November 30th, 2003

Desperation made people agree to the silliest things. Like sailors who threw themselves off of ships toward siren songs. Or, how torture victims confessed to crimes that weren't theirs. Desperation drove the irreligious to develop devotion toward gods that weren't watching them and scared sinners into repentance.

The rise of Kira had seen the loss of the internet's most prolific cybercriminal. At the age of thirteen, Matt was already involved in the theft and sale of personal information, forgery, and a number of serial scams. While extremely active, he never gained notoriety, keeping his name and any aliases scrubbed from the public eye. Unlike Detective L, he didn't mind if his works went uncredited. All the better. Nobody wanted their name attached to misdeeds.

Before L had exposed Kira's weakness to the world—that he needed a name and face to execute criminals—Matt had temporarily dedicated himself to improving himself: academically and socially. He became a model student. For a few short months, his image was squeaky clean. He woke up early, showered regularly, and was a volunteer tutor for underperforming students at the Wammy's house.

All the while, he grew further and further away from his blonde-haired friend.

Quietly, Matt spent the afternoons reading in the library. Never actual literature. Fear could never move him into becoming a complete geek. He flipped through comic books, but it was difficult settling on a series he could find comfort in. Every franchise involving heroes revolved around crime and punishment.

The safer books that he had found himself skimming were the old Archie comics. There were never any evildoers in need of vigilante justice. The story presented a world that was simplistic and innocent in that sanitized way all media of the 40s was sanitized. It was brain popcorn designed to prevent critical thinking. The narratives revolved around dumb relationships, teen drama, and normie high school life. The soft Comico color palette reminded Matt of being in an old-timey candy store.

Across from him in the library, a chair was dragged out, and another person sat at his table. Without having to glance over, Matt already knew who it was. His own body, every part of him, just somehow knew. As if the other boy's pure essence set off a chemical reaction that burned Matt from the inside.

Matt swallowed thickly.

"Hi," He greeted lamely, his eyes leaving the pretty vintage pages, looking up into prettier bright blue eyes.

"That's all you have to say? 'Hi?'"

"How's it going?" He tried.

Mello scowled at him, nostrils flaring with anger. He kicked him beneath the table.

"Ow!" Matt hissed at him. "Goddamn it, I feel like an abuse victim every time I'm with you."

For a brief moment, Mello thought he was being genuine. A look of self-reflection crossed his face. "Seriously? I wasn't actually trying to hurt you. Is that why you've been hiding–"

"Nah, Mels. I'm kidding. Like those dainty little limbs could do any serious damage." Matt assured teasingly, trying to lighten the mood.

Mello glowered, raising a palm high.

"Besides, how can I blame you? You just can't keep your hands off me." Matt wiggled his brows. "I get it. I'm irresistible."
"Nasty ass." Mello scrunched his nose at his insinuation he found Matt attractive, immediately lowering his arm.

"Well, if you're not trying to get some, keep your hands to yourself. Bitch."

Mello inspected the comic book in his hands. Personally, the blonde never cared who might judge him if he had so-called feminine tastes. He listened to, watched, and read whatever he wanted because he had the spine, mind, and strength to defend himself, unlike the small-minded fools who let society rule them. Matt, on the other hand, was dumb enough to care what others thought of him. He was a typical guy insecure about his own , if he was taking up reading as a new hobby, it never would have been a teen drama.

"You don't read," He stared accusingly at Matt.

"Maybe I'm trying to start."

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

"I dunno," He said defensively. "Why do you care so much?"

"Because you've been avoiding me. And now you're suddenly all about the library?"

"It's not like I'm going out of my way to avoid you. It's probably just a… normal break."

"Normal break?"

"Uh-huh," He decided to go along with a half-truth to explain his absence. "Doesn't mean I'm dodging you on purpose. We don't really like the same things anymore."

"That's really stupid; I never thought you were shallow enough to break a friendship off over that."

"I'm not, but you have to admit it makes it harder to talk to you if we don't have the same hobbies anymore. You never want to play video games. You hate all the cartoons and movies I watch. The only thing you want to talk about is L and Ki–"

Matt bit his tongue, fighting back a violent shiver. The baby hairs on his arms rose, and his eyes instinctively scanned his surroundings. The creases in the room where the walls met the ceiling became ominous, as though they were hiding invisible eyes that were staring dead at him.

"That's it isn't it?" Mello's eyes lit up with realization.

"What's it?"

"You've been acting this way since I was finally given the opportunity to meet L. You're jealous, aren't you? That's why you've been studying harder and why you're being weirdly helpful to Roger. You're trying to improve your rank in the house."

Matt made a face. "I just told you. I don't give a shit about all that, including L. Why would I be jealous?"

"No, no. I get it. Now it all makes sense."

"I never cared about the goddamn competition. Never. Not once."

Mello scoffed.

"It's true," He insisted. "I'm trying to get into good habits. I just, you know, got bored."

"Of what? You don't do anything."

"Yeah, that's kinda my point," Matt's gaze dropped down to his book. "I was bored of doing the same thing every day. Er, of doing nothing. Over and over. I'm driving myself psycho. I wanted to change things up."

"With reading?" Mello inquired dryly and reiterated, "You don't read. Not girly comics. Not anything."

"Jesus, Mello. Maybe I'm trying to relate to you better. Give us more to talk about. Ever consider that?"

"I'm not eight," He turned his nose up at the idea in offense. "You're never going to relate to me by reading picture books all day."

"Give me some reading recommendations, then. Tell me where to start." He encouraged, realizing that he had sincerely missed Mello's company. "But nothing long and boring, please. I'm new to this reading thing."

Mello arched a brow. "Have you done any of the assigned readings from class?"

Matt smiled guiltily. "SparkNotes, if that counts."

"It doesn't."

"Then no."

"You can start there. They're enjoyable enough if you take the time to listen to the lectures and actually put in some effort."

"Now who's the geek?"

Mello rolled his eyes. "We're reading Browning this semester."

"Yeah, I remember. Dramatis Personae?"

"That's the title of the collection. The poem we had to analyze last week forced me to think a bit. I liked it a lot. And, it's short and easy for people like you."

Matt tried to remember his last essay, hastily written in the morning before class. It had been called "Caliban upon Setebos," a poem about a creature that killed and tortured weaker animals. He only half-recalled the details, as he had not read the poem himself. He had consulted the notes of others to make his arguments and had not learned to interpret the work himself.

"The one about the monster? I guess that one was cool." He was never going to impress Mello at this rate. "I didn't really get it, though. I can't remember what I wrote my analysis on."

"Because you didn't read it."

"Explain it to me."

If Mello taught their English course, Matt would probably pay more attention.

Or, he would instantly fail, given how distracting his friend was. When Mello was in the room, he was the only thing your eyes could land on. A bright flame, he flooded the room in an intense warmth, a fire that could never be ignored. Any space he occupied was drowned in molten gold, burning hot, drawing you closer, and closer, and even closer still…

And when he smiled?

When he smiled…

All of his teeth glimmered perfectly white. He had to force himself to concentrate on the actual words those lovely lips came to form. It was no wonder his daydreaming led the blonde to believe he was never paying attention. He was wrong. So so wrong. Nothing else could ever hope to steal Matt's attention. What could possibly overshadow the beauty of Mello's eyes?

Realizing he was falling back into old habits, Matt set his comic down, propped his chin up with a palm, and listened attentively.

"You got that the speaker of the poem was a monster at least." Mello acknowledged, nodding to him in approval. "That's good, but I figured you'd like that since you watch so many dumbass monster flicks."

"Hey, don't knock the classics."

"The monster in the poem, Caliban, is from a Shakespeare play. The Tempest. "

"I don't remember reading that one this year."

"We didn't, but you don't have to in order to understand the poem. Caliban spends the poem trying to imagine what god is like, but he's merciless, savage, and cruel to the other creatures on the island. He can only picture a version of god that's as monstrous as himself."

Matt became uneasy at the subject of god, but the cute sparkle in Mello's eyes was too wonderful to snuff out. He wanted him to keep going. "Cool. What made you like it so much?"

"Dunno. Guess I saw some relevance to current events. People think Kira is a god, but that's only because they're like Caliban. Their perception is warped by their own twisted ideals. Their own principles. Browning was criticizing the way humans like to create a god in their own horrific image."

Here we fucking go. With Mello, all roads somehow led back to the Kira case.

"Starting that shit again, huh?" Matt sighed.

Mello bristled. "Excuse me for taking an interest in the investigation of the century."

"Yeah, yeah." Matt picked his book up again and hesitated before being honest. "I like this, though. You're fun to listen to when you talk about poetry. Anything other than crime investigations."

Fun was putting it lightly, of course. He was stunning, but he was always stunning—not just when he was talking about literature.

"Wish I had something interesting to say back to you about it," Matt added glumly, "but I just don't. I want to be able to add onto what you're saying, but I—uh I don't know anything about it."

Mello understood then. It wasn't that Matt wanted to show off, outsmart him, or steal his spot at Wammy's; he wanted to share this passion with Mello. To participate in a discussion with him on equal footing. Because they were friends, not rivals.

"Maybe we could read something together?" Mello suggested. "If you don't like our class lectures, we could always pick a genre you like."

"I don't know where to start."

"You'd probably be into Sci-Fi."

"If you wrote a book, I'd read it. Even if I hate reading." Matt confessed awkwardly. Why did his words feel like an I love you?

Mello snorted disbelievingly, surprised that his literary ambitions had not gone unnoticed. His ears tinted red with flattery, eyes darting away, uncharacteristically shy. Matt was pleased with the flush of his cheeks, uncaring that it was because he was self-conscious.

"Shut the fuck up," Mello grunted. "You barely even listen to me. Like hell you'd have the patience to sit through anything I'd write."

"I would," Matt disagreed, struggling not to fidget. "I'd... I'd read anything you write."

"Why are you trying so hard?"

"Trying so hard to do what?"

Mello examined him speculatively. "You're trying to be something you aren't."

Matt shrugged.

"You haven't been down to the computer lab either. Not in weeks. Used to have to drag you out of that dungeon."

"So?"

"Did some online pervert threaten to kidnap you or something?"

"No," He gritted his teeth, irritated by his friend's excellent deductive skills. "I just… wanted to have more things in common with you. That's all."

"You don't have to change yourself to be my friend. I don't care if we have fuck all in common." Mello said earnestly, reducing Matt's insides to cinders with only a look. His lips went dry, and he struggled not to let his mind wander as Mello spoke: "You're not my friend because I want someone exactly like me. I want you around because you're you."

'I want you.' That was all that registered in Matt's brain. Divorced from their platonic context, his ears only rang with those three words:

'I want you.'

'I want you.'

'I love you.'

Mello had never said it, but that is what Matt wanted desperately to hear. The unbearable dread that plagued his sleep was chased away by desire-fueled dreams. Kira could have killed him. It didn't matter. He didn't care. Matt was already in heaven anyway.

But Mello's words only served as Novocaine, numbing him to the fears that remained present in the recesses of his mind. It didn't take long for his wildest fantasies to take a turn for the worst. Matt dying in his dreams became Mello dying in place of him. The death toll rose, Kira grew in popularity, and Matt was not as ignorant as he pretended to be.

Productivity was never an obvious warning sign. Becoming a functional human being was not a sign that anything was amiss. Others considered it a positive change. Out of nowhere, Matt was making himself more useful around the house. That wasn't bad at all. Roger didn't want to say anything lest he ruin the peace that had fallen over the orphanage. It wasn't his fault; he was not normally a nurturing figure, so he didn't know where to look for signs of danger.

All he saw was that, for once, Matt wasn't running around causing chaos. Warily, he wondered if there was something in the water to make the student act so oddly. The strangeness wasn't simply that he tutored others. He cleaned up after himself. He went to all of his classes without skipping. He ate breakfast with his peers instead of staying in bed until noon.

"It's not difficult. Just isolate the variables first." Matt was in the middle of explaining a math assignment to a rowdy younger boy who frequently played video games with him. The problem? 3x 2y = 12.

The other boy gazed back at him, not an ounce of understanding on his face. "Huh?"

It wasn't that he had endless patience or that he had an affinity for teaching. He was just unhurried by nature, preferring to move slowly. As a result of his sluggishness, many of the students he had taken to helping could easily follow his instructions. Lazily, he demonstrated what he meant:
"Subtract three from both sides—What?" Matt snapped in annoyance when he noticed Roger staring at him where he was holed up in the library.

"You're being so studious and helpful," The old man noted. "Keep it up; it's impressive."

"What's so impressive about it, old man?" Matt was discomforted by the praise. "It's not a big deal."

"I'm just happy you're being more wise with your spare time."

He could no longer ignore the child's peculiar behavior when the problem crashed through his bedroom door in the dead of night. Past midnight, a smothering darkness had fallen over the house, suffocating light from the moon and stars. It was nearly tangible and when Roger opened his eyes, he sensed a wrongness in the atmosphere.

He had been ripped from sleep by the slamming of his door. Matt stood in the entryway, tear-streaked and trembling, too old now to come crying to him from night terrors. Not that he ever had before. One problem the boy had never had was sleeping. If anything, he slept too much, and although Roger was unaware of his background in its entirety, the circumstances of his life never surfaced as visible trauma or obvious insomnia.

"Matt!" He spluttered. He had not intended to sound outraged, but it came out that way regardless. He was actually shocked and flustered that his door had been wretched open while he was unprepared for company.

"R-Roger," The boy choked out. "I'm s-sorry."

"Matt…" He repeated more calmly this time. Rubbing his blurry eyes, he reached over to the nightstand to grab his glasses so that he could see more clearly.

The old man sat up, trying to mentally steel himself for a conversation he wasn't ready to have while he waited for his racing heart to settle down. The surprise had startled him awake and sent his blood pressure skyrocketing. Any day now, Matt's antics would finally push him toward a heart attack. He chuckled softly, causing the boy to flinch at the interruption of silence.

"What's wrong, Matthew? Did you have an unpleasant dream?" He tried to sound gentle, but he could only manage to speak gruffly since it was so late, his throat was still hoarse from disuse, and he was still very drowsy.

Matt continued to sniffle, wiping his face with his arms.

"Hush." Roger had never been in this position before. He didn't know if he had the right words to say. "Come now, there's no need to cry. It wasn't real."

He was not accustomed to having to soothe nightmares, for none of the Wammy's children ever looked to him for that sort of comfort. They were either too rational to let themselves be disturbed by dreams or they preferred the maids and caretakers of the house as opposed to their grumpy headmaster.

Matt dropped to his knees on the floor at his bedside, burying his face into his arms on the mattress. His body shook with smothered cries; Roger placed a palm on the top of his head, listening to him silently sob out his sorrows. He didn't want to die, he had begged Roger with terrified, shuddery breaths. Please, Please, Please, Roger. He had made mistakes because he was an idiot, but he swore he wasn't bad. He didn't want to die yet.

Matt confessed his little heart out, as if Roger were a priest, told him all about his misadventures in defrauding others and how he had ruined the reputation of thousands through the sale of personal information online. He sent malware to people because it was funny. He hacked into cameras and security feeds to spy on people just to see if he could.

He pleaded with Roger for forgiveness, too, because he had been a general nuisance to him as well. For destroying parts of his bug collection. For scratching up his car. For never cleaning up after himself. Because his room was in such disarray. Roger's unfeeling heart was moved to breaking as he apologized for nearly everything and anything.

"I'm so f-fucking sorry, Roger. " He whispered brokenly, trying to excuse his very existence. "From the start, you and Mr. Wammy have been nothing but k-kind to me. You took me in and supported me. Raised me. I've been nothing but an ungrateful inconvenience."

"Matthew," Roger stroked his hair, listening to him patiently, waiting for him to get his feelings out of his system. "You're not sorry."

Stricken, Matt lifted his face from the mattress, hurt that the headmaster did not believe him. He looked at him with devastated wide eyes. Innocent. It was nearly comical that he sincerely believed Kira would ever execute him.

He was just a boy.

"Don't confuse these feelings with remorse," Roger continued before he could defend himself. "You're scared of Kira and the extremely unlikely possibility they may kill you. You are afraid your actions have brought about consequences you weren't ready for, but that is not the same thing as feeling sorry."

"That's not true–"

"It's not that I don't believe you," Roger clarified, stopping him. "Rather, I don't think you have anything to be sorry about. Deep down, you must realize how silly you sound. You've hardly killed a man. I think you know that; you're letting your panic prevent you from thinking about this logically. You are a child, Matthew. And children get into trouble; it's in their nature. Why do you think I hate them so much?"

The boy's tiny shoulders tensed up with guilt. Roger paid his stiffness no mind and went on:

"When you're young, you have boundless energy and enthusiasm. You're not finished developing yet. That's why we make reckless choices and are thoughtless about our actions in our youth. We learn from these experiences. No child should ever feel this level of guilt over their brainless mistakes when mistakes are how we grow."

"Roger, you're not getting it," Matt's breathing grew heavier, frantic, struggling to pull air into his lungs. "To you, they might be simple mistakes, but Kira's killed people over much less."

"Matt," Roger tried to reason, but Matt would not hear him.

"He… He doesn't care if they're petty crimes…." His lips trembled, fingers crushing the sheets in a white-knuckled grip. "It's all the same to him. Theft. Vandalism. Extortion… How is what I've done any different? What if he decides I deserve it, too? What I did wasn't harmless."

"Listen to me," Roger sighed, dragging a hand down his own tired face. He wanted to tell Matt that Kira wouldn't bother with some scared teenager who'd made stupid choices behind a keyboard. The truth was, he didn't know how Kira decided who was deserving of punishment either.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Matthew. What you did… It was wrong. I won't pretend otherwise to spare your feelings, but you have yet to be charged with any crimes. I imagine it's much more difficult for the authorities to convict someone for crimes they've committed virtually than if it had occurred in person. It's not too late to move past this and promise never to do it again."

"What if it doesn't matter that I haven't been arrested? What if he somehow finds out anyway? Nobody knows how he chooses his targets. He could be watching right now."

"Is this the reason you've been behaving yourself lately? You're afraid Kira's watching you?" Roger asked warily, disheartened to hear that the change in Matt was motivated by fright instead of maturity.

This was unlike a child's irrational fear of the creatures under their bed. Kira was very real and not much was known about who the serial killer was, how he decided who would die, or how he managed to kill a massive amount of people on a global scale. Matt was very right to be afraid, and Roger wished he could tell him something meaningless to make him less terrified. Like how light banished the boogeyman or holy water warded off vampires.

He had no simple answers, no easy reassurances. He thought very carefully about his next words. For once in his life, he couldn't rely on his usual pragmatic advice to ease the situation. Roger leaned back slightly against the headboard, letting out a long, deliberate breath.

This wasn't about logic or discipline—this was about the utterly terrified boy in front of him.

"I understand why you're feeling small, powerless, and even guilty for things you've done. Kira is a newly terrifying, unpredictable force in our world. But I don't think Kira's going to kill you, of all people, Matthew."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you needn't be a saint to be deserving of life," He continued stroking his auburn hair. "You're just a boy who's still figuring out who he is. If Kira is incapable of recognizing that, then they're a bloody moron, and it won't be long before L puts a stop to them."

For a moment, tense silence settled between them, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the nightstand and Matt's muffled sobs.

Roger gave his shoulder a firm pat, his voice softening. "And you're not an inconvenience. You never were. Now, off to bed with you. It's the middle of the night, and you've done enough apologizing for one lifetime. You need sleep, and I need what little peace I can get in this madhouse."

The next day, Roger was never more relieved to find a broken window and a guilty-looking Matt holding a rubber dodgeball.