"Love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."

Matt sat on his bed, goggles thrown off his stiff face, mouth in a grim slash, and his eyes staring blindly in front of him, a glassy film enveloping them. It was all he could do to not scream and hurl a great many things at Mello. All he could to not throw himself at the blond and hurt him. It was all he could do to not storm out of their shared room and run down the hallway like his own tornado, leaving things in messy disarray behind him. But this was Matt. Matt didn't do those things. Not in the broad daylight.

So when Mello threw his game Brain Age, AKA Matt's present, in the garbage can and calling it stupid, Matt sat on his bed doing nothing. He would wait until night to wreck his havoc. All of the fluffy feelings from a week ago were nothing now. It was back to the same old "beating Matt with a pillow once Near wins something, staying up until midnight to study, and otherwise being a complete ass". Mello had said nothing of the small kiss on the cheek he had received. He didn't even acknowledge it after he ran off to study. The blond had merely raised a hand in mock greeting and went back to his game on Matt's red and black DS.

It just wasn't fair.

Mello left the room gracefully, and Matt supposed it was a good thing he had. Anymore time with him and the red-head might have actually lunged at the blonde's throat. That might have been scary. And what was the worst thing about this was, that Mello didn't even notice or care that he had hurt Matt. Or that he had even noticed his (supposedly) best friend's heart shattering. His body signs had been pretty obvious, after all. The whole, jaw tightening, shoulder slumping, fist tightening, the spark leaving his green eyes. Yeah, it had been pretty obvious. Then again, Mello hadn't even looked at Matt when he disposed of the DS game. And what also hurt him was that Mello had thrown away a game for God's sake. He didn't even bother asking Matt if he would like the game, though there was a logical reason why. But Matt was much too blinded by rage and sadness to even think about why Mello had done it. Why Mello didn't ask Matt if he wanted his game back. Thinking of why was utterly pointless at the moment.

And if Matt were in his right mind, he would have consoled himself with the fact he was hidden in a particularly dark corner away from everything and everyone in the shared room. Of course Mello had not seen him.

Matt didn't know how long he had sit in his dark corner, though judging by the way the golden sunlight filtering in from the dusty blinds a few feet away from him, he guessed he had sat there for hours. That was pathetic, even for him. Just sitting around freakin' pouting while Mello was out having fun and not even caring or realizing the damage he had done to his friend. It seemed Matt was the only one affected. But duh, Matt had known his hours ago. He didn't know why he had sat here, thinking the same repetitive generic thought for hours. Matt sounded like a heart-broken teenage girl. It disgusted him, and he didn't even want to think about what his father would say.

Matt found it surprisingly easy to be angry at someone. That someone being Mello. He'd always thought it would have been amazingly hard to be angry at anyone, nonetheless Mello. Mello who you couldn't be mad at anyway, because being angry at Mello was pointless because the blond really didn't give a rat's ass. But Matt relished in the throbbing, dark feelings coursing through his veins with every heartbeat. He relished the adrenaline, setting his nerves alight and flipping a switch on his brain setting it to 'alert' mode. He'd found it surprisingly easy to punch his pillow till it was nothing more than limp goose feathers with a giant dip where his head would rest. He'd found it surprisingly easy to kill the bosses on his game, imagining Mello and his whole "I'm too good to keep any present anyone ever gives me' attitude.

But night fell, and Matt found it hard to keep up his angry appearance, when Mello had come in that night, sweaty, dirty, and bleary-eyed with exhaustion from playing soccer all day. He found it hard to smack the blond upside the head, because he could already see the bruises forming on Mello's arms and back once the blond had stripped to get in his night clothes. And Matt found it especially hard not to take the blond in his arms and tell him a story, read to Mello from the bible like he did every time the blond was exhausted and sweaty.

Matt could barely stand saying 'No', when Mello had asked him to come to bed with him, to read him proverbs 10-18 like he always did at night. Matt almost broke down and crawled into bed with him, once Mello gave him that saddened and confused gaze. The one that had snared Matt from the start. The one that pleaded with Matt to believe that Mello was truly a good person, because he was. Really. "I-I have something else to do, Mello. I'll be back later. Don't wait up." He croaked, his voice nothing more than a broken, hoarse whisper. Mello did nothing but nod sadly and burrow himself in the cold blankets. The only warmth the blond ever got was from Matt himself. The same Matt who was leaving that night.

Matt stumbled from the room that night, choking on his breath and taking in huge gulps of air to keep himself from crying. How could he have been mad at Mello? How could he have punched his pillow thinking it was the blonde's ego he was massacring? Mello had not meant anything by the whole "throwing away his game". The game was just too stupid for Mello's genius intellect. The game just did not satisfy his crave for knowledge, and it did not curb his appetite to beat Near. Mello was only getting rid of something he didn't need, and Matt understood why Mello did it when he thought Matt wasn't in the room.

It was because Mello cared. It was because Mello didn't want Matt finding out he didn't like his game. It was because Mello appreciated him enough not to trash the game in his obvious presence.

Matt now felt like putting a bullet through his foot.

The common room was just up ahead, and the piano had a ghostly sheen to it, with the dusty moonlight falling on it. The whole scene looked like a picture from a crappy love story. The curtains were gently billowing in the breeze, reminding Matt of his mothers dresses on a spring morning. The entire room was fairly cold. With the windows cracked open, the late night breezes, and the fact Whammy's was located in London brought Matt a round of shivers coursing down his spine due to the temperature.

The grand piano awaited its master, and Matt took a seat on the old oak stool, the piece of furniture creaking softly under the extra weight Matt added. The keys of said piano were faded to a yellowish tint, probably from the oil and grime of the many generations of small hands playing it. Whammy's had a tradition of having piano recitals whenever L could come and visit. Matt usually came in third with those contests too. He was rather good at one particular piece and Matt resolved he would play it tonight. He would give the sleeping residents of Whammy's pleasant dreams.

Matt would play Moonlight Sonata.

The red-headed teenager closed his eyes and reopened them, setting his thin fingers on the keys and taking a small breath to prepare himself, and played.

His fingers quickly flitted through the first measures without a hitch, but he missed a note on one, his pinkie finger slipped and he made a flat note sharp, and Matt actually winced back as the sound reached his ears.

To most people, these minute mistakes could not be detected. Only if you had an ear for music and you were actually paying attention. Minutes later, and Matt screwed up an entire measure and sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening at his obvious mistake and squeezing shut a moment later to hold back his onslaught of tears. His father told him to never cry.

Three minutes and five mistakes into the entire piano piece, Matt slammed his fingers onto the keys, hard enough to leave the tips of his digits red and swollen, then curled into a tight ball on the piano seat, wishing his tears away. Had Matt been paying attention, he would have noticed the small figure adorned in white shuffle ever close. And if Matt had been paying attention, he wouldn't have gasped in surprise as Near took a seat next to him on whatever was left of the piano bench and start to play. Near, the one Matt was supposed to hate because Mello did. Near the golden child of Whammy's. Near the boy sitting next to him, playing the hardest part of Moonlight Sonata perfectly, eyes cast straight ahead not looking down at the crumpled figure of Matt.

Matt could not bring himself to sit up and push Near away like Mello would have liked and wanted him to do.

The piano piece was brought to a close, five mistakes on Matt's part and zero on Nears, before the white haired boy looked down at the mess of shocking red hair and brought a knee up to his chest. Still, he said nothing but carefully patted he boys shoulder with pale while fingers.

"Matt is upset."

"Yeah, I am Near."

"With whom?"

Matt paused and hiccupped, tightening his grip on his red hair and shaking his head 'no'. Near did not need to know this. Near didn't need to know anything. Near needed to leave so Matt could cry in private without anyone hearing or hurting him.

"Matt can cry if he wants. I won't look down at him."

The boy in question turned his weary eyes up at Near before opening his trembling mouth. "D-Dad said I couldn't cry, Near. Dad said real men didn't cry." He choked out, Near clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a displeasing manner. "Matt's father was wrong. Humans cry. Matt can cry."

Matt shook his head again, pressing the palms of his hand up against his closed eyes, creating pressure so the degrading saline wouldn't drip down his cheeks. So the tears wouldn't harm his ego anymore than it was already bruised. But slowly, Near coaxed tears from the red-headed child, by playing Moonlight Sonata again, causing five mistakes like Matt did, to make sure the red-head was not alone. Matt sobbed quietly, and the silent tears left a burning trail in his wake. It seemed to write "I'm a failure" all along his prominent cheekbones, and dripped insults off his chin.

"My son will not cry!" Matt's father, Bernard, seethed quietly, grabbing the fiery red locks of his young child below him and wrenching the small head upwards. "My son is not a pussy, therefore, he will not cry." These words were whispered, hot breath sending waves of fear that literally caused little Matt to quaver. Bernard sneered and let go of the hunk of hair he held in his left hand, pushing the small boy backwards with his right.

"Will you, my boy?" Matt shook his head rapidly back and forth, promising his father that tears would never touch his face. The throbbing ankle that had caused him to almost start bawling was forgotten about, and the soft touches of his mother's hands were lost. The comforting sensation they would bring as they wove through his hair was not possible, and the warmth he would get by pressing his face into her large bosoms and demanding comfort and love was simply not going to happen. His Mother was long gone.

"Promise me! Promise you will be a man!"

Matt shook and opened his mouth to answer his father.

"I promise, Daddy."

"Does Matt feel better?" A quiet voice wrenched Matt from his silent musing, giving him a metaphorical splash of cold water as a reminder that he was still crying, sobbing quietly now. He had to leave. Matt had to get away from the one person who had seen him cry before things went awry. Matt had to get back to Mello, to press against him and whisper apologies.

"I-I gotta go Near. M-Mello is waiting." Matt got up to leave, rubbing furiously at his face with the back of his small hand, the sensitive area of his cheekbones being rubbed raw. The young teenager stopped and peeked down at Near before opening his mouth. "You're not a bad guy, Near. Th-Thank you."

Matt fled the scene, not daring to look back, missed the small smile etched across the pale boys face.

-xXx-

Matt stumbled into the room and collapsed onto Mello's bed, panting heavily and stripping himself of his baggy jeans and over-sized t-shirt and crawling into bed with Mello. He shook slightly, pressing himself against the warm blond and praying to any God that would listen after his sobbing incident that Mello would not send him away. Matt needed Mello now, even though he obviously didn't deserve it. Matt reached out and took a hold of Mello's rosary in his icy hand, muttering to himself the Hail Mary.

Hail Mary, full of Grace. The Lord is with thee,

Matt pressed up against Mello and softly wept into the older boy's hair, not because he was a terrible person to be angry at the blond, but for so much more. He cried because Mello did not deserve to be second. He cried because he did not deserve to have such a bastard of a father. He cried because Mello did not deserve to be ignored tonight. He cried because maybe Mello needed him as much as he needed Mello. He cried because he had never had the ability to do so freely before.

Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.

Mello was roused from his light slumber to someone pressing their face into his neck and the sensation of something wet soaking his shoulder. He shifted listlessly, bringing his arms to wrap around the only person it had to be. Matt. Matt was back and not angry at him. Matt was because and sobbing on Mello's shoulder. Matt was back and muttering something that sounded like a prayer. And the red-headed child was even asking whoever would listen for forgiveness. Mello gave him that. "Matt, I'm here. It's okay. Calm down, Matt." He croaked, voice still raspy from being unused for so long, and he shifted again, trying to get the sleep from his system.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our Death.

Matt, on Mello's command, quieted down and rubbed at his face again. "Mello, God, Mello. Please let me stay here, in your bed. I…n-need you." He whispered, partly hoping Mello would not hear him, partly hoping he would. He felt rather than heard, Mello nod groggily and felt fingers threading through his knotted hair. And he felt that he was forgiven for leaving Mello. That he was forgiven for crying tonight, and that God had not abandoned him. He felt that Mello would make it better, and that everything was going to be okay.

"Thank you, Mello. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, Matt. You're forgiven. Sleep, I'm here."

Matt nodded, eyes slipping shut, exhausted by his midnight weep-a-thon and let the warm hands of sleep take him away to his dreams.

"I'm here."

Amen.