I've been awake for a while. I don't know what time it is, but I know it's still dark. The curtains, slung wide open because I was too exhausted from a full (but not regretted) eight hours playing Legend of Zelda, which I've completed an incalculable amount of times but keep going back for more. The sky reveals an obscure blanket of stars; beyond them are the aloof sounds of the city, strangled by the dense forest which encircles our pitiable cabin like a tomb.

When I say we, I mean myself and Mello, whose laboured breathing I can hear from the room beside me. I don't know whether he's awake- I don't check. Mello's bizarre sleeping patterns have always managed to piss me off (what kind of man gets up at one in the morning for a fucking chocolate bar?) but as long as he doesn't tramp around the house shouting or breaking things, I can deal with it generally without complaint.

Of course, it's not like he can afford to do that anyway. When you're in hiding you usually don't have much opportunity to make a shitload of noise.

Mello's been on the run ever since he sacrificed his mafia thugs for an experiment and then allegorically gave the finger to Near and the SPK. Pilfering, extorting, house-trafficking every two or three nights to avoid being spotted – he's lived the real deal, though for some screwed up reason he seems to enjoy it. Ex-mafia, ex-Wammy's-House-second-best, ex-future-prodigy, and the guy did it all just to piss Near off. Living on the run because he can't handle being bested by that little white haired shit.

Though in all decency, I've never disliked Near personally. I detested him because Mello did. I terrorized him because Mello did. Honestly, I worshipped Mello from day one.

I hate to admit it, but maybe I still do. I mean, it's not like he deserves it.

But anyway, Mello has always done a great job at fucking up his life; which of course, this means he fucks up mine too, just because I can't say no. He's always been a great manipulator, but the difference is, I allow myself get operated. I know I shouldn't- it only endorses Mello's holier-than-thou bigotry shit, which is bad enough as it is. It's why he is still my best friend after running out on me four years ago; it's why I've let him upheave the discreet calm which was my life in the matter of hours; it's why he's sleeping (or not) in the room next to me, putative and hailed without question.

Mello showed up on my doorstep almost four months ago (in the middle of the night, might I add). Apparently his sleeping habits are in sync with his nomadic ones, too. He was bleeding copiously from some ugly hole in his thigh which didn't seem to be bothering him much but sure as hell disturbed me. He stunk like Chocolate; of wilderness and sweat, just like I remembered him.

Of course, now he was escorted by the pang of leather; of gasoline; of the metallic stitch of blood.

I had stared at him for what felt like years. I had felt so many things in that moment that I was overwhelmed, my mouth flapping stupidly like a fish. We were swallowed by the uncanny silence of the night; the slap of my stomach as it completed somersaults, the-

"Where the fuck have you been?" Time was moving at a normal speed now. Within seconds I had wrestled him to the ground, his wrists pinioned above him, a knee holding him still and in place. The thud of my fist connecting with the strident jawline of his face echoed like a cry through the deserted carcass of my street. I could swear all my neighbours could hear it- that even though their muted pot-haze (which they were on relentlessly, and which I had shared with them once or twice) they could tell I was devastating the face of a man who had, for almost 10 years, been my greatest friend.

Once I had sufficiently bruised my knuckles, and Mello's nose was tilting on an odd angle, I stopped. I was breathing furiously, lungs heaving, stomach twirling uninhibitedly. He was glaring at me with an expression so familiar that if I weren't on a high fuelled by a furious, vehement rage, I could have almost been reduced to tears.

Incidentally, I did not cry. We glowered at each other for several seconds before Mello shifted uncomfortably beneath me, swearing beneath his breath. "Get the fuck off me." With an ugly cough he turned his head and spat – with it was the ruby-red smudge of blood. I would have felt guilty if I wasn't so insanely mad, and entirely speechless. I didn't move for a moment. I vaguely realized I could count myself blessed if, the moment Mello was up and had free use of all his limbs, he wouldn't knock out the majority of my teeth.

I rolled off him anyway. I was too furious to promote coherent thinking.

Yet despite my speechlessness and the lead in my stomach which marched to a curious beat every time I inhaled, the first thing I though as Mello rose to his feet was: what the hell is he wearing?

The Mello I remembered had always been feminine- long (or at least, long in the eyes of a teenage boy, who revered teasing Mello for it ceaselessly) straight blonde hair, skinny waist, short. This, at least, was a look he kept. But he was not wearing a long sleeved top and loose pants (which were extremely similar to L's typical apparel, which I realized now was not entirely coincidental) which I was so inured to seeing him in before he up and left Wammy's House in a gigantic temper tantrum.

If I wasn't so delirious with rage, and I could tell Mello was using all the strength he had not to attack me for momentarily screwing up his pretty little face, I might have made a joke.

Mello was crusted head-to-toe in dark and impeccable (besides the hole in his leg and the arbitrary spots of blood surrounding it) leather, to the point where it groaned as he took every shaky breath. Not only was his shirt enormously tight, it was even a goddamn midriff, coming to a V-line in the centre and glimpsing his belly-button. The image was completed with unambiguous leather pants and knee-high boots. He looked like a fucked up fetish-Buffy from that show where she runs around slaying hideous vampires. His hairstyle was only contributing to this likeness.

"Just let me in." Mello spat, his hands balled tightly into fists. I glared at him, incredulous- we hadn't seen each other for almost five years. How did he find me? What did he want? How could he act like this wasn't a gigantic moment, like his heart wasn't leaping out of his chest like mine was?

I didn't answer- I considered refusing. Mello charged forward anyway, his face contorted in strain, possibly from his nose, possibly from the hole in his thigh which was leaking precariously fast. I stepped out of the way, only just avoiding his shoulder before it collided with mine. Mello stormed into the chaotic mess of my living room, wrinkling his nose at the stench of cigarettes. He glanced around before swiping a litter of cigarette butts and game controllers off a vacant couch seat.

"Hey!" I protested, moving forward to grab the discarded controllers and clutching them to my chest. I was still breathing hard, and I couldn't control the distinct roundness my eyes had taken. I didn't know how to act; what to say. Surely we couldn't just continue along as though everything was normal? Mello ignored me.

We were silent for some time. I settled on another couch opposite his, trying to ignore his sidelong glances at how astonishingly shambolic my apartment was and how it looked abandoned and decrepit all except for the ludicrously large gaming motherboard set in the undeviating centre of the living room. I briefly wondered if Mello would laugh if I told him how many meals I had skipped to buy it.

"Why are you here?" I broke the silence heatedly, pissed now that Mello was saying nothing after elbowing into my house in the middle of the night. He had fished a chocolate bar out of his pocket and was absentmindedly chewing.

"I need your help." He said nonchalantly, crossing his legs and regarding me with a look someone would give a particularly wild beggar on the street. "Near, the SPK, are all after my ass and no one knows how to disarm security better than you do. You could be a great asset to me."

I visibly filched. Apparently I made a better asset than a friend. I didn't answer for several moments. "Where the hell have you been?" I finally said, wrenching my hands together and gritting my teeth. I ignored his comment completely.

"Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm back, aren't I?"

For a second I was so furious I thought I would combust. "What the fuck does that mean? You left me for 5 years. You left without a word, a note, a thought -"

Mello interrupted, leaping to his feet. "I don't have to explain my motives to you, you assghole." We both stood adjacent, glaring at each other, hands balled into fists. Mello imbibed an angry breath before hurling a fur coat (I paused to glance at it incredulously) at my feet and turning to investigate the small apartment. "And anyway, I left a note. It's hardly my fault that you didn't find it."

I stared at him, open-mouthed, as he peered through a doorway in distaste. "Now, where am I sleeping?"