Mello sank to the ground, breathing heavily. He smelled sweat on his skin, and agrily wiped a sheen of it from his forehead. After bursting out of the double oak front doors at Whammy's, he had hurtled indefinitely across the grounds until he felt his lungs were going to rip out of his chest. He was sitting under a large weeping willow, the tips of its bowed branches brushing the surface of a frozen white pond beside it. Mello fingered a smooth, cold pebble nestled into the frost. It made his fingers feel numb, the way he wished the rest of him would. Instead, Mello just felt queasy. The contents of his stomach ranged, because of the season and L's odd eating traditions which he foisted off on Watari, who foisted them off on Roger, who decided that the boys would all do a little better if they all ate like their predecessor too, from green tea ice cream to chocolate stuffed croissants. Mello's stomach lurched.
"Hey, stranger." A tendril of acrid smoke made stark contrast to the bare coldness of the dead trees and frozen pond beside Mello. He didn't need to turn around to know whose voice it was. He hurled the pebble at the ice, where it bounced across the surface before skidding to a stop.
Please go away. Again, Mello's mouth did not agree with his mind. "Fuck off with your tar-stick, Matt. Second-hand smoke kills."
"Someone's on the rag, I take it." Matt jerked his cigarette away as Mello turned around and swung at it. He was smirking, his red mop of hair tousled and clownish in their environment. Sticking the cigarette back between his teeth, he said: "Jesus, Mello, just calm the fuck down, alright?"
"I will not calm the fuck down, you pompous cock! And you're not fucking OLD enough to smoke!" Mello could feel all the humiliation and repressed emotion come steaming out of him as he shouted "L WOULDN'T FUCKING WANT YOU TO POLLUTE YOUR FUCKING NASTY BODY!" Before he knew what had happened, before he could even close his mouth, Matt had calmly but swiftly forced Mello into the hard, cold earth, his lips tasting of tobacco and cherries.
His hands were on Mello's zipper, his hot, wet mouth was on Mello's own colder, dryer mouth, and his hips were pressing Mello's thighs against a stick in the ground.
Oh Shit! What's going on?! I hate Matt! Near is so much- OH! That felt nice...Near could never have made me feel that... And so, as the years passed, as Mello grew too old to care about grades, as he eventually ran away from his childhood and all its horrible, sticky memories, he sank into a sort of addiction to obliviousness, beginning a process in which sex muffled bad feelings, where orgasms masked love, a twisted, soul-less void of thrusts and grunts, where Mello was free to simply- exist, without fear of embarrassment or guilt. He fucked a lot. He had never made love.