AN: Before we begin, an apology. As I said in the last chapter, I had a Model United Nations conference to attend this weekend, and it ate my brain. Seriously. Besides being taxing in the mental sense, we also had to run around downtown Baltimore like crazy just to get food and get back to our sessions on time, in dress clothes. I now have callouses on my feet, and they hurt. (How do you develop callouses in four days?)
Anyway, enough self-pity. Suffice to say two things: First, the quality of this chapter may be lacking, because I haven't gutted it as often as I usually do. Second, it's short. Sorry. To explain both counts: I wanted to get this off my computer and up here ASAP, because...well, because. It was bugging me. Sigh. In any event, I hope you find this latest installment palatable...
Mello shivered and drew the blankets closer to his chest.
His eyelids sagged, blinked, and then flew open again, to stare wide into the dark as he counted time in slow breaths and sluggish heartbeats. Behind him, Matt's stomach rose and fell in flawless rhythm, and Mello found him matching the gamer's steady beat of respiration unconsciously. His breathing slowed, torpid, and his eyelids sank. Again he snapped into wakefulness, trading the warm darkness of almost-sleep for the gray grain of the room.
Mello would not allow himself to sleep.
The dim gleam of red numerals shifted dully to one-thirty from Matt's bedside table. Mello bit his lip, savoring the warm spread of pain that flowed from the swelling wound. He had worn his lip raw, by now, because it was just so useful and so practical and—well, he didn't really have a choice, did he? One-thirty, the clock read, one-thirty—that meant it would be another five hours or so before he could justify "waking up." The rich tang of blood spread across his tongue and he relaxed the pressure on his bruised lip. How many times had he gone through this same cycle back home, needing the sleep but too afraid to relax his guard? Soon, Matt had remarked a while back, Wammy was supposed to start their sleep-deprivation training, but Mello hadn't batted an eye. Like the gamer, he had known that the real terrors of the night lurked not under the bed, but outside the door, and Mello was well used to staying up for days at a time, forgoing sleep in return for safety.
The old danger was past, of course—the physical danger, at any rate. Andrew was…gone, away, somewhere, no doubt bitterly happy that his so-called angel of a brother was gone. Mello didn't care about the physical world. He could run from people, but nightmares and memories were harder to shake.
Mello bit down on his lip again, worrying the wound until the blood pooled. The self-discipline of pain was a tried and true method, even if it was horribly obvious. He didn't care about that anymore, though; he couldn't care. He had walked these paths before, not too long ago, and it was comfortingly familiar. Mello felt his bruised lip curling into a smile. For every night he had used pain as a spur to keep sleep at bay, there had been a day of meeting the glassy-eyed grin of his cheerful mother. Once he had wondered if she purposefully exposed him to Andrew's wrath out of spite or indifference, but no—she was just…stupid, and that had been one of the worst realizations Mello had ever made.
She had never noticed the lacerations that gouged and clawed their way across his abdomen; she had never noticed his chronically swollen lips or the white streaks along his arms. Andrew's wounds hadn't been nearly as evident as those Mello—Mihael—had inflicted on himself, but she had never noticed any of it. And now, Mello wondered, now—would Matt notice?
Did it matter?
Small sacrifices of the present to prevent large sacrifices of the future—wasn't that the way things were supposed to work? Wasn't this a futile effort? Sleep would ensnare him in its traitorous embrace, even if it took days, and when it did, he would be too exhausted to wrench himself into wakefulness. And then, of course, Andrew's sibilant hiss would return to haunt the shadows, and Mello would be gone, replaced with Mihael Keehl…
Mello shuddered again and forced himself to concentrate on the crimson glow of the clock. One forty-three, they read now—thirteen minutes closer to dawn. He hadn't expected it to come to this. Nightmares had plagued him most of his life, true, but he had left them behind in his cardboard hideout in the alley. Andrew had been pushed to the back of his consciousness, just as his mental processes had been stifled while his body learned to cope with the consequences of running away. Mello, the identity that had come into being at Wammy, had never experienced the shadow of Andrew lurking over his shoulder. True, there had been the one incident in the library, with the fit of fainting, but Mello had been able to shove all of his previous memories into a vault buried deep beneath layers of willful suppression.
Why was Andrew coming back now?
Mello blinked at the floating numbers and forced himself to think. When had the nightmares started up again? It must have been…
Ah, yes. The night they had learned about Leo. Wasn't that just wonderful?
Mello stifled the bubble of laughter that rose in his throat. He didn't want to wake the gamer—certainly not before two in the morning, anyway, because that would require talking to him. Still, a grin scrawled itself across his face in the darkness. It was ridiculously fitting that Andrew's memory would be resurrected in the wake of a murder. Violence feeds upon itself, doesn't it, Andrew? Well, congratulations; the snake shall devour its own tail, because you've given me the kick I needed to focus solely on this case.
All he needed was to find that dispassionate focus his elder brother had excelled at, and Andrew's shadow would become a help rather than a hindrance. After all, petty things like friendship paled in comparison to Andrew's massive influence, and with that voice in his ear, what would be more important than solving the case…?
Mello strangled another croak of laughter. He had never been strong enough for that.
He was beginning to understand Near, now. That iron mask the albino wore—even if it was all for show, it must have been damned effective at forcing him to act the part. Dedication and ruthless determination were practically assured if you had to maintain that sort of alias.
Mello's smirk widened, and if he was damned if he knew who he was laughing at. It could have been Andrew, their mother, Near, Matt, Mihael, or Mello; in reality, did it even matter?
Mello slipped his hands under his head and grinned into the darkness as moisture built behind his eyes and blood welled at his lip. The salt trailed fiery tracks down his face, and one thought whirled around the cavern of his skull, pulsing to the beat of his blood.
This is insanity—it must be, for what else can reality be called?
Lord our God, Andrew, Fate, Fortune, whoever you may be—I hope you're enjoying this show.
--
---
--
L sighed and set down his plate of chocolates.
The glowing mosaic of screens before him shot into darkness with a curt flip of a switch. L spun his chair around and leapt nimbly to his feet, landing on the carpet with the soft grace of a cat well accustomed to its territory. He paused at that thought, frowning, as his thumb slipped between his lips again. No, L mused, interrupting his own internal narration, that was not a correct simile. Physically, this building was the same as always, disregarding a few minor renovations, but this territory was far from familiar.
He was so very tired of all of this.
"Quilish," he said aloud, knowing that the elderly man would hear. "Have you discovered any new developments?"
The familiar voice crackled promptly over the speakers. "No, L."
L's breath fluttered in the air as he stood forlornly behind his chair. Behind him, the myriad of computer screens hummed with silenced energy, their presence an oppressive force that set his teeth on edge.
He wasn't getting anywhere with this.
"Quilish."
"Yes, L?"
L lowered his head and closed his eyes. "Come in, please."
The room was small, cramped, taken up almost entirely by the massive banks of monitors and a riot of wiring that would have put Matt to shame. L preferred it that way; in the close darkness, with his surroundings lit only by the glow of the computer screens, he could focus, forgetting the outside world in favor of his current occupation.
What Quilish Wammy saw upon entering the narrow office was not the usual status of the room, however. Normally, L would be perched precariously on the edge of his chair, staring upwards at the blazing monitors with rapt attention. Now, though, he was out of his chair completely, slouching with his face towards the wall and his back towards a set of dark screens.
L never turned off the screens.
He must have noted the look of passive bemusement on Wammy's face, because L's eyes drifted from his introspection to meet the gaze of his longtime companion.
L offered Quilish a crooked half-smile. "Are you well, Quilish?"
It was an abrupt question, and they both knew it. Wammy paused, turning the words around in his mind, examining the different facets and the hidden layers. In the end, he simply answered it at face value. "Reasonably so, L. Are you?"
"I am not."
L turned his back on Quilish and crossed the scant distance to his chair. "I am not," he repeated, stronger. "However, that is none of your concern."
"Of course, L."
L didn't see the creasing of Wammy's brow, but he did hear the softening of the tone. He clambered into the chair and spun it around, so that he was facing the silent screens of the monitors again. "Have you examined Near's finding on your own?"
Quilish padded quietly over to stand at his onetime pupil's shoulder. "Of course," he repeated, faintly reproving. "I do know my duties, L."
"My apologies." L's hand flipped the switch and jabbed at a number of buttons. One of the screens whirred to life; the others remained dark. "What is your opinion of his conclusion?"
"It is undeniably Matt's work," Wammy replied promptly. "We are both aware that none other could pull off that feat, L." The aforementioned detective leaned over his keyboard and began typing in the access code.
"I requested an analysis, Quilish."
"I believe you are the one more qualified to make that analysis, L."
L's fingers halted on the keyboard. "I beg your pardon?"
"Come now, L. That card died out a long time ago."
The bony frame stiffened. "Wammy."
"I stand by my point."
L craned his neck upwards, meeting the elderly man's eyes. It was quite the contrast. L's eyes reflected the dim, sickly light of the cold computer screen, like a pair of dark mirrors that shielded a hollow interior. Quilish's gaze, on the other hand, was warm with understanding and a peculiar sort of kindness that L absolutely loathed.
"I am not your student any longer, Wammy."
Wammy smiled. "Are you being objective, L?"
L's onyx eyes darkened still farther for a moment, but then his lips abruptly curled upwards into the crooked half-moon that Quilish knew so well. "Of course not."
Quilish's smile widened. "As long as we're clear, then."
"Yes." L sighed and turned back to the computer screen. "My apologies, Wammy."
"They are unnecessary, as you know."
"My gratitude, then." L frowned and tapped the computer screen. It responded to his touch, bringing up the very video that Near had been carefully examining not too long ago. "Still, the question remains."
"You need to know his motive."
"Yes."
"Tell me, L. What motive could Matt possibly have?"
L's thumb slipped into his mouth, absently fingering the ridges of his teeth. "I do not know."
"Do you believe he was jealous?"
"No." L's voice was firm. "Near did not even believe that himself, and I see no reason to indulge in such conveniently flawed logic. Matt is above that."
Wammy's fingers drummed on the edge of L's chair. "And how well do you know Matt?"
L's eyes rolled upwards to meet Wammy's again. "I had an integral part in shaping his character, Wammy. I believe that I know him more than well enough to say that he is not so petty."
"Ah, yes." Wammy's mouth twitched. "You did shape his character, didn't you?"
"It was necessary," L retorted, too quickly. "You shaped mine as well, Quilish Wammy. Do not hold me to morals that you cannot fulfil yourself."
"I was not heedlessly cruel—"
"This is a topic for another day," L interrupted, and they both heard the brittle chill that had doused his voice. "I was asking about Matt's possible motive, I believe. Do you believe he is capable of Leo's murder, Wammy?"
Quilish Wammy paused and looked past the untidy thicket of black hair to the computer screen, where the ghost-Leo was frozen in time, courtesy of Mail Jeevas.
"Perhaps," he replied, slowly, the words falling from his lips with reluctant deliberation. "Given the proper circumstances—yes."
"That was my conclusion as well," L murmured. He glanced down at the narrow strip of desk before him. On it was an opened manila folder, overflowing with reports and printouts and photographs, all relating to one redheaded prodigy.
"After all," L mused, touching an index finger to one of the photographs in Matt's file, "I did model his education after my own." He turned in his chair again to face Wammy. "I believe he should be pulled from the investigation team—temporarily, at least."
Wammy gave a little half-bow from the waist. "As you wish, L."
L heard the mockery layered beneath the impeccable respect, heard the smooth condescension of a practiced puppeteer. He heard, but he didn't listen.
Human emotions such as empathy had rarely served him in the past; why would he begin to consider them now? More importantly—why begin at the urging of one who trumped any of the Wammy children in matters of cold apathy? If he had loyalties at all, they were owed to his victims, his brethren, his successors-to-be.
"Thank you, Wammy. Again, you have my gratitude."
Two could play at this game.
--
---
--
Mello saw the brittle glass in Matt's eyes when Brian handed him the note. The adult grinned down at them, laughing silently behind sympathetic affectations, ignorant of his own ignorance to such a degree that it made Mello sick.
The note inspired sickness, too, but it was sickness of a different sort. It was a sickness of the kind that stemmed from a twisted conscious and an entangled mind; it was the uneasy nausea induced by the forced acknowledgement that yes, L though that Matt could actually be—what? A threat? A suspect?
Matt,
Your services are not required in the investigation for the time being. L feels that it would be best if you were to return to classes until further notice so as not to halt your education any longer than has already occurred.
WammySo cold, the note, so cold, and it left very little open to interpretation. Its meaning was clear, just as if Wammy had spelled it out in person. Mello, too, had received a note—a summons, really, declaring that L wished to speak with him immediately following breakfast. The morning had left a sour taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with insomnia or blood, and Mello was beginning to wonder when it would all end.
"L thinks it was me," Matt said dully, once Brian was gone. "He agrees with that albino freak."
Mello didn't look at his friend. He remained on the bed, hands crossed beneath his skull, and stared at the ceiling. "Does L normally do things without evidence, Matt?"
There was a hissed intake of breath from the other side of the room. "Yeah," Matt replied, voice clipped. "He's known for whimsy."
"If that's the case, why worry? You'll get out of pointless data crunching, after all, and you don't have to keep up your act."
"Mello, c'mon. I'm not…"
"In the mood. I get it. Sorry." Mello closed his eyes. Even to his own ears, the apology rang false. "It's really easy to needle you, y'know?"
"Mello…"
"Stop calling my name."
Once upon a time, the silences between them had been easy and soft, disturbed only by the tapping of fingers on Puzzle pieces and whispers of synchronized breaths. Now, the silence stretched taut and thin, brittle, like a memory of ice.
A hairline crack raced through the ice, leaving splinters in its wake, and the water that seeped to the surface was rich and red and thick.
Closing Note: I really do need to extend a warm thank-you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I got my fourteen reviews--the second-highest yet--and we hit 100 exactly! How exciting is that? I did a happy dance when I got back from MUN and saw all the alerts in my email. Oh, the joy! In any event, my apologies for not replying to you all by now; see the rant in my top author's note for an explanation. I look forward to hearing from all of you again, for this chapter. ;
Opinions, proofreading, critique--all are welcome. PLEASE help me if you see typos/questionable grammar.
Thank you, everyone!
Fly
March 4th, 2008. 6:55 AM (Yikes! Gotta go!)