Author's Notes:
PAIRINGS: Matt/Mello. Mello/Near.
SPOILERS? Yes, for the entire series.
Chapter 12: Black Plains
It started to rain again as Matt was walking home from school. He didn't have an umbrella — it had been perfectly sunny that morning, after all. He was forced to run through crowded streets. From time to time, he ducked beneath the eaves of shops to avoid the downpour and to catch his breath.
By the time he arrived at his dormitory, he was sopping wet. He kicked off his sneakers, peeled off his shirt and jeans and socks, threw his drenched clothes into the hamper, and strode toward the kitchen to pour himself a refreshing glass of limeade. In nothing but his boxers, he whistled as he went.
He was popping ice cubes from a tray when he thought he saw something move in his periphery. Probably a lizard or something. He didn't bother to check.
He almost dropped the ice tray when he heard someone tutting.
"Mello?" he blurted out.
"Obviously." Mello yawned as he leaned against the kitchen counter. His hand was curled around a barbecue stick on which an apple was skewered. He dipped the fruit into a bowl of gooey brown substance. Hershey's chocolate syrup, Matt guessed.
"What are you doing here?" Matt demanded.
"Living. Breathing. Existing. Thinking about pelting you with a chocolate-coated apple."
"I thought you were out."
"Do I look like I'm out? Anyway, I should ask you the same question. What are you doing home so early? Why are you standing here with barely any clothes on and with that glass filled with a ghastly green concoction?"
Matt injected as much dignity as he could into his voice. "It's called limeade, for your information. And the professor didn't show up so I'm free for the rest of the day."
Mello munched on his apple. Matt drank his limeade.
"Well?" Mello said after a minute.
"Well, what?"
"Go put on some clothes, you dolt."
Matt grinned. "No can do. I enjoy pretending not to notice that you're salivating as you ogle my muscles."
"What muscles? Also, I'm not ogling you."
"You are too!"
The apple did come flying, and Matt managed to dodge it just in time. It rebounded against the fridge and knocked down a frying pan hanging from a hook on the wall. The pan fell to the floor with a clattering noise. There were syrupy streaks of chocolate everywhere.
"Hey!" Matt said, but Mello was already turning away and stomping out of the kitchen.
Matt followed him out. He stopped by the living room couch to snatch up an oversized gray sweatshirt draped over a cushion. He threw it on lest Mello complain about his partial nakedness again.
In the bedroom, Mello was sitting on Matt's swivel chair, at Matt's study table, and banging away on the keyboard of Matt's PC.
Matt stared, exasperated and resigned in equal measure. As he'd learned (rather painfully) from experience, Mello had no concept of personal property, except when it came to his own possessions, of course. If Matt even dared to touch the heel of Mello's boot or the foil wrapping of Mello's chocolate bars, Mello wouldn't hesitate to throw him out of the dormitory whilst conveniently forgetting that it was in fact Matt's place.
Matt leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. "You amaze me, Mello. Password protection has got nothing on you."
Mello waved a dismissive hand. "I figured it out, easy-peasy. To think that you entered 'Mello' as a password. Real original of you."
"How'd you guess that?"
"I don't know if this has ever occurred to you, but you probably shouldn't set as a password the name of the person you want to keep out."
"Maybe deep down I don't want to keep you out," Matt suggests.
"Figures."
Silence followed.
"You know, Mello, you're not cute at all."
"Good to know. The last thing I want to be is cute."
Matt ignores this. "Usually, when a wife sees her husband come home all wet and cold, she —"
"Do you really want to finish that sentence? Do you want to be murdered that badly?"
"— she runs to him and scolds him for being so careless. Then she gets a fluffy towel and lovingly dries off every inch of his skin. Now that's what I call cute."
"Thank your lucky stars I'm not your wife. 'Cause I'd rather shrivel up and die. I've never heard anything so damn corny."
Matt snorted. "You may be right. After all, what can be more adorable than being pelted with a chocolate-coated apple the minute I come home?" He walked toward Mello, bent down, and peered at the computer screen. "So what are you doing that's worth violating my privacy?"
"Homework."
"Really? I didn't think you were still studying. Didn't you graduate from college already?"
"I did. Three years ago."
Matt nodded. Then the reality of what Mello had just said sank in. "Three years ago? But you were only . . . seventeen years old back then."
"When I say Matsuda made the Death Note family into a bunch of geniuses, I'm not kidding."
"What exactly do you mean?"
"Well, education in Japan is only mandatory until junior high, right? Matsuda discovered me when I was in sixth grade so, unlike most of the others in the Death Note family who could drop out almost at once, I had to wait three more years. Trust me, Matsuda put me through a nightmarish ordeal — right after a tiring day at school, he'd teach me all sorts of subjects, from French History to Organic Chemistry to Integral Calculus. He also ordered me to do thousands of laps around the school's soccer field. Those first three years were a hellish cycle of lessons at school, then even more lessons at Matsuda's place, then intensive physical training on fields and in pools. By the time I finally completed my ninth grade, I was testing off the charts. My academic proficiency went way beyond that of an average senior high graduate. Matsuda sent application letters to prestigious universities, both here and abroad. I don't know how he did it, but he got them to enroll me as a special case. I went to Harvard and earned a degree in a little over two years. Even without Matsuda tutoring me, I'd already mastered the necessary techniques to breeze through any test or practical exam. College was a piece of cake."
This speech rendered Matt, who'd sunk over the mattress, wide-eyed and wordless.
Mello paused in his typing to glare at him. "Well, say something."
Matt shook his head. "How come I've never heard about this? This would've made major news — some kid who skipped high school and who breezed through an Ivy League university winding up starring in primetime television."
"It wasn't such a big deal. There are lots of stories about child prodigies who finish school in half — or even a quarter — of the expected time. Near graduated even earlier than I did. But he went to Cambridge."
"Whether it's Harvard or Cambridge or wherever, it's still not normal."
"Are you calling us abnormal?"
"No, I think you're amazing."
Mello leaned back, looking contemplative. "Now that I think about it, Matsuda might've shushed up any potential news items. He wouldn't have wanted us to become minor celebrities before revealing Death Note to the world. He wanted the show's release to be as sensational as possible: an incredible TV series appearing seemingly out of nowhere, complete with an intricately-plotted story, impeccable execution, and, most importantly, a cast of never-before-seen characters who are all prodigiously skilled at what they do. Who can resist a showstopper like that?"
"I still can't process it. Did you all complete your education this way?"
"More or less. Misa took longer because Matsuda made her concentrate on her beauty and her performing skills and her star power rather than on her grades. Matsuda himself took a few years off before finishing school. He was too busy worrying about us to focus on his own studies."
"In short, the man was obsessed. You all were."
Mello grimaced. "That's one way of putting it, I suppose. Anyway, even though we've all graduated from reputable universities, Matsuda still makes us do homework. And I only call it that for lack of a better term. It's not at all taxing. Sometimes it's even fun. I'm guessing Matsuda simply wants us to keep exercising our brains and to refrain from getting complacent."
"What exactly does this homework entail?"
"It varies from person to person. Misa has to stay fit and to apprise herself regarding what's in and out within the fashion world. L is actually a part-time detective. He chronicles his adventures in a journal. Light — being Light, a total bitch who sleeps around and makes it his life's mission to break as many hearts as possible — also keeps a journal. Rather than cases, he records conquests, complete with obscene photos of him and his multitudes of women doing . . . you know. Mikami specializes in politics, and Near in literature. As for me, I'm afforded the most freedom of all. Since I'm not especially interested in any field, I sample a bit of everything. I can research about whatever catches my fancy. Matsuda requires me to email him an essay once per week, but that's about it."
"You can write about anything?" Matt asked.
"Anything at all."
"So what have you decided to write about this week?"
Mello tapped the computer screen with his index finger.
Matt moved closer to read:
Upon glimpsing Newsweek's cover, which boasted the headline "Shrinking Britannia: The Collapse of British Power," I began thinking: what a damn shame that is. True, I only got as far as reading the title before settling on an emotional response, which isn't by a long shot a justified reaction.
Honestly, though, I couldn't give a shit about economic depression in Britannia or whatever else might prompt it to shrink, just like I'm not fucking up-to-date about who is fighting whom in the interminable wars scattered around the world these days. I used to be better equipped with that knowledge when you — yes, I'm talking to you, Matsuda, you old sod — force-fed the Incredibly Important History of the World back when I wasn't even old enough to forgo the requisite glass of milk before bed.
I ask you now: will memorizing the names of the wives and mistresses of Henry VIII make him any less of a lying, cheating bastard? No, Sir, reciting that useless information won't change a damn thing. History is history for a reason, bitch.
On a day-to-day basis, the only thing that sparks my interest when I hear the word Britannia is Lelouch from Code Geass. Yes, that almighty god of the new world. He makes self-proclaimed gods like fucking LIGHT YAGAMI of Death Note fame want to curl up in a corner with shame. Lelouch was a goddamn genius, man. In fact, I should state for the record that Lelouch vi Britannia née Lelouch Lamperouge was my first love.
Skating over the dreary details of my obscurity-riddled love life, what concerns me is how dear Lelouch would've reacted if he read this article now. Okay, so I don't have any fucking idea what the article's about because I didn't bother to read it, but I'm guessing it would ruin his day. After all, when he said, "I destroy worlds, create worlds," he wasn't talking about an ephemeral world. He must've been referring to an everlasting world with rules that couldn't be broken or altered or twisted just like that. He must've intended that the laws of his world would remain immutable, for his land to stay in a state of perfect prosperity.
Lelouch, if you must grieve, you will not be alone, for I will always stand by you.
When Matt plopped down on the mattress again, Mello said, "So? What do you think?"
Matt couldn't help snickering. "This was written by a Harvard graduate? You didn't even try to scratch the surface of your chosen topic."
Mello was unfazed. "Which would you rather read: my essay or some scholarly article about the dismal state of the economy?"
"Your essay, hands down."
Mello nodded sagely. "I thought so. Truth be told, this is one of the only arenas where I can let loose and break the rules. Matsuda encourages me to be as informal and irreverent as possible. He appreciates it when I ditch jargon altogether and succumb to a stream of consciousness. That's the kind of essay he's seeking from me. I believe he plans to publish these essays — and the journal entries of the others — as the cast's memoirs someday. After all our guarded behavior in public, he's finally going to permit us to be candid. But that blessed day is still decades away from now."
"Yeah, probably." Matt flung himself over the bed and folded his arms behind his head. He gazed at the ceiling. "Hey, tell me something, Mello."
"What do you want me to tell you?"
"Did you really love Lelouch?"
Mello smiled. "Yeah. But he's a fictional character, so I had to get over my puppy love sometime."
"Does this mean you're gay? Or are you bi or something?"
"I'm gay."
"What about Near?"
"I can't really discuss Near's romantic or sexual preferences."
"I mean, do you like him?"
"I love him. I've loved him since we were kids."
"Ah. I see."
Matt twisted around in bed to face the wall to his left. His chest seared with glassy pain at Mello's straightforward admission. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth. He winced with every fresh wave of agony that washed over him. He wanted to scream, wanted to cry. The ache of reining in all the storminess inside spread to his very extremities.
He said nothing, did nothing. He simply lay there and waited for the pain to subside.
Just because a part of him had guessed how Mello was feeling, that didn't mean the confirmation didn't hurt like hell.
Matt only spoke once he was certain his voice wouldn't give anything away. "Does he know?"
"I don't know."
"The others, do they know?"
"They probably all do, but they've never asked me outright. You're the only one I've ever told."
"Why only me?"
"You're the only one who's ever asked."
"Ah," Matt said again. This time, he turned to Mello and forced himself to smile. "Don't worry. You can trust me to keep your secrets."
"I'm not worried. I'm not trying to keep something so obvious a secret. You can tell the rest of the main cast, for all I care."
"Still, I won't tell anybody," Matt promises.
"Thank you."
"You know what else, Mello?"
"What?"
"I've thought of something you can explore in your essay."
"Let me guess. My scandalous homosexual inclinations toward my childhood friend."
"No. Nothing like that. You should write about the reversal of sea and sky."
Though taken aback by the sudden change of topic, Mello was intrigued. "I'll bite. How would that work?"
"I've always tried to imagine that phenomenon, for some reason. What would it be like if we were walking on a vast expanse of night sky? Sometimes, stars would be hidden within the bountiful folds of darkness, and we'd accidentally step on them and hurt our feet. Stars would have edges as sharp as katanas, but when uncovered they'd shine so brightly that we'd never get lost."
"In this imaginary scenario, must it always be night? Must we always tread on black plains? Why can't the morning arrive? It has to lighten up sometime."
"Silly. We only need mornings because the stars are so far away. If they were nearer, we wouldn't need to be afraid. It would be so bright all the time."
"I'm not sure you're making any sense, but I'm not about to attack you for your fanciful imagination. So how about having the sea as the sky? What would that be like? How would we keep all that water from being dumped over our heads?"
"How do the stars keep from falling? You just have to apply the same principles."
"Matt, the stars do fall. Not technically, of course, but you know what I mean."
"Hey, meteors don't fall all the time. You know what? The water should be held up using surface tension. Occasionally, something would float up and break the paper-thin film keeping the realms separate from each other. Then there'll be a torrential downpour. Come to think of it, that might be how we can get food — from the fish that tumble down with the rain. After a while, the sea would settle again and become perfectly calm and clear like a gigantic mirror. Then the rain would stop."
As if on cue, Mello glanced at the window and said, "Oh, look. The rain did stop."
Matt stood up and stretched. "I should start studying. I have an exam coming up so I'll probably be pacing all night, reciting things aloud to memorize them. I'll stay in the living room so I won't bother you. After I clean the mess in the kitchen, of course."
"Thanks, Matt. And good luck."
"You too." With this, Matt walked out of the bedroom and gently closed the door behind him.
Mello once more directed his attention to the computer. He started to type:
But enough about grieving, for one mustn't neglect the silver linings of even the most oppressively dark clouds. A close friend of mine brought up an interesting idea just now. What would it be like if the sea and the sky were reversed? The stars would be scattered amongst our feet. Sometimes we'd step on them and hurt ourselves, but mostly we'd benefit from their light. It would be so bright all the time that there would be no need for mornings, for the beginning of each new day. Everything one could ever want would be situated right next to oneself. One need not submit to fear anymore. . . .
