notes/warnings:
+ this is probably the main M2 chapter so far, so there's a lot of Matt x Mello. it's kind of an interlude, I guess, but there's still a lot of stuff that's important to the main storyline going on.
+ mentions of sex and really mild mentions of drug-taking.
+ swearing, yup.
music: hello, by evanescence
Flowers
The next few cases are wholly unremarkable, almost routine. And yet, L struggles.
He strains his back because he needs to lean closer to the surveillance screens to make out fine detail. He puts a bullet-hole in the wall of Watari's training room because he overestimates the proximity of a target during a simulation program. Then he nearly gets Raye killed by incorrectly estimating the position of a booby trap in a suspected assassin's basement.
"Look," Naomi tells him, during the drive home. "You need to start working within your limitations, or you're going to get one of us killed. Or worse, you'll get yourself killed."
"I am not more important than anyone else," L replies sharply. He hates all of this. He cannot bear the thought that he is no longer completely functional. That something in him does not work.
Permanently.
"Fine," she says briskly. "But you're still an important part of this team."
The eye-patch reduces his powers of deduction by three point five percent.
He thinks that maybe they reduced by one hundred percent the day Light killed him.
A foot connects deftly with the back of his chair, and L half-turns and forces a smile, for Mail's sake.
"What she said," the younger man hisses threateningly, and then goes back to tracing 'Mel' onto the dry window.
He keeps asking L how normal people grieve, and L honestly isn't sure he knows what that word means any more.
"So, how did you get 'Lawliet' from 'Wakefield', anyway?" the Shinigami asks, in the same, strange, calculating tone it's been using since he confessed to it.
"Professor James Lawliet," L replies evenly, his fingers moving delicately over his computer keyboard. "She gave me his name. I think, perhaps, she may have even loved him."
"And, er, the first name?"
"She changed my alias every time we moved, which was about once every three months," L explains patiently. "So she just gave me an initial to have for myself, so that I'd theoretically be better adapted to the never-ending enslaught of new identities."
He is supposed to be searching a database of Swedish tax records, in order to uncover the recent movements of a group of skilled juvenile fraudsters. He would rather get on with the task at hand, too. Interacting with Rae has become strangely uncomfortable.
Rae cups one hand around its chin.
"I still don't understand why you keep it a secret," the death god says calmly. "Why conceal the one truly good thing you ever did with your life?"
"All of the other people I have saved do not count?" L asks irritably.
"No. You saved them for selfish reasons."
"If by 'selfish reasons', you mean 'desire to be a good person', then yes. Yes, I did."
"No, not good. Great. You want people to realise that you are great. I wish I could have met you when you were six. I could have moulded you into a much better human being."
"That is, by far, the most disturbing thing you have ever said to me," L informs it, unable to suppress a tiny shudder. "And does that mean that as king, you cannot bend time and space?"
"Nobody can bend time and space," Rae snaps. "Now you're being ridiculous."
L blinks hard, momentarily surprised into silence. He remembers Rem's words, the very first time she described hell for him.
Most humans are put into some sort of altered reality.
Is it not reasonable, then, to presume that someone or something can alter time and space. So why does Rae not know, or even suspect? What is going on with the Shinigami realm?
And is the human world – or rather, the human worlds – going to suffer the consequences? Is Rae already a consequence?
It has crossed L's mind before, briefly, that perhaps Rae is not actually the heir to the throne. He has entertained the idea that his is simply a mad, delusional Shinigami with no actual future prospects.
Can gods become mentally ill?
"Damnit," L mutters out loud. He needs Rem. She is his informant in the supernatural world. With her help, he is certain he could have beaten Holland in half the time.
Half the time.
Then again, he certainly doesn't want to hear what Rem has to say about their now-matching headwear. And there's always the risk that someone as sweet as her might try to counsel him, and be supportive, and say motivational things.
After all, she's always tried to keep him safe – maybe even happy – ever since he died.
L realises with a jolt that he's forgotten, or at least neglected to remember, one of the very first things she ever told him.
'Whatever you do, no matter what, you must not surrender your memories to Rae. You must never give up ownership of the death note. It will hurt you if it gets the chance.'
And yet, a month ago, just before he'd told his Shinigami about his mother, he had been ready to…
If he gives up, Rae will destroy him.
That is not the way L wishes to die. No. He will write his own name, first. He cannot let his guard down, not even for a second. And certainly not because the death god seems to have some bizarre admiration for someone he hasn't been in almost thirty years.
"Damnit what?" Rae prompts.
"Nothing," L replies, in the most aloof voice he can muster. "Just damnit."
"Oh hey, it's November. That annual fair at Southampton will be held in a few days."
L lifts his head from his desk and regards Naomi sleepily.
"Hmm?"
"Oh, the one where two or three people mysteriously drop dead every year?" Raye enquires enthusiastically.
"They still haven't caught the killers," Naomi informs him.
"Possibly because there is no proof that anyone has been killed," L reasons. "It is a public gathering of dubious quality. Rides are poorly-maintained. Food is prepared unsafely. Accidents are bound to happen."
She shrugs.
"Yeah, but it's not like we're doing anything else."
L stares at the monster in the corner. Rae is watching him with near-scientific curiosity, and it's bothering him more than he cares to admit.
They're heading for the four-year mark now. Not long to go. He doesn't want to just be another pawn in someone else's game. He does not want to lose.
If he writes his own name before the five years have ended, does that mean Rae still gets to be king?
Does it matter?
Mail elbows him subtly.
"Isn't there, uh, spiritual stuff at this thing?" he questions, almost inaudibly.
Oh.
L touches his shoulder briefly.
"Would you like to go?" he queries.
"Yeah. I think so."
"Okay," L announces loudly. "We will go and investigate. Tomorrow."
That night, when L sleeps, Rae rests as well, its bare skull tipped back against the wall.
L is used to the death god, now. It is familiar to him, like headaches, and body odour, and Mail's grief.
And unlike his new disability.
L swats reflexively at the material that covers his damaged eye, as if that will somehow help his situation. Things are changing. He isn't sure where he's supposed to go, or what he is supposed to do.
And Watari keeps looking at him, and make vague suggestions that maybe he ought to think about retiring.
But if he were to give this up, there would be no point to his life. Besides, he will be forced out of work one day, anyway. He is certain of that. One day he will have no anonymity left. So he may as well prolong the inevitable for as long as he can.
Rae's expression is dormant, almost unseeing. L curls up into a horizontal version of his usual crouch, and lets himself drift.
He is woken – not much later – by soft, vehement muttering.
"No. No, no, no."
He opens one eye, and tries to push the blanket away from the other before he remembers. Rae is awake, and seems to be staring off into the darkness.
"Shut up, you stupid kid."
"You okay?" L asks, the word 'Grace' on the tip of his tongue.
The death god startles a little, and then rolls its fiery eyes.
"Yeah, fine."
"Were you dreaming about her, Boney?" he whispers.
"No. Someone else. Go back to sleep," Rae commands.
L frowns.
"So…you do dream?"
"Not exactly," the Shinigami groans. "Just…waking visions."
"You sounded disturbed."
"You've never had a nightmare before, genius?"
L lifts his head.
"Waking nightmares?" he demands.
"Go back to fucking sleep," Rae snarls, neatly turning its back on him. "This does not involve you."
L does not return to slumber. He stays awake, eyes wide open. A strange, nagging feeling has settled in one corner of his mind. He feels as if there are answers here that he ought to know.
Rae's situation is so different from any other Shinigami he's met, or heard of. Sometimes, L gets the feeling that Rae's life doesn't actually make sense.
And that bothers him deeply, because if things do not make sense, then there is always, always someone who is writing the script.
He's not sure – not even one percent certain – but he feels uneasy, all the same.
The night drags on, a carbon copy of every other long night he's somehow managed to survive. Of course, surviving is his only actual option, since death just leads to more surviving in a slightly different place, apparently.
He touches the rosary resting on his bare chest. Sometimes it seems like the only thing that matters in the world.
The sky is dark, dark blue, and the stars seem cold and distant. He is lying on his bed because it takes too much energy to sit or stand. When everyone else sleeps, he can mourn in peace.
God, he's so sick of this fucking shit. Fuck Mello. Fuck everyone!
There is no reason for him to even care. After all, the world has never given a shit about him. His fucking parents – whoever they were – left him on the side of a hill to die, and then he wound up in some stupid Scottish orphanage, and then Watari discovered that he had half a brain in his head and spirited him off to Winchester. And from that point onwards, nobody around him cared about how he was feeling or his latest high score in tetris. The only thing anyone ever wanted to know was whether he was improving in his seventeen-digit mental multiplication, or if he was reaching Mensa-levels in his nightly IQ tests yet.
And Near – clever, cute, brilliant little Near – never had the time of day for fucking anyone. He was too busy playing with his toys. Or playing with his hair. Or inserting his toys into his hair, Mail could never fucking work out what the fuck he did all day.
In a situation like the one at Wammy's, when there is someone who worries about you, who lets you sit next to them in every class no matter what, who actually listens to five seconds worth of your thesis on why Samus Aran is better than Lara Croft before telling you to shut the fuck up, then they quickly become your entire universe.
And Mello was – is – his universe. God. He would give anything.
He wants to go back to Wammy's House again, and have all of that again. Just one more time.
He remembers. He can recall the garden in vivid detail. Some former student had been a horticultural prodigy, and had successfully created a line of blue roses. Not lavender, not duck-egg off-white, but a real, sky blue. Amazing blue. The colour of Mello's eyes. And every summer, those roses would bloom, dotting the greenery, weighing down the air with sticky fragrance, coating the paths and lawn with a thick layer petals. He used to be euphoric at that time of year, hopeful and bright, senses filled up with blonde hair and leather and companionship.
Good times.
Mail brings one bead to his lips. It tastes like rotting wood and mould. He always imagined Mello's skin would taste vaguely like chocolate, but he never got the chance to find out.
And anyway, as much as Mello might have been his friend, he'd dropped him like a sack of potatoes as soon as he hit fifteen and realised he was never going to be able to beat Near. No goodbye. No well wishes. No estimated date of return. One day Mail went to Mello's room, and Mello wasn't there. And never came back. For four years. That's all.
It was then that Mail realised that everything he had come to feel…it was all just him. Mello didn't adore him, didn't think he was special, and certainly didn't love him. Mail was just an unobtrusive part of everything he left behind.
And even four years later, after he'd finally received the phone call he'd been desperately waiting for, after he'd sat with Mello while the man angsted and stressed and blustered and plotted, after he'd agreed to work as a decoy, after all of that, Mello had still been going to leave him again.
That conversation. He will never forget. They had this tiny, decrepit little apartment, with mildew-stained carpet and shredded curtains and no electricity. It was the morning of the day Mello would attempt to kidnap Takada, and he could not seem to relax, checking the motorbike, checking the car, cleaning the guns, re-examining the schedule Mail had hacked for him, checking the motorbike.
He had transferred all of the money he had left into Mail's savings account. Mail wasn't supposed to know about that, but he knew a warning sign when he damn well found one.
And if Mello had a plan? Well, Mail had a plan too.
'Hey, Mel. Can we go to New York for Christmas?'
'What? What the fuck? You want to talk about Christmas? Now?'
Yes, because he had wanted Mello to tell him they had some sort of future. He'd wanted Mello to look him in the eye and tell him he wasn't about to lay down his precious life for this pointless, pointless venture.
'Fine. Whatever. Just shut up, I'm trying to calculate the best route for your escape, given the recent variations in the flow of local traffic.'
Mello hadn't even looked at him. Mail had moved towards him, then, the pretence of casualness abandoned, all fear and panic and desperation.
Ever defensive, Mello had gotten to his feet, fast enough to knock his own chair flying. Mail remembers the tiny hole in the hem of his sleeveless shirt, and the blood stain that still lingered on his expensive belt buckle.
But he cannot recall the man's face, not in detail. Not the shape of his nose, or the grit of bared teeth, or the scar Mail longed to touch. Only those ice-blue eyes. So violent, so beautiful, so alive.
So resigned.
'You're going to live, right?' Mail had demanded, and he still feels sick thinking about it.
'What are you talking about?'
So Mello had been prepared to lie to him. To let him survive, and live, and go on all fucking alone, while Mello left in a blaze of pain and indifference.
'You're not thinking of letting them kill you, are you? You're going to walk away from this just the same as I am, right?'
God, he had been so angry. Mello had been so tiny, so fragile. Mail's world.
'Yeah, yeah.'
Even in the end, all Mello had wanted to do was leave him behind. And he'd blatantly ignored Mail's desperate little plea, even when Mail got close enough that he couldn't be ignored.
'Promise me.'
'What? What are you asking for, you idiot? I'm not going to die!'
The lie had been everywhere, written all over his face. Mail could have had him then, just once, up against the wall. It would have been worth every possibly retaliation, even if Mello had shot him in the heart then and there.
But resisting the way he felt was a long-seated, unshakeable habit.
'Good. Promise, then. Promise me you'll live to see the other side of this.'
The one and only time Mello had ever touched him. He'd grabbed Mail's forearm with his gloved hand, obviously terrified, seeking some sort of comfort. And then he had let go and turned away before Mail had even had time to process the situation.
Should have grabbed him back.
Dawn rolls around, to the jaunty tune of Dwayne vomiting up whatever floor cleaner he drank last night. Sometimes you really wish he had the money to buy proper alcohol.
Of course, you're not exactly rich, either. L keeps ordering pay-cuts every time you fuck up a mission, which is approximately twice a week. Near told you yesterday, in no uncertain terms, that if Kira ever beats them, it will be because of you.
You try to push that memory from your mind, and you try to ignore Dwayne for just a little longer. Anyone who still sleeps with six teddy bears shouldn't be allowed to go and get drunk every night, anyway.
You, at least, are enough of a grown up to have forgone toys, although maybe that's just because the last thing you want is to have something in common with Near.
But you do sleep with one of Matt's shirts. He left it at your place once, months ago, and you casually left it sitting on your bed, next to your pillow, and pointedly haven't bothered to put it anywhere else.
It doesn't really smell like him any more, but it's stripy and comforting. You pull it closer and duck your head back under the blankets.
It's the most you will ever have.
You are glad, in a way, that you've never kissed him on the lips, or seen him naked, or – heaven forbid – slept with him. You would rather not know what you're missing out on. Besides, if you have one redeeming feature, it's the fact that you've always tried to protect Matt. You even heard L say that exact thing to Jasmine last week, so you know it must be true. He is your saving grace, maybe. Your ability to ignore and compartmentalise your love of him is the only thing that makes you human.
And you can honestly say that you've always tried your hardest. Back at Wammy's, you even did everything you could to make sure he wouldn't get overly attached to you. And damn, didn't that hurt?
You talked about Near constantly, as if your rival had been your whole world. You told him to shut up after five seconds of him explaining to you why one attractive video game heroine was better than another. And then you left without saying goodbye so he'd realise what an asshole you were.
And you never, ever shared your chocolate with him. Even now, you still don't.
You shouldn't have worried, really. Matt couldn't be less attached to you if he were dead, although you used to kid yourself otherwise. You used to pretend the two of you had achieved some special level of friendship that made you both invincible. You used to imagine that you'd grow up and live with him until you were both old and grey.
And then, when you got older, when the two of you shared an apartment for just a few short weeks, you used to daydream about having something more than that. About his hands in your hair, and his head on your pillow, and…
You shake your head violently. No. None of that. What you wanted back then was sick, and wrong, and it is demeaning to him to even think of it now. He has Jasmine – good, pure Jasmine – and it will be her hair, and her pillow, forever.
And that's just how it ought to be.
The fair smells like candyfloss, and mud, and malfunctioning portable toilets. The grounds are so packed that they have to split up and investigate individually, just to be able to move around. The whole place makes L think of Matsuda, which does nothing for his present frame of mind.
He threads his way through the throng, trying to not to let Mail get too far out of his sight. The young man has been a veritable train wreck ever since the Holland incident.
Naomi would probably say that he's not the only one, either.
"Oh, look, Mommy! A pirate!" a little boy shouts jubilantly, one fat pink finger pointing squarely at L.
"Argh," L deadpans, and continues walking.
They only arrived twenty minutes ago, but he's studied the pattern of deaths, and he's already certain of two things. One, that the incidents are definitely murders, and two, that the perpetrator must be a member of the administrative staff. No individual stallholder would have easy access to such a broad range of murder weapons, and L can see that they are all closely guarding their merchandise from the public.
L suspects, with no small amount of disgust, that people are being killed simply to bring intrigue, and free publicity, to this once-struggling fair.
He is presently tailing the organiser's daughter – a Ms Abigail Marshall – as she delivers coffee and free sandwiches to the stalls. She keeps looking over her shoulder, but it's hard to tell whether her behaviour is based in fear or paranoia.
It's also hard to ascertain whether he is keeping a respectable distance from her. He has to keep counting the number of stalls between the two of them, and estimating based on average length.
It is frustrating. Everything is frustrating. The whole investigation seems to be going nowhere. He has witnessed exactly two semi-suspicious events today; two five year olds professing to be axe-murderers, and a woman who resembles Minnie from the Tracking Library walking around in a full-face mask. No-one adding poison to food products. No-one hiding in darkened corners with weaponry. No-one loitering near the ride mechanisms. Nothing.
And he harbours significant doubt that Ms Marshall is going to undertake in anything untoward.
"It's not her," Rae says, appearing at his side without preamble.
L raises one eyebrow in lieu of a reply.
"It's her father," Rae continues confidently. "Amos Marshall. I just saw him slip something into the peppermint tea at the brewery stall."
"It could be nothing," L mouths.
"Oh, right. You want to wait to see if a bunch of people die first, am I correct?" Rae asks scathingly. "Seriously, he waited until everyone had their backs turned, and as soon as he finished he hurried away from the place. Now he's headed to the men's room with a concealed dagger in his shirt. How much more proof do you want?"
It would not do to give away the investigation by publicly arresting the wrong person. And L has no good reason to trust the Shinigami.
Hm.
More people will die from poisoned tea than an assassin waiting in the bathroom.
"All right. Take me to the stall, and I will purchase some of this tea. As soon as I have left, please knock over the pot. Make sure it looks like an accident. I will then monitor his behaviour."
"Done," Rae says, without hesitation.
L tilts his head curiously.
So, you choose to do that which will save more lives, even though it does not involve the note?
What does that mean? Is the Shinigami actually serious about protecting the innocent and punishing the evil? Is becoming king not its primary goal? Is it more than just a megalomaniac? Has it changed? Has it always been this way?
And if so, why so? Why should it care about humans? Why does it want justice? Does it want to become king solely to dispense justice? That is not the orthodox role of a god of death.
Is it?
His head is starting to hurt. He pushes his own unanswered questions aside and follows Rae through the crowd. He purchases his tea quickly, and leaves without taking a sip. As soon as he is out of sight of the stall, he pours the contents of the cup into the tiny thermos he carries in his pocket. Behind him, he hears an almighty crash and smiles.
Rae is reliable, in some ways. Actually, in a lot of ways. It worries L that it might be Rae's words – and Rae's words alone – that have kept him going after he almost crashed and burned over Holland and Grace and the memory of the Shyster.
Never mind that now.
L finds Amos in the bathroom, surreptitiously attempting to leave. Behind him is the cooling corpse of some unfortunate fair-goer who happened to walk in on a psychopath and his knife.
"H-help me!" Amos stammers, grabbing at his shirt. "I just found him, oh god. He's dead!"
"Of course he's dead," L replies stonily, and then ducks what Amos probably thinks is a sneaky right hook. "You just killed him."
Amos shoves him against the wall, retrieving the knife from his pocket with his free hand.
"Yeah, sorry about that," he replies with a maniacal grin. "You're next."
Ah, L thinks. So this is going to be an easy case, then.
He hits his belt twice – a call for backup – and then kicks Amos in the chin, mostly to avoid being knifed under the ribs. The problem is that the man has placed himself between L and the exit, which means L has to spar to buy time until the others arrive.
"Come here," Amos leers. "I'll take your other fucking eye out, goth-boy."
Why does everyone accuse him of being gothic, anyway? Lots of people have black hair. L dives backwards and the knife misses his face by a heck of a lot less than he'd estimated.
Oh hell. He's in a fistfight with an armed murderer, and he has no weapons and no depth perception.
This may end badly.
L kicks again, and catches Amos in the chest. The man gasps, and recovers quickly. L has time to make one erratic grab for the knife, and fails to retrieve it.
He kicks again, too slowly, and Amos punches him in the stomach with his empty fist. Then he attempts to drive the knife into L's chest, forcing L to drop to his knees to escape.
He's not carrying any weapons. Why is he not carrying any weapons? Has he become so complacent?
Is it really time to retire?
Amos swipes at his face again, and L hunches. And suddenly Rae is there, screaming at him that he needs to hit the floor or Amos is going to make contact.
The knife slips through his hair a second later, and L stares at the ground in revelation.
He cannot do this on his own.
"Get up right now!" Rae barks. "Just do as I tell you."
L springs back onto his feet right as Amos drives the knife into the spot where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier.
"Bring your knee up as hard as you can."
L connects with Amos' forehead, and the man staggers. He feels useless and puppet-like, but at least he's still alive.
"Okay, now…go for the knife," Rae says rapidly. "It is exactly twenty-two centimetres away from your left hand. Go!"
L snatches, almost blindly, and feels his hand close over metal. He twists – just so, the way he's trained himself to do – and successfully disarms Amos.
"Okay, his neck is forty…never mind."
Naomi appears in the doorway, her shotgun trained on Amos Marshall's head.
"It's over," L informs him, with a bright smile.
"That was possibly the easiest case we've ever had," Raye comments languidly.
"We just got lucky," Naomi reminds him. "L happened to follow the right guy. What made you ditch Abigail, anyway, L?"
L glances at his Shinigami.
"Go on," it says happily. "Tell her I'm awesome."
"His behaviour was point seven percent more suspicious," L lies, but he spares Rae a tiny smile, all the same.
"So, now what?" Raye asks, clasping his hands over his head. "I'd really like to look around, if you geniuses can cope with doing normal human stuff for ten minutes."
"Ten minutes? Really?" L enquires. "Exactly how rapidly are you intending to peruse?"
"I just want to go home," Mail adds morosely. "I hate this place."
"Ten minutes would be enough to get us a curry," Naomi points out lightly. "We would test it for poisons first, of course."
"It's been ages since I had proper Indian food," Raye agrees, rubbing his stomach, and L knows he has lost the argument.
"Ten minutes exactly," he orders. "We will meet you at the car."
Watari is waiting for them at the far end of the fairground, standing obligingly beside L's favourite Sedan. The car is white, and looks no different from any other vehicle in the parking lot. As much as L adores his limousines and their cake-stocked bar fridges, he needs something more normal for undercover work.
Mail stops short of the car, his dark blue eyes trained on one of the nearby vendors. A florist.
"What is it?" L asks him softly. He speaks to Mail as he would a small animal, always frightened of provoking him, of making things worse.
"Blue," Mail replies, somewhat cryptically, until L sees the roses.
Sky-coloured roses. Undoubtedly the same strain as the kind that used to grow at the orphanage. All bundled up into little bunches, and being sold for a befittingly hefty price.
Memories.
L touches his shoulder.
"Is it better not to look?" he asks carefully.
"It's okay," Mail replies. "It's…isn't that what people do? Flowers for the dead and departed?"
His voice shakes with the last three words, and L sighs.
Still attempting to be normal, my son?
"Yes, Mail. That is what people do."
"Great. I'm going to get some, then."
The fat lady at the stall stares at him disapprovingly, like she cannot comprehend why someone who looks like him would want to buy expensive flowers. But she accepts his money anyway. The roses smell the same, and look the same, and Mail can almost see the ancient, creaking tyre swing that used to hang from the oak tree at the front of Wammy's House.
He can almost see Mello lazing on it, too. One long leg dangling from the edge of the tyre, toes almost touching the grass, and the other curled underneath him. Book in hand, something ridiculously above his reading-age level, and face hidden behind a curtain of yellow-blonde hair.
Always hidden. Mail wishes he could remember exactly what that face looked like.
"Hey," someone says from beside him. "You okay? You're spacing out."
It's just that lady, the one who lives with them and tries to tell him what to do all the time. Mail shrugs and pushes past her, back to L and Watari, and that man. She follows him, of course. He can't ever seem to get rid of her.
All he wants is to be left alone. Doesn't she understand?
"There's a graveyard about a block away," she bleats annoyingly. "Do you want to go there, too?"
Is she stupid?
"He doesn't have…" he begins, and then trails off.
Mello isn't actually dead, which is the worst thing of all. He is somewhere, somewhere fiery and horrible, and there is no way in, and no way out.
Eternity is such a long, long time. And there is nothing he can do for Mello. He has no choice but to leave him to suffer his fate.
Some friend Mail turned out to be.
"No graves for those in hell," L articulates, apparently taking pity on him. "Will we just go home, then?"
They seem to be leaving the decisions up to him. He doesn't want their fuckin' sympathy, damnit!
The man nudges him.
"You know, my mother always used to say that the sea is everyone's final resting place," he says thoughtfully. "She used to take tributes to the local beach after we lost my grandfather in the war."
It might be the first semi-intelligent thing Mail has ever heard him say.
"It's a twenty minute drive to the coast," L says softly. "Would you like to go?"
Mail hates the way L always looks vaguely guilty around him. He has this stupid complex where he thinks he's Mail's father, or guardian, or something, and really, L should be beyond forming strange attachments to the people around him.
Besides, it's not like Mail even knew him until they both died. Mello and Near had been his favourites, after all.
But still, he's trying to do the things that normal fuckin' people do, and L is offering to help.
"Yeah," Mail replies. "Okay. Let's go."
According to Raye, normal people are inspired by the sea. They marvel at its vastness, are comforted by the bountiful life it symbolises, and are soothed by the rhythmic sounds of the waves.
To Mail, the water seems cold and dead, barely moving, endlessly deep, stretching off into eternity. He stands very close to the edge of the cliff, leaning over the flimsy safety rail, soil crumbling and slipping beneath his boots. He wonders what would happen if he jumped. He likes to think he would drift forever, finally feeling nothing.
An easy way out.
On countless occasions, he has tried to imagine what hell is like for Mello. He usually thinks of it as a fiery-lava-demons-with-pitchforks sort of traditional hell, which Mello might even be able to handle, but sometimes he worries that he's taunted with an unending supply of chocolate he cannot reach, or that his entire body is covered in scars, or that he's forced to work as a sex slave for Near.
Mail thinks those would be the things that would hurt Mello the most. He just hopes that Satan – or whoever – is too busy shoving red hot pokers up Kira's sorry ass to worry about personalising Mello's torture.
Hell, maybe Mello has even made a deal with Satan, and now owns half of hell. Mail wouldn't put it past him. Heh.
The others are waiting in the car, a respectful distance away. L apparently trusts him not to do anything stupid. And Mail is too tired, anyway. Too tired to die. He wishes he could sleep. He wishes he could stomach food. He wishes he could think about something else, anything else.
He reaches for the rosary, and then thinks better of it and grabs a cigarette instead. He uses one gloved hand as a wind-shield and lights up inexpertly. He can see a dead fish being buffered around by the waves. He thinks that if Mello were trying to communicate with him, he'd send a shark. Right now.
Mail stares at the water intently for a few moments, sucking on the end of his cancer-stick.
No shark comes.
He breathes deeply, and retrieves the flowers from the ground by his feet. They are such a beautiful colour, and there has been nothing beautiful in his world for so long.
That lady told him that if he really wanted to act like a normal person, he would move on. He'd find someone else. He would learn to be satisfied with a different shade of blonde, with an unfamiliar smile, with an unblemished face. He'd replace Mello.
As if that would be better. As if that isn't the worst suggestion in the world. He'll grieve until he is completely dead, if that is the alternative. He wants Mello to haunt his every waking hour.
He will never let go.
Unceremoniously, he dumps his armful of flowers over the edge of the railing, and watches them float through the air and land gently in the surf. A moment later they are swallowed by a giant wave, and Mail feels somewhat mollified.
"Hope they're looking after you, doll," he mutters, as if somehow, Mello will hear him.
Eventually L comes, and steers him back to the car, and he goes. There is no point in staying, after all.
Jas stands on the very edge of a rocky plateau that's technically too small to hold her weight. She is supposed to be schooling the Shinigami, Ryuk, on a job he's agreed to take, but…well.
She can't help but check up on Lawliet and Jeevas, especially when her travels take her right through their current location. She used to be so good at this job, she used to be able to successfully create various appropriate hells without ever affecting the innocent. But times changed, and humans grew more and more intelligent, and now she needs Lawliet, even if it makes his life unpleasant from time to time.
And god, she hopes he can do this. She hopes she has calculated everything correctly. She hopes L isn't too good, because then…
If that happens, she has to accept it. Like every other redemption. Even if she doesn't like it.
And Mail Jeevas is just a consequence. A victim. It's harder with couples, with soul-mates, when one has done terrible things and the other has not.
Plainly speaking, she feels as if she owes him something. It's disgusting, how attached she has become.
Maybe she's finally getting too old for this job.
She reaches into the water, and retrieves a single rose. Still perfect. Still undamaged.
She is supposed to be meeting up with Ryuk before sundown, but this won't take any time at all.
"Thank you," L says as soon as they are alone. "Thank you for your help today."
Might as well get it over with.
Rae regards him indifferently.
"I don't get it," it tells him eventually. "You're like…almost a good person, but your perspective is slightly fucked."
"I see. I thought I was a corrupt, selfish, psychopathic monster," L quips.
"Yeah, you are. But it would take so little for you to actually be good."
"So little? It's been almost thirty years since I was six years old. That is a lot of time for things to change, Rae."
"I'm not wrong about this," the Shinigami insists, hanging over him from behind. "I've worked out exactly what it is, too."
"Of course you have," L grumbles good-naturedly. He's surprisingly unperturbed by the conversation.
"See, you want to protect innocent people, just not enough. And that's because you just don't completely despise evil."
"Oh?"
"It's all because of your mother. See, your guilt at killing her means that you always restrict yourself from unleashing true justice on those who deserve it."
"And by true justice, you undoubtedly mean the death note, correct?" L estimates, smirking.
"I mean everything in your arsenal," Rae argues. "According to my calculations, you are one of the top ten richest individuals in the Western world. You're not exactly short on resources. But yes, now that you have the death note, you ought to be using it."
"I was…somewhat taken aback by the way you didn't mention the death note while we were chasing Marshall," L admits. "I was expecting it."
"Well, I…" Rae says, and then stops and shakes its head. "I…"
"You didn't even think of it," L says with wonder.
What is this? I do not understand.
"I told you justice was more important than success," Rae snaps, and L is no longer absolutely certain that it is lying.
There is a clock ticking, high up on the wall. The room is dark. The Shinigami does not move, glaring at him defiantly, daring him to comment.
Are you trying to present yourself as someone trustworthy, or is this…the truth?
Am I going mad?
"Know this," L says with a lot more certainty than he feels. "I will never, ever use that note. As long as it stays with me, you will never be king. But if what you just said is true, then perhaps you will be somewhat contented with simply helping me solve cases."
The death god seems to consider this. L helps himself to another serving of the double-caramel yoghurt sitting on his desk.
"So you admit that you need my help?" it asks, sounding ridiculously pleased.
You chose to focus on that, Rae?
"Of course," L says diffidently. "Both your eyes and your mind would be useful to me right now."
"I know you are using this to judge me," Rae informs him. "You're trying to work me out, aren't you? Isn't it sad that after all this time, you still have no idea as to what I really want?"
"Take it or leave it," L whispers, and he meets those blazing eyes for a full minute without even blinking.
"What are you working on?" Rae asks finally.
L isn't sure whether he feels relieved or unnerved by the decision.
"Nothing tonight. I will let you know when a new case comes up," he replies evenly.
The Jeevases arrive home late, and they don't tell you why. Gemma has been grizzling for two hours straight, Dwayne's been leaving retarded messages on your phone, and you've been worried sick.
But here they are. Both of them. Still alive.
Matt is veritably exhausted. He staggers to the nearest chair and collapses onto it sideways, boots and all. He has a bruise over one eye, and you immediately want to touch it, want to demand to know how he got it, and if there are any others.
But you don't. It isn't your place.
Jasmine trails in behind him, two bulging shopping bags hanging from her tiny frame. You don't ask what's in the bags, either, but you do note that she seems to be in a slightly better condition than her husband.
That's the one thing you hate about Jasmine. That Matt will defend her to the end, throw his life on the line without even a moment's hesitation.
You're terrified that one day he will die in an attempt to save her. The Kira case is dangerous, and L loses one or two good agents every month. The statistics are against him.
You try not to think about it too much.
"Hey, Mihael," Matt says gruffly, flinging one arm in your direction. "Bring her over here."
You hand him his daughter, careful not to touch his arms or hands in the process. Gemma immediately stops whining and curls up on his chest, happily.
"That's right," he says, smiling down at her with utter, utter fondness. "Daddy's here."
You look away. Jasmine notices, of course.
"I'm sorry we're late," she says gently, kissing you on the cheek. "Thank you for taking such good care of Bub."
Bub. She even has a cutesy nickname for her baby. Of course.
"It's okay," you say gruffly. "Anything I can do to help, you know."
"Uh huh," Matt murmurs. "Did you manage to get through the entire day without saying the f-word to her, this time?"
"Oh, yeah," you lie. You say 'fuck' at least once every ten sentences. You don't imagine you'll ever be able to hold your tongue, even for Gemma's sake.
After all, your powers of self control are pretty much non-existent. Jasmine has learned to hide all of the chocolate in the house before you come over to babysit.
Because you eat other people's food. Because you just suck that much.
You're ashamed of your life, and your scar, and your failures, and your own stupid fucking crush, and you inability to be a responsible adult. You're ashamed of everything.
Some days, you would just like to sleep and never wake up. You're pretty certain they're all just waiting for you to die, anyway. Jasmine, especially, keeps talking about how there are 'better places out there', and you know she knows you don't earn enough to travel overseas.
"Adubdubdubdub," Gemma says happily, snuggling up under her father's chin. Jasmine reaches over and smacks the back of his leg.
"Ow! What, baby?"
"Shoes," Jasmine reprimands.
"Kiss first," Matt shoots back.
Jasmine walks up to where his head rests on the arm of the sofa, and he grins up at her joyfully, and their mouths meet.
Perfect little family. Perfect couple, perfect baby in between.
"I…I ought to go," you point out stupidly, and head for the door.
Of course, Jasmine catches you before you actually make it outside.
"Hey, hold on. Haven't you had your licence confiscated?"
"Uh, yeah?" you mumble, hanging your head.
"So you were going to walk? At this time of night?"
She sounds horrified.
"Uh, I was going to call a cab."
You were going to walk.
"Nonsense," Jasmine replies, and retrieves her keys from the hook by the door. "Come on, I'll give you a lift."
You squeeze uncomfortably into the front seat of her zippy little hatchback, and pray that she doesn't actually want to talk. No such luck. She opens her mouth before she even pulls out of the driveway.
"Bad day?" she asks cheerfully.
"No," you lie. "Gemma behaved good."
God, you're so fucking eloquent. Not.
She laughs.
"I wasn't referring to Gemma, I was just-"
"How did Matt get the black eye?" you demand.
She winces.
"We had an altercation with some of Kira's supporters. They were all fairly minor-ranking, from what we can tell. Near managed to take a few into custody, but Kira killed them before we could proceed with questioning."
"Shit," you say unthinkingly. "Now that is what you call a bad day."
"You shouldn't compare your life to ours, Mihael," she reprimands. "What you feel isn't invalid, you know."
"Isn't it?" you ask bitterly. You bet she wouldn't be so supportive if you suddenly said 'hey, I hate your guts and I hate you for existing, and if I had half a chance in hell, I'd probably be trying to steal your husband right now. Oh, and I hate your boss.'
"Just because you don't have a glamorous career doesn't mean you're not an equal human being," she continues mercilessly. "I don't like the way Near talks about you, sometimes."
It's a trap. You bite your tongue. One word against Near, and you would be gone. Ejected from the entire investigation. Isolated away from Matt, and Gemma, and L, and everyone.
"None of my business," you reply thickly.
When she pulls up outside your flat, all the lights are off, and you can immediately tell by the smell that Dwayne has set fire to something expensive. Again.
"Uh, I gotta go," you tell her, shoving open the door and jumping out of your seat. "Thanks for the ride."
"Mihael, wait!" Jasmine yells, clambering out of the car as well, and grabbing you by the arm. "Just one second. I've got something for you."
You hope it's wrapped in foil, and at least eighty percent cocoa solids. You're kind of disappointed – and extremely confused – when she hands you a bouquet of flowers instead.
"Are these seriously for me?" you ask sceptically, before you can stop yourself.
She laughs and tilts her head. The moonlight reflects off her hair, making it look shiny and ethereal. She's wearing tight-fitting army fatigues and sneakers, and you can see that she hasn't gained an ounce of weight since she gave birth to Gemma.
You wish Matt had never met her.
Except then, he wouldn't be happy. Maybe you just wish she wasn't quite so much better than you, in every possible way. Yeah, that would be nice.
"Well, yeah. I mean, you're always there to look after Bub whenever we need a sitter, and I know Matt can be a thankless asshole at times, and I just wanted you to know that we appreciate you."
"Thanks," you say, with as much gratitude as you can muster. She waves enthusiastically, and finally gets back into her car and backs out of the driveway.
The flowers turn out to be roses. Blue, like the ones that grow at Wammy's House. You wonder if Near got them for her.
You hope he doesn't have a crush on her. If he hurts Matt – if he even worries Matt – you'll kill the little prick.
And then L will probably have you killed and…oh yeah, everyone will be happy again. Why is it that the only bad future scenarios you can imagine are the ones where you lead a long and healthy life?
Dwayne will probably just eat the flowers, anyway. You suppose it's the thought that counts.
Mail brings his knees up to his chin. Winter is coming, and he's freezing cold.
Christmas is coming too. He hates Christmas. It's like everyone else uses it as an excuse to be excessively cheerful and nosey, and really piss him off.
He stares at the red glow on the end of his cigarette, the only light in the room. He stubs it out on his belt buckle viciously and rolls over. His mattress is covered in ancient stains, and it reeks of sweat and saliva and nicotine.
Back before he died, he used to regularly crawl into Mello's empty bed and fall asleep. They never seemed to keep the same waking hours, and Mello either didn't notice or didn't care, so he'd made a habit of it. The mattress had been old and dank – in poorer condition than the one he has now – but it had always smelled like Mello, and safety, and home.
He cannot recall that smell any more.
Mail is terrified that all of it will fade, eventually, until he can no longer remember Mello's name, or the colour of his eyes, or the things that he said. Until all Mail has left is a dimly-lit world filled with unspeakable grief, and nothing more than a hint, a blur, an idea, to comfort him.
He doesn't ever want to forget. He does not ever want to move on. He will hold on to his sorrow until it consumes him.
He will hold on to Mello forever.
He shoves his face into his putrid pillow. Beneath all of it, beneath the loneliness, and the regret, and the misery, and the aching eternity spread out in front of him, there is still attraction. He still wants Mello, plain and simple and animalistic. He still fantasises about Mello's hands on him, sneaking up under the hem of his shirt, blunt nails against his skin. He still imagines shoving his face into that fantastic blonde hair and mouthing the nape of Mello's neck. He still wants Mello to push him up a wall, just once, even if it's a nothing-fuck, a replacement-fuck, a pity-fuck. He wants to sink his teeth into those slender, leather-covered shoulders, just once, dear god, just once.
It gets worse when he gets aroused – and god only knows why those particular organs even remember what they're supposed to do – because he knows he won't finish it. He can't. He can't.
He knows that if Mello were to break free from hell and suddenly appear right there on the bed, Mail would just cover himself with the blanket and keep his hands by his sides.
And he'd still give his arms, his happiness, his soul, just to have it happen.
Dwayne eventually loses consciousness, while lying sideways over the broken coffee table with his head on the footstool of his recliner. You put the flowers beside your bed before retiring for the night.
There are so many things you cannot define. Maybe you really are going mad, because you certainly can't explain why you want the roses close to you. Why you don't want to leave them. Flowers don't feel abandonment. You know that.
They're not even that pretty. They're watery-blue, crap-blue, the same colour as your stupid eyes. You fall asleep with one arm around Matt's shirt, and the other dangling off the edge of the bed, fingertips touching the bouquet.
You wake in a blind, insane panic, pumped full of adrenaline and tears in your fucking eyes because you're absolutely convinced someone you love is hurting and you need to do something about it.
You sit on your tiny bed, in the middle of your shared one-room flat, and try to force yourself to calm the fuck down.
You don't. You can't. You take the flowers from the floor and cradle them in your arms, as if that will help, as if you haven't gone completely fucking insane, and there are veritable fucking waterfalls leaking from the corners of your eyes, and you feel like someone has died.
You fumble with your phone, and manage to call the Jeevases without hurting yourself, or anyone else in the room.
Jasmine answers. Of course.
"Mihael, what is it?" she asks, equal parts sleepy and concerned. "It's one am."
"Why have you done this?' you demand. Your hands are shaking and you can't stop them.
"Done what?"
You touch the petals of the smallest rose, so fragile, breaking, falling apart. You don't know. You have no excuse, no explanation. You might as well just say it and be done.
"These flowers," you say shakily. "They're so…sad. Why did you give me such sad flowers?"
She doesn't reply straight away. The silence seems to stretch on for an eternity, and you wonder if she has instructed Matt to call the local asylum to come and take you away while she keeps you on the line.
"They are yours, Mihael," she says, finally. "They are yours to have."
"I don't want them!" you snap vehemently. They're confusing you and convincing you that other people are dying. They're clearly part of Near's plot to be rid of your completely.
"Yes you do," she says firmly. "Now go back to sleep."
She hangs up with a neat little click, and you're left with a dead phone, and a tremendous desire to protect some unknown person from something, and no idea what to do.
In the dim light of the room, the flowers seem achingly sad and lonely. You pull them back under the covers with you.
It's stupid, but whatever. They're your fucking flowers, after all.
You dream. You see L, only he's been hurt, and his confidence has been shattered. You see a whole lot of people you don't know, wandering around and doing normal things and dying. You see Wammy himself, only instead of torturing people, he's baking a cake. You see Matt, thrown across a filthy mattress like a ragdoll, so skeletal he looks almost dead.
You sit bolt upright, sobbing, and reach for your phone.
He answers this time, thank god.
"What is it, Mihael?" he asks gruffly.
"Are…are you okay?" you whisper.
"Am I okay? I'm not the one calling people at three in the morning and waking the baby!" he says hotly. "Seriously, just go to sleep."
"You sure you're okay?" you press, because you really are a retard, apparently.
"Look, dude, you're my friend and everything, but I'm about five seconds from blowing an airhorn down the phone, okay?"
"Okay," you gulp, and he disconnects.
Five seconds later, you think of something else you wanted to say, and call him back.
"I am switching off my phone after this," he announces.
"Okay," you say feebly. "I just. Make sure you always get enough to eat, okay? And if you're sick, please go to the doctor straight away."
"Hanging up now," he tells you. "Oh, and once you've come down? Try and think about sticking to the legal stuff from now on."
Click.
He thinks you're on drugs. You don't blame him. You feel like you're on drugs, too.
Things feel more normal once he hangs up, and you even think you might be able to go back to sleep. And then your hand bumps one of the roses, and you are overwhelmed by the rush of grief and pain and Matt.
You realise with a start that he has lost someone. Someone important, like, the love of his life or something. Jasmine, probably. Maybe Gemma. Maybe both of them.
You call him again, but he doesn't answer. There is no option to leave a message. You try to quell the hysteria that's rising up in your chest. Just because you cannot contact him right now doesn't mean anything bad is going to happen.
And yet, your fingers hit redial, all by themselves. Over, and over, and over again. You can't stop. You need to know that he's okay. You need to hear his voice. You need that connection. You need something.
You call him two hundred and sixteen times, and you still can't get through.
When the sun peeks in through the window, and bleaches the rubbish on the floor and Dwayne's white face, you get up and throw the flowers in the trashcan.
Five minutes later, you scoop them out, and shove them in a glass of water.
They might be depressing and psychosis-inducing, but they're yours. Someone bought them just for you.
Mail kicks at his covers, more out of boredom than anything else. He isn't sure whether he's hot or cold. L grunts and shifts slightly. The older man is perched on the edge of his bed, because he decided at four in the morning that they 'should spend more time together'.
Like Mail can't see right through that lie. L is worried about him, more than before. Before, at least, Mail was stagnating, the same behaviour every day, over and over. Now L is unsettled by how he's changed, as if it isn't okay that he fucking wants a break.
And he fucking wants a break.
Only he's going to love Mello until his mind fucking falls apart, and this is all pointless, but he's going to do it anyway. He's going to try what he can try, he's going to pretend he's just a normal person, just for the fucking diversion of it. Just in some hope of easing the painful, hammer-blow drill of monotonic distress that he's lived with every day.
L is typing methodically, thumb pressed to his lips, his round grey eye absolutely focused on the screen before him.
L does strange things sometimes, too. They started about four years ago, Mail thinks, and he cannot even hypothesise as to what they mean. But L seems to stop, and listen to the empty air every so often. Sometimes he moves his lips, in what Mail might consider a mockery of his own desperate prayers, except that L only seems to do it when he thinks no-one is paying him any attention.
The closest ordinary non-genius behaviour to which Mail can approximate L's actions, is of someone with an imaginary friend.
Didn't snotty-leaking-kid have an imaginary friend? He can't remember. He never paid her much attention.
He doesn't really care whether L is concealing some freaky-ass gorgon thing. He's not bothered by monsters, not really, not except for Takada, and her fucking book, and her fucking god that killed his boy.
He can't even bear to think about it for long. He hopes she's in hell, burning, and a long, long way away from Mello. He hopes she never stops screaming. He hopes the fucking Shinigami suffers and rots and dies.
He still wants to burn down the Tracking Library. He wants revenge. He wants something.
L shifts again, and his presence is such a small comfort as to be almost completely nonexistent.
Mail is suddenly struck by a desire to check his phone, so he pulls it out of the back pocket of his too-tight, filthy black jeans. The dim green light nearly blinds him, and the tiny black letters spell out the time, date, present GPS location, and phone company logo.
No missed calls. No surprise. He doesn't know why he has these strange urges, sometimes.
tbc
a/n:
+ all I ever seem to say is 'ohmygodthisissoharddon''. but yeah. merry christmas, everybody. there is a more christmas-y chapter coming up next, but it will probably be a week or two late, because I fail like that.
+ just wanted to add, I love and adore Mello and hate that he's going through this crap. same with Matt. unfortunately, it's needed for the story at this point.
+ thank you. you are all so wonderful and kind, and thank you.