Unanswered Questions
The warmth of tangled sheets and tangled legs and tangled arms; the beauty of Mello's little sighs as he naps and the soft sound of fingers sliding over scars and the feel of chocolate on his lips and neck. It's comfortable and something that is singularly theirs: M&M, as he once engraved onto a wooden bed post back at Wammy's. Something familiar, and delicate.
With the honey-haired boy, you can't be too careful, only not careful enough. It's like a summer storm, spontaneously exploding and lashing out, burning and destroying, dangerous and volatile. Asking questions can be more dangerous than Russian roulette, but the rewards are huge if you manage to not suffer. But he knows better than to ask questions: Mello just won't answer, sparing the boy of injury and humiliation. And Matt knows that the only way to really avoid suffering from unanswered questions is to have unasked questions.
He makes up the answers in his head, and some part of him tells him he's right. He might be wrong, like when he thinks that Mello was born in a fire, but childish beliefs keep him tied to the lies. Sometimes, he thinks he's right: Mello really does love Near. But these could be wrong, too, and it hurts him less to think of them as mere guesses. Near isn't near, anyway: Near doesn't lie with Mello when the day turns dark, and Near doesn't trace Mello's scars when he sleeps. Near can't run his hands down Mello's smooth back, and Near can't taste the chocolate on Mello's lips.
Sometimes, Matt thinks he might be the luckiest man on the planet. But that, he decides, is because his life revolves around a living unanswered question.