Within 24 hours of reconnecting with Matt, Mello really wanted to strangle him.

Mello had slept soundly through the grey onset of a slow sunrise, snoring over the whir of air condition, the early-morning honking of commuters below the window, and the low-battery honking from his smoke alarm, dreamless and forgetful. He woke with an uncanny giddy feeling to a message from Matt, and then felt the helium that had been building in his excited chest deflate all at once when he saw that Matt had not left him a joke or a goodmorning, but a bald faced threat and a lot of ugly typos.

West LA huh? See any celebs there at 294 or 29 12th Avenue? Azelia Park, is it? ;) I cant beleive you fell for that! DAMN I'm good. Don't send people photos of RECOGNISABEL BUILDINGS you are right down the street from! I literally just google mapped you! Sleep tite in your... let me guess... 3rd floor flat? lol im coming over – m, Number One Genius

Go ahead. Mello wrote back. Come along over so I can choke you out, you fuckin asshole. - M

He dragged a chair under the smoke alarm and punched it off. The edges of his drowsiness fractured to make way for gut-burning irritation.

Hey don't get mad at me. Matt replied. Imagine if u made that mistake with someone else right

There wasn't anyone else Mello would make mistakes with. Mello didn't like making mistakes. Matt got the clay, everyone else got ceramic. Fuck him for taking advantage of Mello's momentary lapse into nostalgic sentimentality.

You of all people should understand how important my anonymity is, Matt, and how serious I'm going to take threats. I don't work at the local fucking McDonalds. -M

K sorry. So what's up?

I just woke up. - M

Mello put the coffee on. It felt like everything in the apartment was making stressful, anxious noise. He didn't want Matt to come over. He just didn't.

Hey check out what happens when you google "Los Angeles bus lost and found"

Mello googled it. I get a lost and found website. So what? -M

So that's my website and I charge people like ten bucks to file a report lol. I'm going to buy a ticket to L.A.

You're running a scam? Are you serious? -M

Yeah why? A re you going to come arrest me? ;)

Mello sighed. It's not a good time, Matt. he wrote. I'm not established yet. - M

:( K.

For the next week and a half, Mello kept in almost constant contact with Matt. Partially, he was worried that if he stopped texting him back Matt would storm his flat. Partially, he had missed having someone on his side.

Matt spent a lot of time waxing poetic about his various phishing scams, bragging about his bloating bank account, and reminding Mello that he could, at any moment, do whatever he wanted. Don't draw attention to yourself was Mello's most used phrase of 2004. Mello worried that if Matt left Wammy's early, it would set off some red flags. Mello wanted to keep Matt secret, irrelevant to the Kira case and safely anonymous. He kept Matt mollified by letting him help with other, unrelated tasks remotely, like looking over security camera footage and doxxing men he didn't get along with.

Still, Matt was a bit of a land mine; one wrong step and Mello knew he'd be paying hydro for two within 14 hours. He felt pressured to answer Matt's needling questions and give in when he begged for details. Matt was constantly pushing him to elebarote about his day to day life. Mello felt like a sand castle in a rising tide. Matt's relentless interest in Mello's deeds and movements rubbed like sandpaper against his instinct to keep his life private, even from his best friend. Matt could wring water from a stone.

But it wasn't all bad: in the lonely nights of his 15th year, it was a comfort to have someone to vent and be honest with. If Mello said he was frustrated, Matt would link him to an online Tetris multiplayer game and insist he relax, something no one else was able to get him to do. Learning that Matt had found a criminal path independently settled his worries about being judged by him. Matt took Mello's Mafia involvement so smoothly, Mello forgot that he'd ever felt shame about his choices.

You're just insecure Matt said when Mello asked why Matt wasn't repulsed by the story about the hanging man in the basement. I'm spending too much energy supporting you to spare any for like being grossed out by death or whatever.

Matt's support, it turned out, was exactly what Mello needed to impress Rod Ross, in the end.

That summer, Mello while Mello was still struggling to prove himself, he went on a routine surveillance job with Lorenzo and got a life-changing tip. Lorenzo had become a grudging convert to Mello's cult of personality, since Mello was such an inarguably good (though mouthy) soldier: an excellent shot, an intelligent strategic mastermind, and a fearless fighter. He'd started bringing Mello with him in his car often, treating him like a disciple, and telling him that his father would have liked what he'd made of himself. They parked in front of an office building to note the suspicious flickering of lights in the wee hours of the morning, and Lorenzo filled the time telling Mello about an enemy Rod Ross had been trying to flush out for the past two years.

'He's the last one keeping us down,' Lorenzo said, chewing on french fries between breaths, 'besides Kira. We all want to see that bastard's head stuffed and hung up over Rod's dining table.'

When Mello got home, he told Matt. Find me a David Cox. - M

Sure thing, Matt said, but it took him four months.

David Cox, a rival who had slaughtered several of Rod Ross' men during a dispute over cocaine, had apparently bought a hunting cabin up in Canada where he sat around four months out of the year and shot at moose. Matt found the paper trail when he discovered that a David Cox had run a hobby taxidermist website back in the 90s with a slightly grainy photo of himself holding the head of a carcass like a baby in his arms, and had paid for the domain with a credit card registered to his real identity: the same identity he'd bought the cabin with.

Mello could have kissed him. He packed his car for a weekend trip, loaded a rifle, and hit the road. He drove to the point of exhaustion, stopping in motels to crash, keeping himself energetic with caffeine and red bull and stimulants. His jittery foot stayed heavy on the gas pedal. This was it.

It was snowing in the country. Mello parked his new winter tires in a saggy snow bank on the side of an empty road and stomped out. In front, behind, and on either side of him was a chessboard of desolate winter road. Matt had said this wasteland, on these exact coordinates, was where David lived. Mello tromped out into a bare field, huddled in his fur coat wanting to kill someone, completely alone.

'Fucking bastard.' he muttered, biting one of his gloves off so he could double-check Matt's info. He swiveled a couple turns on one heel, looking out over hay fields and sparse trees all bundled up in frost.

There's nothing here. he wrote to Matt, sending a photo, too – of his angry red middle finger. And I'm gonna fucking freeze to death. - M

Ohhhh ok. One sec I think there's some cell tower issues. Look for Township rd.

Every fucking road is township road. - M

Yeah true. Ok go like 500m to the right and then 200m left and then check back in.

Mello cursed. He'd bought thick wool socks at a gas station on the drive up and stuffed them in his leather boots, but his toes still felt dry and heavy with a numb chill. He stomped back to the car. When he backed out onto the road, the snow scraped the undercarriage with a horrific tearing sound. He hated Canada. Why did Rod Ross' most hated enemy have to vacation in Canada? Most old assholes went to Florida. Mello had never wrecked a car in Florida, or had to wear long underwear.

He drove slowly under a solid blue, sunless sky. Unforgiving country spread and spread and spread before him. If he froze to death here, lost in the grid, wearing a toque that said "I Love Alberta Beef", he would haunt Matt forever and somehow kill him from beyond the veil.

Ok. I'm at Township Road 203. - M

It's another little bit straight. Like 600m. His is the only driveway.

Mello drove another little bit straight, like 600m. Bushes were getting thicker along the side of the road, and trees more abundant. He drove 700, 800, 900m, turned around, and drove back to where he'd come from without finding a driveway.

It's defo there. Go slow or something idk, Matt said when Mello exasperatedly swore at him.

Mello went slow. He craned his neck, leaning over the steering wheel, squinting at icicle sparkles and grey twig bunches. On the left, around where Matt had said it would be, he finally spotted the overgrown, nearly invisible driveway. It was completely impassable in the car.

I have to walk. - M he sent, hoping Matt understood that he meant to deliver this news scathingly.

The driveway stretched out into woodland. It was wide enough to be a road, but heavy with brown grass and snow up to Mello's mid thigh. Tiny paw print patterns criss-crossed the top layer of snow. It was nearly ten minutes of walking before Mello came upon a gate, which was closed. He went around, since there was no fence, only several No Trespassing signs posted on tree trunks. It took ten more minutes of trekking before the house came into sight – a crouching one floor cabin encased in the winter forest like a pupae.

Mello had carried a shotgun up with him, trudging hunched with it on his back while he picked one foot and then the other out of the deep snow. His pants were drenched and his legs were burning with cold. He wanted to kill someone.

A dog barked inside the cabin. Dogs were not a problem. People felt safe with dogs, but dogs didn't usually keep people safe from other people. When the door opened and David appeared on the threshold, the dog came bounding out with a wagging tail, making noise to raise the birds out of the treetops, and bounced past him to piss against the wall of a nearby woodshed.

'David Cox.' Mello said, leveling the rifle and pulling the trigger.

The man had already ducked back into the house, lifting his own gun, but Mello's bullet slid through his arm and made him fall. In that time, Mello leapt forward, ready to hit him again. The dog ran away into the woods in fear at the sound of the shots.

'Fucker -' Rod Ross' part-time hated rival and part-time cowardly cabin vacationer hissed, shooting off to Mello's right and hitting nothing.

Mello stomped David's hand with his boot and kicked the gun away. His feet hurt so fucking bad. He wanted to sit at the fire and tell Matt that he was successful but furious, tell Matt to never make him walk without snowshoes up a January hill again. He shot David between the eyes.

Mello dragged the body outside onto the porch and out of the way so he could close the door. There was a fire burning and a pot of coffee on the stove inside. David Cox had been reading a book about a woman who had survived a ship wreck by eating spiders in a rain-forest or something; it was sitting open to a part about eating spiders, anyway, face down on the table. Mello closed it properly. David wouldn't need his place marked, and Mello had a thing about spines getting cracked; he always used a bookmark.

Thanks Matt. - M he sent, when he'd pulled the socks from his feet and slid a chair over to the fire to bask.

Np.

Mello hunkered down in the chair. David had piled pillows on top of the seat, to make it comfortable on older bones. When the dog scratched at the door, Mello let it in and it whined a while and then lay in a corner and fell asleep.

David had a lot of trophies hanging on the dining-room wall. Maybe, Mello thought, looking up at a looming stuffed elk head, Rod Ross was a fan of irony.

In a humourous mood, Mello decided he really should saw David's head off. It would be good proof of his incredible success, and it would make some of the men piss their pants in fear of ever crossing him, which could be helpful.

There was an axe in a stump outside, which Mello had seen on his way up the driveway. He trudged back into the light snowfall and pulled it out. He'd never swung an axe, but he didn't expect it was that hard. Executioners used to do this. Judge, jury, executioner – that was what everyone thought was unfair about Kira, that he could be all three. The difference here was that Mello was doing his own dirty work; Kira killed like a coward.

He took a few practise swings at the wooden porch stairs, getting used to the heft and reverberating thunk that made his arms shake, before starting to hack at David's neck. By the end of it, his hair was sweating and the snow was red in a splatter around the headless body.

He carried the head down the driveway and put it in the cooler in the trunk of his car, squished against a mostly melted bag of ice, some oranges, a half-full carton of milk, and a leftover gas station turkey sandwich. Replacing the ice at every gas stop, he managed to keep it fresh for display in L.A.

When he showed it to Lorenzo, since Lorenzo was his closest point of contact to Rod Ross, Lorenzo said, 'Oh fucking holy Mary Mother of God.'

When he showed it to Rod Ross, Rod Ross said, 'Jesus shit, kid.'

David's severed head had staring glassy eyes. It was never hung anywhere – they burnt it. Apparently Mello was the only one who had truly thought it was funny.

Fully appreciated or not, it was with this act that Mello gained real deference in the American Mafia.

'I had a feeling about you, you know.' Rod Ross said, pouring them both shots of tequila after the head had been whisked away by a subordinate.

Mello, smug, crossed his legs and reclined on the couch. There was no such thing as "having a feeling". Over the past year and a half, Mello had fought tooth and nail so that guys like Rod Ross could pretend they'd "had a feeling" about him. That Rod Ross now thought of him as a promising mob prodigy was purely because Mello was the best and had demonstrated it, over and over, through great acts of criminal genius.

They talked for over two hours. Rod Ross was curious about Mello's rosary, about his past. He asked Mello if he thought God or guns were better protection. He wanted to know what made Mello feel safer: the rosary beads catching the light off the orange lamps or the handgun he'd taken to wearing just as prominently?

Mello didn't believe in God and had only ever been on the offensive. No time for sitting around feeling safe. He said, 'Probably neither.'

'Kira killed God.' Rod Ross said. So he thought guns, now, but used to think the Lord would save his soul as long as he confessed. 'We both grew up Catholic, huh...' he speculated. 'Angry and catholic.' He cleared his throat a lot when he talked. 'Kira's made us a pair of angry ex-Catholics.'

Actually, Mello was still growing up, would rather receive praise than give it, and had never been interested in admitting he might have done anything wrong, but whatever. He nodded. Let Rod Ross befriend him. This was another perception that could only benefit him: the false belief that Mello had ever been a normal human, and could be sympathised with by brutish older men.

'You like motorcycles, Mello?' Rod asked. He poured them another round. 'You look like the type.'

Mello shrugged. 'I like 'em.' In Prague, he'd watched Evzen drape himself over the handlebars of a Honda with saliva heavy in his mouth, jealous and bothered.

'I have one I might want you to have.'

Mello was a favourite, he realised. He was the favourite, now. 'Thank you.'

That's kinda hot, Matt said when Mello told him about the motorbike a couple hours later.

Mello had flopped in his red velvet armchair, still wearing some new leather gear he'd bought on the way home. He felt kinda hot. He'd ridden the bike back, still high on the feeling of being the fucking best. His legs shining under the lamplight were suggestive from this angle, long. You wanna see it? - M

Oh fuck yeah

Mello wanted Matt to see. The change Mello felt in himself, the change he saw in the bathroom mirror. The edge on his cheekbones and the hardening muscles on his arms. The motorcycle, and Mello, who rode the motorcycle and carried a gun. Matt would get what it meant.

He took the rattling elevator down to the garage. He'd left the bike in his assigned parking spot, the number 308. He thought a motorcycle really suited him. It was giddy, having it. Gangster.

First he tried taking a picture of the bike with his hand – fingerless gloves and black nails – holding one of handlebars. The angle was too weird. He tried straddling it and taking pictures from above his head, but kept getting photos of the garage floor and the blank wall with just the blond top of his hair or a suggestion of his shoulder in frame. When he managed to get his face and the bike underneath him, his eyes looked too big and his torso too skinny. Finally, he settled on a picture with his top half cut off, leaning back on the bike saddle. Legs, big belt buckle, giant fuck-you boots.

Fucking embarrassing. Fucking embarrassing thing to do, posing like a scene queen with his new bike in a parking lot. He sent it. Don't save it anywhere. -M

Very cool, Matt sent several minutes later.

Tell me what you're doing. -M

Uh nothing really. P ulling an all-nighter. I'm putting up a few porno banner ads. Just pics of my knees and armpits and shit with like "enter your credit card details to see more!" and then obviously there isnt more.

Mello snorted. Isn't there? - M

Depends who's asking I guess. Are you into elbows

I just wanna see the dumb ads. -M

Matt uploaded a file titled .jpg. It was a slightly grainy, fleshy closeup of what looked to be the crease of his knee. Mello recognised a scar. 20 quid for the rest.

I'm not giving you any money. -M

Well Mello quite frankly Im not whoring myself out for free

What if I say I miss seeing you. - M, Mello almost deleted it. He left the message open on his laptop and got up to have a glass of water, first, and then left again after he'd sent it to brush his teeth in nervous anticipation of what Matt might have to say about it.

There was a picture waiting for him when he returned – Matt sitting on the floor of one of Wammy's yellow tile shower stalls, holding a broom in one hand and wearing a pile of toilet paper on his head. He looked exhausted. Artificial light gave him a waxy sheen, settled unhappily in the hollows of his cheeks, dulled his copper hair. His eyes were dim and staring from under heavy half lids, and his eyelashes looked clumped or wet. He was wearing the same pyjamas he'd always worn, playing the same game-boy (it was balancing on one of his bony knees like a teeter-totter), and making a familiar face. Mello's stomach shrank at the sight of it. So ridiculous and staged, more purposeful than even Mello's lusty attempt at a glamour shot, but somehow completely natural and real. It was definitely Matt. Wan, weird, wonderful.

You already know I miss you so whatever. Sucks having no footrest. And I keep falling asleep on the floor and no one puts a pillow under my head :(

Grow up and do it yourself. -M

Aw but I dont want to. Asshole

Are you really hanging out in the fucking shower? -M

Ya im dirty

You're showering in your pyjamas? -M

They are dirty too :)

You haven't changed. -M

Still wearing the same underwear i was when you left

Mello rolled his eyes. I hope you're using soap. -M

I'm using bleach but thx for looking out for my health and higene xxxxx

What's the broom for? -M

You had a gun so i wanted a weapon too

Mello had forgotten – he always wore a gun, now, and had become blind to it. Overcompensating? -M

It's meant to be comparitive but its a little too small. Unfortunately the eiffel tower wasnt available on short notice. Why? Do you want a side by side

Holy shit. He did. Yes. -M

You first pussy xoxox

Mello could feel a bead of sweat run down his ribcage. Shame he wasn't able to keep the photo of Matt; he wanted to keep it. He was picturing the sharper, longer calved, ruffled bathroom warrior sharing breath with him like they used to, picturing himself in the halls of Wammy's, older now and still subject to Matt's affections. He couldn't decide if it was more painful to be nostalgic for the vague, innocent past, or to speculate about a rough, edgier could-have-been.

What Matt didn't know, because it would only inspire him to bash his shoulder against Mello's boundaries instead of just jiggling politely at the door handle, was that Mello sometimes got hard thinking about Matt being here with him.

He hadn't shown Matt his updated face. He snapped a picture of himself back-lit by the light from the stove, glowering with his middle finger up.

3/10. Didnt fufill the requirements of the assignment. Is that mac and cheese on the counter behind u? Can i have some?

It is. I want to contest my score – I fulfilled the requirements out of frame so I think I've earnt at least an extra point -M

Hey dont put your dick near my mac and cheese :(

How was I supposed to know you wouldn't want that, Matt? -M

Are you actually naked? :o

No, Matt. You saw what I'm wearing. -M

Right right. Close enough tbh. When and like why did you start wearing leather pants

It was sort of because they were practical, since he was a biker now. It was mostly because when he'd tried them on at the leather shop, he'd felt challengingly sexy. Being short, young, and mid-ranked wasn't turning any heads. This might. He had been keeping an eye out for a fashion direction that fit him and made him stand out since discovering the power of Evzen's cool clothes to transform his self-perception, and these all black bell bottom lace-ups were really bringing it all together. When I bought them, and because I wanted to buy them. Why are you wearing the same shirt you've been wearing since you were 12? -M

I can take it off if it pisses you off so much :/

In that case, it does. -M

Matt would back down. They had been stuck in a game of gay chicken with one another for the past 3 years. Mello waited ten, and then twenty minutes for Matt's joking excuse -

- and then opened a file with a photo of Matt hunched, legs crossed, shirtless, with his curled spine under the running shower. His hair was still mostly dry, and his goggles were on. The broom was propped against his shoulder. He'd introduced an additional element to his bathroom tableau: he had plastered two sheets of what looked like wet homework pages against his chest, so his skin rippled with printer ink. Better? he sent, in another file.

Weirder. -M

Thanks xx ;) This is why people pay the big bucks for my porn ads

The thing about Matt was that he was hauntingly beautiful. Mello had been trying really hard to be attractive and to find good angles in mirrors, keeping his hair clean and brushed, his teeth white, his pants fitting right, working out, and tackling the difficult task of solidifying his personal aesthetic. Matt just sat around being striking by accident.

Months ago, Mello had given in and resigned himself to ending his days frustrated by Matt. His nightly routine started with shutting his laptop and turning off the lights in the house, drawing the curtains, checking the stove and the locks, double checking that the windows were closed, and shutting his bedroom door. It ended with shucking off his clothes, rolling onto bed, and masturbating with the fan pointed at his fluttering bangs, dreaming in general about the odd collection of things he'd started to think were sexy: a boy snorting cocaine out of a cigarette, wet biceps throwing wooden boxes full of guns into the back of a truck, and Matt's miserable face.

At least he didn't pay for Matt's scammy porn ads.