a jumble of confused, disorganized thoughts over…nothing.
If it really is nothing, logically, rationally, realistically, then why does it feel like something? Emotions, feelings, thoughts… those are all illogical and unrealistic. Those are what conjure up fabricated ideas that don't mean a damn thing. So seriously. What the fuck.
All this rather philosophical thinking is giving me a headache. I'm a student; it shouldn't matter to me what something as stupid and accepted as a damn kiss means. Good God. Why the Hell am I over thinking something unimportant like this?
Oh, right, because it won't leave me alone anyway.
Maybe the best thing is to just let my mind wander and sort through all of what happened yesterday. I keep interrupting myself; maybe I'm getting in the way of my reasoning. It's possible, and it's worth a try…
I roll back onto my stomach again, laying my head on my arms, letting the soft cotton of my pillow block the light from my window. I sigh and let my mind wander freely, without stopping myself. I'm not sure exactly when, but eventually I doze off and my thoughts morph into dreams.
Her face is so pale, like a sheet of paper. All the color of her cheeks is gone, the pale peach of her skin. I hold my small hand out for comparison, surprised by how much darker even my skin looks in contrast to hers. My eyes travel over her body, arranged peacefully in a dress and shawl, with her blonde hair arranged loosely around her face and her make up done to make her appear as if she is still living, breathing, as if her heart is still pumping blood.
They cannot fool me. I know she is dead. Whilst our small gathering of family and friends sheds tears and give their condolences and comforts, only I understand what has happened here.
"Ya sozhaleyu o vashey potere," they all say, or something along the lines of such. Why are they apologizing again, and again? How does that help? How does that do anything? It doesn't. I want to scream at them to stop apologizing, to stop crying, and see what has happened here.
Agnesse Keehl is dead. A cold stone cannot replace her; she cannot be brought back into our lives by putting her into the ground. My Mama… she is gone. All you people, crying, consoling each other, apologizing for her death. Just stop it! Mama is gone, even though all you people said, "She will be okay. She is fighting." Liars. I was lied to.
Mama knew me, loved me, cared for me like no one else. What is the world without her?
My vision shifts as the dream flits through other memories and random creations of my subconscious, refusing to land on and stick to one subject. Matt recurs through my dreams, just as he has through my conscious thoughts.
When I wake up again, blinking in slight confusion, my face turns into a small scowl when I fully wake up.
I'm never going to figure this all out.
. . .
Apparently, Matt is sick.
When I texted him, Misa replied saying that Matt was sleeping, sick with something. I told her it was probably because she made me kiss him yesterday.
So ur still thinking about that, huh? I can practically hear her giggle.
No, just pointing it out.
She answers quickly. Rite. Sorry, I rlly g2g.
I don't bother replying, but I vaguely wonder why Misa had to go so suddenly. I know for a fact that she is perfectly content to chat for hours. How often have we walked to and from school with her chatting on the phone or texting Light? Pretty much every day.
I'm still pissed that we walked in on Light and Lawliet making out behind the school building. I don't have a good reason to be annoyed by it, but I am. They're supposed to be practically geniuses, and yet…
Oh, whatever. I pocket my phone and go about shutting Aleksei up with a bowl of food. He hops up on the counter, mewling with anticipation.
"Glupyy kot," I murmur, batting him away and setting his food on the floor. He meows indignantly, pushing my hand away with his head and going for the food. "Vy budete tolstetʹ, a zatem Kata poluchite vse vashi yedy," I warn him, returning the bag of kitty food to its place in the cabinet. He ignores me and continues shoveling food into his mouth like the fat ass he is. Cats are supposed to be lithe and agile, but Aleksei doesn't seem to understand that.
Instead of returning to my room, I head to the door that leads outside into the backyard. I open it, shivering as the cold air blasts into the house. Despite the chill and my bare feet, I step out onto the single, snow dusted step and shut the door behind me.
It's not snowing anymore, but after last night the garden is covered in a blanket of undisturbed, glittering snow. The only thing that breaks the smooth, fluffy coat of white is the small cat tracks that cross here and there. I call softly for Kata, and a few moments later, she comes trotting through the snow, the white powder clinging to her head and tail. She meows, and I pick her up.
It's cold out here, but I'm used to it. I like it. Anyway, Russia is far cooler than it is here. I grew up in a colder climate, and I'm used to it even after years of living here, where it snows less and remains relatively warmer. I stand there for a few moments more before turning and opening the door with one hand, still holding Kata with the other arm. As soon I get inside, she leaps from my grasp and pads over to Aleksei, who has already finished his meal.
"Zhir zadnitsu," I tell him, smirking as he looks up at me, hoping for more. When he realizes he's not getting any, he turns and patters down the hall, probably to curl up on my bed and sleep again. Kata follows him, eager to curl up with her brother.
Cats get a lot of hate. Yeah, they're the bitchiest animals available, but they can be awfully nice to have around. Especially at night, or when you're sick. Unlike a dog, they don't need to be walked and they don't need constant attention, but they will cuddle and play when they feel like it.
They're still pissy little bastards, though.
I hear footsteps coming down the hall, and Baba appears in the kitchen doorway, her hair tied back.
"Ya sobirayusʹ sdelatʹ obed. Vy khotite chto-nibud?"
I shake my head. "Ya yel to vremya kak vy spali." She always falls asleep before lunch; it's part of her daily routine. My grandmother is big on health and routine.
"Hm."
I help her with food for herself, even though I'm not eating. When it's done, I sit across the table from her, propping my chin in my hand. My hair falls over my eyes, and I brush it back behind my ear.
"Vy dolzhny sokratitʹ vashi volosy," she says for the hundredth time, eyeing my hair with distaste. "Ty pokhozha na devushku."
I roll my eyes. "Ya ne delayu." Baba doesn't really approve of my slightly ambiguous (okay, pretty ambiguous) appearance. But it's not really my hair; I look so much like my mother that she tends to see her in me.
She doesn't come right out and say it, but I know she does.
Baba is pretty accepting of pretty much everything. When I was little, I would run to her with my problems, looking for advice, looking for someone who would listen. Mama could be that person, but as a child I knew that my grandmother had seen far more than my mother. She was old, she was wise. Typical of an elder.
I wonder what she would make of the things running through my head at the moment. Would she approve of me giving in and kissing Matt? Probably not. Would she be able to make sense of me unable to forget it? Maybe… she would probably have something to say about it, but for some reason I can't bring myself to ask her. I usually can tell her anything, knowing she won't judge. She's the type of person people like confessing to, because she is open minded about almost everything. Although, if you boiled kittens, ate them, then killed children with their sharpened bones I doubt she'd be unbiased.
That was the single most disturbing example I could come up with, I think. I'm not creepy at all.
"Akh, da, ya khotel by sprositʹ vas o drugom ... Matt, eto bylo?"
I feel myself automatically tense up. "A pochemu vy sprashivayete?" I ask, keeping my voice casual. It's weird that she would bring Matt up right when I can't stop thinking about him.
She hesitates, which is something I don't think I've ever seen her do. But it's not an uncertain pause, rather a critical one. She looks at me, eyes narrowed slightly, before continuing. "On, kazhetsya, chtoby sdelatʹ vas schastlivymi . Vy lyubite yego mnogo, ne tak li?"
I blink a few times, slightly confused. "Chto vy imeyete v vidu? On moy luchshiy drug, ne tak li?"
She nods. "Vy gorazdo svobodney vokrug nego , chem s kem-libo yeshche, chto ya videl vas."
"Hm. On po-drugomu, ya dumayu... Ne razdrazhayet," I murmur, tracing the little lines in the tablecloth.
Baba gets up, picking up her plate. "Vy dolzhny derzhatʹ yego blizko."
I look at her, confused, but she doesn't say any more. I sigh to myself and decide that I will take her advice, even if I don't quite get it. When she says something, she means it. Baba can be blunt, but she never elaborates or sugar coats.
Yeah, I'm not going to bring up what happened on Friday.
But I really wish I could figure out why I can't just push it aside and forget it.
Now I shall give you all want…
Matt POV
I just wish I could die. Dying sounds nice right now. Being dead doesn't hurt. And hurt is about all I feel right now, on so many levels.
The most obvious is the physical pain. I can feel the spots of sharp and dull aches all over my body, concentrating on my arms, shoulders, and chest. Oh, and my head. My head hurts like a bitch. And then there are the burns. Cigarettes hurt. Especially when pressed onto your skin by a furious, drunken man who wants nothing more that to take all his anger out on you.
But there's more, so much more. I cannot erase his words from my mind, I can't stop them from ringing in my ears. Every one of them was true, weren't they? I am a fucking pathetic, stupid little bastard, aren't I? I'm a worthless faggot, according to Carl.
It hurts because he means it, and it hurts because he's right.
He ripped my goggles off of my face, leaving my eyes free to betray everything in my head. I wish I had them, but I can't move from my spot against the corner, my knees bent, my arms resting on them. My head hangs down, leaning against the other wall to my left. My hair has fallen over my eyes, and I let it stay there. Anything to hide them again.
I don't want to open those betraying tools of vision, and I don't want to move. It will hurt if I do. It hurts if I don't. My eyes open anyway, staring at the carpet underneath me. It's all blurry, dark around the edges. He almost knocked me out. I think. It's all a haze of confusing pain.
Is that my blood on my sleeve? It looks like blood, red against the white and blue of my shirt. I'm bleeding? Probably.
I want to bleed to death. No more pain, no more bullshit, no more punches adding bruises on top of fading bruises on top of the memories of bruises, and no more confused, pain-ridden haze.
No more hurting. That sounds nice…
I hear footsteps coming my way, and I instinctively shy away. Carl stormed off into his room after he was through with me, probably to drink some more. I don't know how long ago that was. An hour? Ten minutes? A day?
The footsteps are softer, though, Mari's footsteps. Or are they Misa's?
They stop in front of me, and she kneels down, reaching tentatively out. I whimper and try to get away from her. I don't want to be touched ever, ever again. Please don't touch me. Everything hurts, I want to tell her, beg her. But I don't think I know how to talk right now.
"Mail," Mari murmurs. "You need to let me help you. Let me help you."
No. Leave me alone. I don't want to move. I feel slight pressure on my shoulder, her fingertips lightly alerting me of her wish to assist. Unfortunately, that shoulder hurts. I let out a small, strangled noise at this. I don't want to be touched.
"Mail, just come with me, okay? You need to move." Her voice is soft and insistent, but I really don't want to move…
"Here," she murmurs, holding out my goggles. "I'll let you have these if you'll come with me. I'll put them on for you."
I can't resist this; I feel safest with my eyes hidden. I move my head and let her slip them on, over my eyes. She carefully pulls my hair out from under them and avoids hitting the bruise I know is forming on my right cheek, just below my eye. She grabs my hand, one of the few things on my body that are not aching or sending sharp signals of fuck this, this fucking hurts like a fucking bitch goddammit every time I move. I carefully stand with her help, but no amount of caution can keep me from hissing in pain.
Mari murmurs apologetically even though none of this is her fault (it's mine), gently leading me down the hall. I follow her blindly, ending up somehow in my room, and I curl up automatically on my bed, my knees brought up to my chest. This is how it always is. I would stay there, unmoving, if Mari didn't pick me up each time and force me to move to my bed. If she didn't, I might never get up from my spot on the wall.
My eyes finally fall on her face, and I let out a gasp. I automatically push myself up, wincing at the stab of pain this causes. My entire body protests to the sudden movement, to movement at all, but I'm somewhat distracted by the mark forming on Mari's face. A large bruise has taken root on her jaw, and the few scraps of persisting anger still in me suddenly grow and breed, filling me with rage.
Mari is not supposed to take Carl's anger. Mother and Mari are not supposed to be the subject of his punches, of his angry beating. That is why I am here. I'm here to take it all instead of them. Carl has hardly ever left a mark as bad as the one on my cousin on either of them before. He's done it, but it's rare. It makes me mad, even though I don't have the energy to be angry.
"Mari, your face…" I manage, my voice slightly shaky. Her fingers brush over the mark on her jaw.
"Mail, this is nothing. I've been hurt worse than this before. Hush and lie down," she whispers, very carefully pressing me down again. I can't stay angry right now; I just want to sleep to make the pain go away.
"He's angry, Mail. That's why he hit Mother and me. But don't worry; we're okay. Just stay here. I'll bring you some pain medicine, okay? He's passed out, so he won't know." With that, she leaves my room. I don't want meds; I just want to sleep.
I close my eyes and cur my head down, covering the side of my face with my hand. My fingers curl into my hair, and I stay like that, trying to hide and block everything out. I'm almost asleep when Mari returns, and I hear her set something on my nightstand. A moment later, the blanket settles lightly over me, blocking out any light. I try to sink into the shadowy darkness and hope that I just disappear in my sleep.
It's doubtful that I'll get my wish.
. . .
When I wake up from my very fitful sleep, it's dark outside. I know this because no light filters in through the fabric of my blanket. And the house is dead quiet. There is almost no noise whatsoever, just the occasional creak of wood. I lift my head, wincing at the pain the causes, my fingers slipping out of my hair, and look at my clock. It's three in the morning.
I do my best to ignore the pain as I uncurl and push the blanket off of me, slide my feet onto the floor, and walk somewhat blindly to the bathroom. I shut the door, lock it, and hesitate before flipping the light switch beneath my fingers.
It hurts to walk, it hurts just to exist. Do I really want to see the bruises causing me all of this aching? No, but I'm going to at some point. I turn the light son and stare at my reflection grimly.
For a second, all I can do is stare. It's been a while since I've seen dark bruises breaking the paleness of my skin. I hesitantly pull my goggles off, finding slight impression left by the rim.
Looking at things through an orange filter is so much easier than looking at things in real life. It's like my games; when it's pixellated, it's easy to deal with. But when it's real…
My face is a mess. I have a bruise across my right cheek just under my eye, one on my jaw on the same side, and the blood I noticed earlier through the haze came from my mouth. The red liquid has dried in the right corner of my mouth.
I think… that bastard punched my fucking tooth out. On the right side, fourth one on the bottom. I trace my finger over the foreign gap, staring at the reflection of my mouth with an expression of mixed awe, shock, and anger. That was my tooth. I liked that tooth, you know. It was useful for things like eating.
I'm pretty sure that's a necessity to human survival.
There are other bruises peeking out from the collar of my shirt. I hesitate with this as well prior to pulling it off of my body. I glance at the mirror, and find myself unable to look away.
The worst of it all is scattered over my collar, shoulders, and the sides and front of my chest and stomach. The bruises trail down my arms from where he grabbed me and held too tightly, and when I turn, trailing across my back, shoulder blades, and the base of my neck where Carl groped for a hold. When he found one, he clenched until I bled inside.
My eyes trail over all the discolorations on my pale skin. There is a particularly painful one on my right shoulder, on the side of my chest, and on my right hip from when Carl threw me to the ground, and I'm pretty much sore everywhere.
And then there's the slight burns on my arms. He's burned me before, it's really nothing new. I have scars from the times he's stuck his cigarette to my skin, held it there until I cry out a moment later, or held his lit lighter to me until it leaves a burn. He's never scorched me bad enough for it to be dangerous, but they still hurt. They still scar.
He likes to mark my shoulders and the ridges of my collarbone. So he can see them when my shirt slips. He likes knowing that he's hurting me.
All of this, inflicted against my will. All of this pain caused by someone else. I have no control. I want to be able to stop it when it gets to be too much. But I can't.
I am deserving of this, though. Aren't I? At least it puts me to use. Otherwise, I really would just be sitting here, taking up space. I can handle pain so my sister and mother feel less of it. I am worthless otherwise. No, I still am, but it puts my worthlessness to use. I can't escape it or stop it anyway, so I might as well see the truth in it.
But why is my breath hitching in my throat? Why are my eyes blurring, stinging with tears? I have no reason to cry. I'm used to this. I grew up with it! We should have known we couldn't escape Dad. It was worth a try, but we were stuck anyway, not moving forward, unable to move back. Or at least I was.
I think it's the sight of the bruises on my skin, the realization that he found us finally is registering. I swallow back the choked feeling in my throat and stare at the reflection of my eyes in the mirror, one hand on either side of the sink. Dark blue eyes stare back at me, looking dull. Hollow. I hide these eyes for a reason, these traitors. They tell every emotion inside me to the world with their blue depths.
The bruises on my face remind me of the one on Mari's. I'm supposed to take that pain for her. She's not supposed to hurt. I'm the only one broken, let's keep it that way. Mari and Mother should get out of this. They don't deserve it.
I'm pathetic. Really, if I were not, why would he do this? He wouldn't have a reason to hit if I wasn't worthless. I glare at the image of myself reflecting back at me, hating it more and more with each beat of my heart. Suddenly, I tear my eyes away and go rather painfully to my room. I don't need the light on to find my razor; I know exactly where it is. I take it from its hiding place and return to the bathroom, re-locking the door on my way it. I wince as I sit on the counter by the sink, the sore spots protesting to the movement.
For a moment, reason and logic put everything on halt. Why am I doing this? This isn't good. I'm only hurting myself more. And do I deserve it? No. Why do I think that?
But that lasts for only a second, before reality comes and slaps them in the face. Don't be stupid. It will hurt, yes, but it's a different kind of pain. And yes, I do deserve it, really. It may not seem like it to a normal person, but I do.
Things without worth should be thrown out, or treated without care, shouldn't they? I'm like the soda can you find on the ground and don't even bother picking up, you just kick it real good and send it out of your way. You never think of that bit of insignificant trash that has no value to its name again.
My blood is crimson against the pallor of my skin, and toned down in contrast to the dark and faint bruises alike. The pain of a cut is much sharper than the dull ache of bruises. It clears my mind and numbs all else. It is the best distraction available to me right now.
A tiny voice in the back of my mind, one that views this from another perspective, comments on how devastating this is.
. . .
Mari called in sick for me, and tells me that she also told Mello that I'm not feeling well. Honestly, I'm sitting on my bed, testing what hurts the most and what I can do without wincing in pain. The answer is: not much.
"He told me that it's probably because we made him kiss you yesterday," Mari informs me softly.
My heart skips a beat at the memory. God, why must you bring that up? Despite the position we are currently in, I feel my face heating up.
"Why do you bring that up?" my voice is quiet, and the undertone is still wavering a bit.
"He's still thinking about it. That's what it means."
Carl is gone, probably at a bar, and Mother is asleep, but that doesn't stop us from acting as if he is in the next room. It's kind of sad that we're falling right back into our usual pattern of keeping quiet and relatively solitary in our own home.
I glare at her, rubbing my shoulder. The pain meds are starting to kick in, and ice does really help a lot. "That doesn't mean anything, Mari."
She smiles slightly. "Are you telling me that you don't care at all about what happened?"
"Yes," I lie. Mari shakes her head.
"I doubt that."
I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs and resting my chin on my knees. The movement is uncomfortable, but the pain from the many small bruises is already gone. It's just the big ones, and the burns, that hurt. And where my tooth once was is a bit sore.
Mari had a hard time keeping calm when she noticed the gap.
"Why?"
She hesitates, tilting her head slightly and resting her elbow on the arm of my chair. "You don't think of him as just a friend, do you Mail?"
"Of course I do. The term friend is defined as-"
"I know what friend means," she interrupts, sighing. "You're hopeless, you two. I think you need-"
"Mari. Stop," I command into my knees, letting my knees press my goggles into my eyes. She instantly stops talking.
Doesn't she get it? Mello is more to me than a friend (I don't think she knows that I do, if fact, I am ninety-nine percent sure that no one does). I don't think I can deny it, especially after what happened Friday. But it's not like I can do anything about it.
I'm almost sure that Mello isn't interested in guys. If he found out that I've been lying to him and everyone else, he would hate me (who wouldn't?). And if he did find out the truth about me, how broken I am, he would leave, avoid me. No one wants to deal with someone like me. That's why I was left before, because it's hard to handle broken things without getting cut by the sharp edges.
It's hard not to be scared by things that have been broken again and again until they can't ever be fully fixed again. No one has the time or the strength to fix something like that, let alone someone. I can't even help myself, how could anyone else?
And if I told him, he would just push me away.
There are too many problems. Too many problems.
"Sorry…" she murmurs. "Mail, what do you think is going to happen to us?"
I am silent for a long time. "I…don't know for sure. Things will probably be how they always have been."
"Do you think we'll stay here?"
"Probably. No one knows Dad exists out here, so he's safe from anyone figuring out what he's doing. Maybe he'll have you model again."
"If he doesn't start hitting me like he does to you. I wish I could-"
"No. He hits me so that he doesn't have to hurt you and Mother in my place."
"Mail…"
"It's fine. I've lived with it since I was little, I can live with it now."
There is another long pause. "I hate calling him my father," she finally whispers, her voice shaking with disgust and anger.
"I know. Believe me, I know." There are no words to describe how much we hate him. No words strong and plain enough to describe what he has done to us besides… broken. Even that doesn't cover it.
My hand slips in my sleeve, tracing the various marks made by too-tight holds and razor blades.
Am I fixable, or am I so broken that I can never fully heal again? When will I completely break, snap in half and fall apart?
When, I wonder, will it all be too much?
Translations
God, Google Translate gave me grief on these. Just ignore if it's like, super duper off please.
Ya sozhaleyu o vashey potere: I'm sorry for your loss.
Gluppy kot: Stupid cat
Vy budete tolstetʹ, a zatem Kata poluchite vse vashi yedy: You'll get fat, and then Kata will get all your food.
Zhir zadnitsu: Fat ass
Ya sobirayusʹ sdelatʹ obed. Vy khotite chto-nibud: I'm making lunch. Do you want anything?
Ya yel to vremya kak vy spali: I ate while you were sleeping.
Vy dolzhny sokratitʹ vashi volosy: You should cut your hair.
Ty pokhozha na devushku:You look like a girl
Ya ne delayu: I do not.
Akh, da, ya khotel by sprositʹ vas o drugom ... Matt, eto bylo: Oh, yeah, i wanted to ask you about your friend... Matt, was it?
A pochemu vy sprashivayete: Why do you ask
On, kazhetsya, chtoby sdelatʹ vas schastlivymi . Vy lyubite yego mnogo, ne tak li: He seems to male you happy. You like him a lot, don't you?
Chto vy imeyete v vidu? On moy luchshiy drug, ne tak li: What do you mean? He is my best friend, is he not?
Vy gorazdo svobodney vokrug nego , chem s kem-libo yeshche, chto ya videl vas: You are a lot more relaxed around him than with anyone else I have seen you with.
Hm. On po-drugomu, ya dumayu... Ne razdrazhayet: Hm. he's different, I think... not annoying.
Vy dolzhny derzhatʹ yego blizko: You must keep him close.
Next time, instead of using the phonetic version, I'm just going to copy/paste the Russian writing that Google Translate seems to understand better. Translations will still be here, of course!
Anyway, that was a fast update, if I do say so myself.
You're welcome, all you impatient brats.
Just kidding! I love you all to little, itty bitty pieces!