Title: Doesn't (1/2)
Author: Miru
Rating: T for some language
Warning: Spoilers for chapter 99, and if you don't know who Matt is
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Matt doesn't remember anything about his mother, except that she was the one he inherited his red hair from, and that she had a nice smile. Then again, he was only two, turning three in half a week, when he last saw her, and back then, he was still named Mail. (It was pronounced "mile," but written "mail," a fact that bothered him for the next decade.) He remembers even less about his father, because he remembers exactly nothing about him, like those memories have been wiped clean out of his head, a magnet to a computer disk.
He also doesn't know what a "bastard child" is, exactly, but he knows that, whatever it is, he is one, because he heard the orphanage women saying that word in association with his name a couple times. It had to be something bad, since those two syllables were always said in a hushed whisper, and the women laughed nervously and cooed at him when they noticed he was listening, blinking much less than normal people did as he stared up at them. It took him a couple years at that place to get used to the pitying, overly sweet smiles they gave him. The smile that high-up people will give to losers. He knows that much.
Still, he's smart, smarter than most people guess him to be, so when he also hears the words "divorced," "she was lonely," "one night" and "mistake," at the age of eight, he gets the general idea. That last word sticks to mind especially. He sits at the computer that night, well past bed-time, his eyes beginning to ache from constantly staring at the glow of the monitor. The mouse cursor is hovering over the file name "Elizabeth Jeevas." The orphanage keeps a list of the people who have left their children on their doorstep just in case the kids ever want to trace back who were the people who threw them away. It took some time, but hacking the database isn't hard, and he's good with computers. He pauses, his finger resting on the mouse button. His mother lies behind that blue hyperlink.
He never clicks that link.
He decides that, if she doesn't care about him, he doesn't care about her, either. It's a childish way of thinking (an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth), and he knows that, but he doesn't care, because, after all, he reasons, he's just a kid. He won't care about her.
Still, when the orphanage caretaker takes him to the doctor one week later, where the optometrist announces that he has photophobia, he blames the condition on the faceless redhead that is his mother's memory even before he knows what he's been diagnosed with. It takes a while for the nurse to explain to him that his eyes have a problem taking in light, which will make it hard for him to be in places that are too bright. It takes a bit longer than it would with most patients, because he insists on knowing exactly what is wrong with him. He only nods in understanding when he can no longer grasp the technical language concerning the malfunction in the muscles that control the size of his pupil.
He doesn't act it, but he's already known about his 'deformation' for a while now, because he knows it hurts to be bright places and it's much more comfortable to be in dark rooms, even if the orphanage ladies scold him for it. He keeps quiet as the nurse and his caretaker discuss 'his problem' in hushed tones.
If he says that he already knew about his condition, then it's as if he won't be justified in being angry with his mother for handing down such cruddy genes.
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"Mail."
He's still halfway dozing when the teacher calls his name, and he blinks, though it's obviously hidden by the lenses of his sunglasses, because the teacher calls his name again, sounding more irritated this time.
"Mail Jeevas!"
Of course, his name elicits a couple giggles from the other students, and he frowns a little bit as he answers, voice a little hoarse and completely monotone; he's only ten, but he has the 'attitude' of a fifteen year old, and the teachers hate it.
"Yes…sir?"
"You shouldn't be sleeping in class!"
"I wasn't…sir."
"It looked like you were!"
"I really wasn't…sir."
The pause between the "sir" and the rest of his sentence is calculated: just short enough that he won't get in trouble for being "disrespectful," but long enough to irritate. Perfect. Mr. Blanchette slams his book down on the podium, his face growing red.
"Answer the question on the board, then!"
He really has been sleeping for the past few minutes, nodding off, but the rest of the class has been working on the same problem for the past twenty minutes, which he solved inside his head in the first five minutes before falling asleep. Stalking up to the board (with calculated lethargy; he walks slowly, slouching, taking enough time to rile up the teacher), he takes the chalk, scrutinizing the board for a moment before writing in short, hard strokes. His handwriting is surprisingly tidy, if a bit tilted to the side, and he takes his time, scrawling down the mathematic equations.
When he's done, he drops the chalk on the podium and risks throwing the teacher a satisfied smirk before slouching back to his seat near the back of the classroom, stifling a yawn.
He still gets a detention for "disrespect." Hmm, he'd better pick up the speed a little for returning to his desk.
It's pretty late when he gets back, since he's had to spend the past hour and a half helping the school secretary address and label envelopes. It's monotonous, boring work, and he's itching to get to his games, but the sight of an unfamiliar car just outside the orphanage gates makes him wary. It's a fairly expensive car, he can tell by the hood ornament, and he can't possibly imagine why that rich a person would come visiting to such a crummy place. (Surely, they had orphanages with higher quality kids where the rich folks would pick and choose?)
"Mail, is that you?"
He's just finished taking off his shoes at the front door, and is in the process of sneaking up to his room (he always gets scolded when coming home after detention) when the voice calls him, and he has to stifle a sigh before calling back.
"Yes…ma'am. Coming."
When he enters the kitchen, where the voice was calling him from, he pauses, because there's a weird person sitting there.
"Mail, I'd like you to say hello to Mr. Roger."
The man turns to give him a critical stare, which he returns boldly.
"Hello…sir."
"Mail." The name sounds oddly digital in the man's voice, flat and uglier than ever. "Would you like to go to a different school?"
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He doesn't like Wammy's very much, but it's better than the orphanage, becuase the computers are better and there's at least one person there he likes. Okay, not likes, tolerates. Okay, not tolerates, sorta hates. Actually, he has no idea why the hell he hangs out with Mello, because the blond is absolutely, totally insane, down to the very last bit.
"Hey, Matt." A crumpled up chocolate wrapper bounces off his head, knocked askew his goggles and making his die in the middle of a boss-fight. The blond comes following closely after the wrapper, chewing on yet another bar of chocolate, dropping small bits of it on the floor and obviously not caring. "You're actually wearing those?"
Straightening his goggles, Matt flips off the Gameboy before looking over at Mello. "Well, I don't see how else I can use it." The goggles had been a belated Christmas gift from the other. Oddly considerate. And oddly perceptive, too. Mello had been the only one to notice his extreme photophobia, other than the teachers, the only one to notice that he shrank from bright light like a vampire from the sunlight, lurking in the shadows as much as possible ever since the women prohibited him from wearing his sunglasses indoor. The goggles, they left alone though, and he wore them constantly. Protection, in a way.
"Well, you look sorta dumb."
"You're the one that bought them."
"I didn't know they'd look that dumb on you."
"Like you'd look any better in them."
Mello plops down on the floor next to him, leaning in to peer at the tiny screen of the gaming console, smelling of grass and little boy and chocolate. "You always play these. Are they that fun?"
A small, wan smile crosses the redhead's face. "I dunno. Is chocolate good?"
"If you're aiming for sarcasm, that wasn't very good."
"I wasn't." The screen of his game flickered, then blanked out. "...damn, low on batteries."
Before Mello can reply with one of his typically sharp retorts, there's a knock on the door, and Roger's standing there, looking a bit more solemn than usual, his hands folded. "Mello." Even his voice is a bit more hoarse than usual. "I need to speak to you. Come to my office." When the blond began to open his mouth, probably to give some sort of excuse, it was cut off before it started. "Now."
"Alright, alright." A piece of chocolate drips to the floor as Mello rises, sparing Matt a small wave as he heads out into the hallway, around the corner, and out of sight.
He doesn't come back.
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It's his fifteenth birthday, and he doesn't give a fuck, but other people do, and it irritates him, for reasons he's not sure of. Linda's chirpy "Happy Birthday, Matt!" and the other kids' sheep-like chorus of similar happy wishes makes him wish that no one knew about his birthday, because it only serves to remind him that he's spent that many years aimlessly, without a clear idea of what to do. Near has long since taken over the position of L, and Mello (that bastard) had already vanished from sight. Which leaves him at the top of the Wammy's hierarchy, a position that he doesn't want any more, because it's pointless.
That night, when it hits midnight (he couldn't help it; the idea of leaving the very moment it was the day after your birthday was a romantic notion), he leaves the orphanage, and no one notices, because the kids are all asleep, and the adults are all busy planning how to better train the next generation kids. All he has is his laptop, a few clothes, and a small collection of other oddities stuffed into a ragged backpack, which he's slung over his shoulder. It crumples a bit when he tosses it onto the seat next to him on the bus, looking forlorn.
It's cold, and his goggles have fogged up.
As the white curtain of steam begins to clear, he looks out the window and sees Wammy's house in the distance, growing more distant now, as the bus rolls down the road, the engine humming. The only other people on the vehicle are the driver and an old man in the back seat who's already fast asleep. He watches the orphanage until it recedes into a tiny dot on the horizon, then sits properly in his seat, staring straight ahead, blankly, at the advertisement plastered onto the back of the seat in front of him.
"Life is wonderful! Live it to its fullest potential with Nix Card! Best credit rates."
A laugh - dry, wan, humorless - slips from his lips as he leaves behind everything that he used to be and turns over a new page, blank, white, full of unknowns.