You know what? You lot are so cruel. This has got so many alerts and faves but reviews? Nada. I so badly want to put up something I spent so freaking long on, but this is officially my least successful fic. Ever.
Please enjoy anyway. : )
NB: What Matt tells Mello about L and Near is entirely from inside my own head. It's what I wish happened (I absolutely loathe Near).
ooooooooOOOOOOOooooooo
He is ten, cold and tired, his back propped up against the radiator in the Wammy's House common room.
He is watching Mello.
By now he's worked out what Mello Pretty is. And that he likes it.
And that he's not supposed to.
He's also learned that he is not the only one who's noticed. Today is Valentine's Day and, whilst most kids just have their usual, single chocolate from Rodger, Mello is sitting next to a little pile of them (half, admittedly, are already empty wrappers). Some chocolates have handwritten notes attached. With kisses. With hearts.
All from girls, of course.
Cards were another thing boys weren't supposed to do.
No that Mello seems to care anyway. He is sitting in his favourite armchair with his nose in The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath, his skinny legs drawn up under him so that the soft fabric appears to be slowly swallowing him. His eyes skim the text, averaging fifteen seconds a page (Matt knows this well. He also knows that Near averages thirteen seconds.).
But it's okay to know that; the two of them had a read-off one night after class with every kid in the House watching them. It's common knowledge. Mello broke two mirrors afterwards, and had to be sent to his room, rattling all the picture frames as he stomped up the stairs.
What it's probably not okay to know is exactly how many times Mello has worn that black sweater, or what it smells like, or the exact shade that his cheeks go when he has worn it for too long and is starting to get hot.
Matt knows all of these things.
What Matt wants to know is why Mello is reading The Bell Jar again, which is also okay to want to know, because he never reads a book more than once (why waste the time? Plus, he has to keep up with Near) and this is the third time he's had it out. It's starting to look dog-eared.
What it's probably not okay to want to know is exactly what it is in that book that makes his eyes burn like stars, or why it makes him chew his lip so that it turns that beautiful shade of cherry-pink.
…Or how Matt can make him burn and blush like that without cards or hearts or XOXOs.
"Matty?" He blinks, then flushes bright red. Somehow Mello has put down his book without him noticing. Now he's glaring across the room, probably wondering why he's being stared at.
There's a second or two of silence, in which Mello waits expectantly and Matt wishes he could spontaneously combust. Then Mello sighs and thumps the space beside him in the armchair. Shakily, Matt gets up and slides down next to him. There's enough room for two, just, which means they're sandwiched together, shoulder to knee. Mello's skin is warm. His breath smells like bubblegum. There are butterflies having a rave in Matt's stomach.
"What are you thinking about, Matty?" Mello asks. "Your face is all screwed up. Like this." He wrinkles his nose, crossing his eyes and wriggling until Matt starts to giggle.
"I was…" Matt begins, realising halfway through that he has no idea how to end the sentence ( definitely not with the truth). "er…wond'ring why you're reading that again?"
Mello shrugs.
"I just like it. Rodger wanted me to write an essay on it; the Affect of Patriarchal Discourse or whatever, so I did. But it's not 'cause of that. This girl, Esther," he stabs a finger at the page. "She's really lonely, and different, and…and when I'm reading it…" he trails off. On paper, Mello can out-smart and out-word every lecturer, professor and professional on the planet (apart from Near), but verbally, he still speaks like a ten year old kid. He doesn't talk about feelings.
He's not supposed to.
Matt, now redder than a postbox, reaches over and pats Mello's shoulder.
"You're not lonely, Mello." He says. "You've got me."
Mello snorts and wipes his nose.
"S'pose so."
And that, Matt knows, is the best 'thank you' he's ever going to get.
Allowing himself a tiny smile, he leans back on the arm of the chair and closes his eyes. He hears Mello hiss in annoyance.
"No, lean this way." Without taking his eyes off the page, Mello reaches out and grabs a chunk of Matt's hair, tugging him sideways so that Matt's head rests on his shoulder. Matt squeaks but lets himself be pulled, adjusting himself slightly so that he's moulded to Mello's side, his head nestled under the other boy's chin. Mello waits, then, giving Matt's hair a brief ruffle, goes back to his book.
Mello's shoulder is bony. His blonde hair tickles Matt's nose and gets into his eyes. He smells like sweat and wool and chocolate.
Matt has never been happier in his life.
"I'd almost forgotten that book." Mello murmured as the vision died. "One of the best I've ever read. I even equalled Near on the essay we wrote on it, not that it was enough to change the rankings…"
"You still care about that?" Matt said suddenly, startling himself with the strength of his voice. "After all these years of obsession, doubt and misery, after you died trying to better him, you still care about beating Near?" Mello's eyes, when they looked at him, were blank as black holes.
"Yes."
"But why Mell? Why can't you see you were better than him? Everyone else could! Hell, the only reason why both of you were named successors was because L's two laws conflicted. He'd said that only the highest scoring student could take his place, but he'd put your name on his will. He'd wanted you, Mello."
"Shut up."
"You wonder how I knew? I looked it up on the computers. Broke the firewall easily enough. He thought you were the best, Mello. You were always the one who dealt with people best. Always the one who could win them over to your side, make them trust you, learn their secrets. It was you who had the talent L himself lacked, you who-"
"Shut up." Mello's voice had gone hard and cold, like a slap to the face. But Matt didn't stop; the words were coming on their own now, wild, scorching, unstoppable. He couldn't shut up even if he had wanted to.
"And you know what else? You know what else, Mello? You did beat Near. You beat him to the one thing he wanted most, and you know what that thing was?!"
"If you don't-"
"It was ME, you idiot! Near wanted me! Since we were ten, before even, he'd envied you because you knew me. How do I know? He told me himself, the night you left! He was waiting when I came back in, he was there when I cried, he-"
"Stop." Mello groaned. "Stop it, stop it, stop it-"
"But I said NO, Mello!" Matt shouted across him. "Because he could never be you. Don't you get that? He could never replace you. No one could replace you-"
"Shut UP, Matt."
"NO!" Matt roared. "Mello, he-"
"Stop LYING TO ME!" Mello screamed. "I can't stand it! Stand you! Stand him! Shut UP!"
"Mello-"
"STOP IT!"
Mello flew at him like a tiger from its cage, so fast that even the white smog parted at his feet, scattering like a flurry of snow. Matt stiffened despite himself, his fists clenched, waiting for the blow. But Mello never reached him. Instead he froze at the very last second, near enough for his breath to fan across Matt's cheek. He was so close; breathing heavily, his fist pulled back, his eyes shining with rage and tears…
Then the life went out of him. The fist jerked back to his side and his head fell down onto his chest, his eyes rooting themselves to the floor. By the time he raised them the tears were gone. Instead there was an emptiness, a helplessness, that was even worse than tears.
"You can't hit me here, can you?" Matt asked after a while. Mello shook his head.
"Can't hit anything. Every time I do I just end up facing the other damn way." His voice cracked then, twin tears bursting from his eyes and down his cheeks. His knees gave way and he buckled into the fog. Matt sank with him, reaching out helplessly, longing to grab him, to hold him.
But, just as Mello had said, when Matt reached out, a strange force pushed him back; like the pull of like-poles of a magnet.
All he could do was sit close and watch Mello as he cried, near enough to smell his hair, feel the warmth of his skin, to lose himself in watching him until he forgot his own feelings, forgot everything else. Until Mello became his whole world.
This was what they had always done. When they were alone, or angry or scared, they would bury themselves in each other, losing every other feeling save the carnal need to hold onto something, someone. They had held each other and, by doing that, held their hearts, and their sanity, together.
Nothing about touching Mello has even been gentle, but that made moments with him even more precious. They echoed for days, weeks afterwards, leaving everything sharper, clearer, like the sky after the hurricane.
Matt wouldn't trade those moments for the world.
oooooOOOOOooooo