The Cat in the Rain

by Mschupacabra

Matt may have been the last surviving successor, but he didn't see why that meant he had to go on a crusade against Kira. Everyone else had already died trying. What were the odds that a third-place, runner-up for L could even stand a chance at killing a god? It wasn't any of his business, thank you very much.

1. Mental Gymnastics

Nov 15, 2009

Present

Matt was a professional gymnast.

Mentally, that was.

He considered procrastinating on par with gymnastics in that there were a lot of contortions involved to make deadlines and ends meet while simultaneously slacking off. Because of his skill, he took way too many Wiki walks while bored at work; so, he felt like he knew for a fact that the folks down at Wikipedia felt like they knew for a fact that 2.5 million people in Great Britain had telephone phobia.

Well, Matt didn't check their sources, but it sounded true enough to be real, and while he may have been a Britbong, he wasn't one of those people—those telephobes or whatever. Perhaps this fearlessness could have been attributed to his status as a transplant to the country rather than being a homegrown, national treasure. He even worked in tech support for Apple, one of the shittiest jobs in the world next to being an actual janny. That was one cure for this terror that afflicted over a million Anglos: working any job that involved fixing the messes of others. Anyone who worked in customer service positions? Braver than any soldier.

So, social anxiety hadn't been the reason behind the deep shudder that ran through his spine upon hearing the ringing of his phone. His unease stemmed from the fact that it was three in the morning on a Sunday. No ordinary mortal would ever be awake at three in the morning on a Sunday when they could have been getting more sleep. Especially when they could have been getting more sleep. Secondly, it was the landline. Nobody ever called his landline except for Wammy's and telemarketers. He debated just letting it ring or go to his voicemail, but the sense of dread churned in his belly, not allowing him to ignore the incessant chime. If it was Wammy's checking up on him, why call so late?

Stretching out his arm, he felt around for the phone and pulled it off of the dock, sticking it groggily to his ear. Half-conscious, he held onto hope it was some prince from a foreign land offering to marry him, but like, actually—not another telephone scam.

"Hello?" He slurred into the receiver. "Matt Rogers speaking..."

There was silence on the other end. No prince. No warnings about his car's expiring warranty. Matt was about to hang up when the sound of a familiar voice he hadn't heard in years made him freeze.

"Matt? Matt, it's me."

His childhood friend.

No, his best friend.

His breathing stopped.

Mello.

Was he even awake right now? Suffering some weird, weed-induced dream? Matt's head hadn't caught up yet with the rest of his body; it was still too early to be coherent. This and shock prevented him from speaking.

"Listen, I need your help."

What could Mello even want? And why call him after so long?

Everything inside of him burned to tell him yes and ask him what he needed—no actually, not even that. Mello didn't even have to elaborate on what sort of help he needed; Matt did not need nor want to understand what Mello wanted or why. Never. His answer would have been the same. Always: 'Of course, you can have it. You can have anything you want of me.' It would have been so easy to drop everything in his life and follow. Like simpler times. Like when they were kids and their problems solely consisted of snotty kids who whined for Matt to share his things or beating 'stupid Near' (Mello's words not his) in the class ranking system.

Kira.

Whatever Mello wanted had something to do with him. He'd left the orphanage to pursue him.

But catching bad guys as a super detective had always been Mello's dream, not his. Matt? He didn't have dreams. Even if he did, none of them would have involved sacrificing himself like an idiot in pursuit of some unattainable goal. Going after Kira? After he'd already off-ed so many bastards who tried? Matt would be writing himself onto the killer's hit list.

"I know you're still there—"

Matt hung up.

His hand stayed on the phone until he gathered the sense to roll back over onto his back. Questions continued to spin in his mind as he stared blankly at the ceiling.

Maybe he should have asked the man himself but—

He closed his eyes.

—they were practically strangers now.