February 20, 2010

Present

He took sick pleasure in the way that the handsome face across from him twisted with ugly disgust at the smoke that ghosted out of his lips. It was the same satisfaction he got from smearing white tile with muddy shoes — when Mello and he dragged their dirty sneakers through the halls of Wammy's after a game of kickball. Doing what you weren't supposed to. Having been told enough times to put out his cigarette, he knew better than to smoke indoors. So, he had asked Light Yagami if he minded sitting outside. The sleepy cafe had an outdoor patio in the back with a cute garden, protected under the awnings from the previous night's rain.

Yagami had gazed up apprehensively at the darkly clouded skies. "Are you sure you want to sit outside?"

"We'll just move inside if it rains." Matt cupped his hands around his cigarette, trying to warm up some. "We got cover."

He gestured to their colorful little table umbrellas. They were pitiful and would not provide protection. They failed to shield the two from the cold, but Matt wasn't shivering.

"If you're sure." Light said, still disturbed by the wind. The breeze ruffled his neat hair, the lapels of his tanned coat, and it was hard to keep the napkins still. Matt put a metallic napkin holder onto the stack of wipes to prevent them from flying away. They shook vigorously under the added weight, wanting desperately to fly away before the rain could fall and soak them useless.

"Scared of a little water?"

Light's mouth twitched. "Scared? No, it's just an avoidable inconvenience. You sure don't seem to mind the possibility of catching a cold. Don't you own a coat?"

Not like he had to report into work anymore. Raising a hand, he gestured to what he was wearing.

"That?" Light's brows rose. "That vest doesn't even have sleeves, Matt."

The sound of his name leaving his lips made him flinch. He chalked up his unusual feelings to his general discomfort around Light. Matt had never been a self-conscious person whatsoever. Orphanage ranking system be damned, he had never been made to feel lesser, comfortable with his place in the world. Yagami had the effect of making him feel dimmer for the first time. While his words were slightly accented, even his speech sounded too perfect to say a name so plain and ordinary. Worse, his warm eyes were too concerned to be a stranger's.

"What did you want to talk with me about?" He awkwardly changed the subject, trying to cut to the heart of the matter. He hadn't expected to see Light again after the funeral. Remembering their previous encounter made his ears burn with embarrassment. As if he needed more reasons to feel like shit sitting in front of the other man. Matt should have stayed home, but part of him — the sick part of himself that wanted to remain stuck in perpetual sadness — wanted to hear about the Kira case. To hear more about Near and Mello's final—

To hear more about Mello and Near's contributions to the investigation.

Matt couldn't say he deserved the information, but he wanted it badly. He had to know. Did Light ever talk to them? To him. In the time they were apart, what pieces of Mello were missed out on by Matt due to his cowardice?

"When L died— " Light began.

"I know already."

Light was taken aback by the swiftness of his response and the lack of interest he displayed over the loss of someone so integral to Wammy's

"I don't care," Matt amended, wondering if he was being insensitive. He frowned, trying to become mindful of the fact that the man had worked closely with the detective for years. "But I'm sorry about that, by the way. For what happened."

"Thank you." Light's face softened. "But I'm not here to discuss the circumstances of his death. I'm partially here as a favor to Roger."

Surprise flickered across Matt's features

"He's worried about you."

Something didn't feel right about that. Matt's skin crawled at the hint he was being spoken about without his knowledge. Who was Light to even be confided in on such a personal level? Some L lackey? Roger was senile, giving away family drama details to a complete stranger. Matt's mind struggled to piece together when they would even find the time to converse.

"Talking about me behind my back?" Matt accused, keeping his tone light and teasing but the unease in his heart was very real.

"Not like that. He says you don't talk to him very often. He was concerned for your health, especially after the funeral. How are you coping?"

"Bullshit!" He scoffed. "He's the only person Ievercall. In fact, he's the last person I called."

"He has a right to be concerned. Have you looked at yourself?"

At first, he had no idea what Light was talking about, but he caught sight of his image in the napkin holder. The boy reflected back at him was unhealthily gaunt with dark sleepless eyes. He had always been sort-of unkempt but made some effort to keep his hair length short and stuff his face enough to have flushed full cheeks. Now, his auburn hair was a mess of tangles that hung to his shoulders, a knotted and matted rat's nest. His face was sickly pale and bordered on skeletal. Did people see him this way at the funeral?

In the back of his mind, he recalled a tidbit of antismoking advocacy from his time at Wammy's:Smoking tobacco can suppress appetite and feelings of hunger. True, it had been a while since he felt pangs of hunger. He hadn't felt much at all let alone stomach pain or the itchiness of his scalp from lack of proper care. And he remembered the way Linda had rushed to catch up to him at the funeral, handsome and gleaming in her best suit:"you can call me if you ever need anything."

Did she offer out of pity? Because he was a walking nightmare?

"Roger said you rejected your inheritance."

"What inheritance?" He snorted. "I'm an orphan. Did daddy leave me a pretty penny or something? He didn't have to. I can fend for myself; I'm a wagie."

Surprisingly, Light chuckled at his little term of mock-endearment for the late detective. "What?"

"I have a job."

Had a job.Not that Light needed to know.

"It's not that kind of inheritance. He said you weren't interested in becoming a detective."

"Oh."

"When L died, the world never really found out."

"Except Wammy's." Matt corrected in a mumble, but Wammy's might as well have not been from the world. Everyone there, including himself, was an alien.

"Except Wammy's," Light agreed. "But they weren't readily available when we needed them the most. We were scrambling after losing our lead detective. The only people that were left to carry on his name was the Kira Taskforce. Er, now just me."

Someone had to take charge between L's death and the time a-then-thirteen-year-old Near spent preparing to take over L's side of the investigation. But if Light had no problem filling in for Near in his inexperienced youth, then why couldn't he continue after his death?

"L left us with his equipment, his resources, but I can't keep up the charade indefinitely. I have my own responsibilities. A life to get back to."

"What and you think I don't?"

"Thisisyour responsibility."

"No," Matt exhaled loudly through his nose. "It was Mello's. This is his dream. This is his responsibility. He's going to be the next L."

"Matt," Light gently attempted to bring him to reality. "Mello is dead."

The moist, pre-rain air ran dry all around Matt.

"I don't think you're quite understanding." Light said slowly. "Since I'm an easily recognizable investigator who worked on that case, I don't have the same anonymity as you anymore. I can't keep acting as L. The Kira case was a tragedy, but it's over now, and I am ready to move on."

"Do you know how he died?" Matt asked instead of acknowledging his logic. "Mello."

"I don't think talking about death is helpful for you to hear," Light attempted, dissuading him from asking. "We need to consider what's important right now."

"Why?"

"Keep in mind that this isn't easy for me either. " Light politely reminded, pulling his coat tighter around himself when the breeze picked up. "You might be personally acquainted with Mello since you grew up together, but he was involved in the kidnapping of my sister and the death of my father."

Oh, right. Those were details Matt was guilty of glossing over. Kidnapping was simply hard to picture. Mello wasn't like that. He was aggressive, sure, but picturing the petite blonde with any gang affiliations was absurd. Matt thought back to the angelic portrait Linda had illustrated of him and then Mello's ghastly face on his doorstep. Two different Mellos that Matt couldn't reconcile.

"It's hard to wrap my head around," Matt admitted. "I'm sorry for what he did to you. I just can't imagine it. Look, I know him as this huge nerd with a little pageboy haircut. That's all I can see in my mind. He's not a street thug that goes around blowing up buildings. Jesus Christ, I heard him humming the Spice Girls once! Kind of embarrassing actually…"

"I guess it's the people we least expect." Light mused. "In fairness to your friend, I don't think he would have become such an extremist under ordinary circumstances. I can't forgive Mello, but I understand him. I can't say the Kira Taskforce didn't resort to underhanded tactics. Hell, I'm masquerading as a deadman. It feels dishonest."

"Not the same as kidnapping and arson."

"No, it's not, but the point is that I'm hardly perfect myself."

Matt stared disbelievingly.

"Why don't you tell me more about Mello?"

"Didn't you just finish saying he's the reason your dad died?"

"Yes, but I'd rather you tell me about his life than have me tell you about his death. It's better that way." He explained. "It's like I said, I don't think Mello would have turned out that way if it hadn't been for Kira, and I don't think Kira should be the force that overshadows everyone whose life was ruined by him. I feel the same about my father. It's why I want to continue where he left off — follow in his footsteps. It would be a shame for one mass murderer to define him rather than all the hard work he did in his lifetime. We owe it to them to keep their memory alive. Don't you agree?"

"I guess," Matt said uneasily. Then he saw it: why Roger was so open with a vague stranger. Light was an awfully good listener.

"So, tell me about him." Light encouraged. "You seem happier when you talk about him. You must have been really close."

"We weren't friends initially. Wammy's House had regular exams for every grade level, and I always ranked near-last. I didn't care about my studies, so he didn't pay attention to me at all. " Matt shrugged, trying to remember where his life had become so entangled and tethered to someone else's. "When I placed third, he finally started to… notice me."

How the threat had crept into those pretty blue eyes... All Matt took notice of was the fact they were finally on him at all.

"He stopped seeing me as a threat eventually," Matt's brows pinched together. "Mello… becoming the next L was always his dream. He wanted that more than anything."

Even me.

"This could be a chance for you to honor Mello's memory and keep it alive." Light pressed. "You could do what he never had the chance to."

Matt put his cigarette out against the table, smudging the white paint in filthy ash. He didn't answer him, flicking his cigarette butt onto the pavement. The tiniest bit of water began sprinkling down from the skies. Light made an inconvenienced sigh, standing up to go inside for shelter. He gestured for Matt to follow him.

"Come on, before it starts raining down harder."

July 10th, 1996

Although Wammy's was a sprawling estate, it was not without end. Finding a space that was not already occupied with other inhabitants was rare. Communal living spaces were not normally quiet, and Wammy's had all the more reason to lack silences. In every room, someone was dedicated to some weird hobby, quirk, or passion. When Matt tried to find silence in the library, it was overrun by chemistry geeks. When he tried to find it under a shady tree, the wayward football of the athletes would strike him in the unguarded back. The kitchens were alive with aspiring chefs and the garage was made a regular hangout for gearheads. Wammy's had a place for every child.

Except for him.

There seemed to be no place for little boys who wanted to sleep all day. Not even the room he had been given could be called his own. The grating noises of his roommates kept him from his afternoon nap. His suffering eventually drove him to find the first empty room he could, where no other kid seemed to venture mysteriously enough. The room was nearly hidden next to a display case as he rounded the corner of a hall. At first, Matt believed he had found some kind of secret room. It made perfect sense to him. After all, Wammy's house was obviously some sort of mansion. InThe Adventures of Mary-Kate & Ashley— a detective program he watched at daycare about two twins who solved mysteries — there would always be trap doors and secret entrances in the creepy old houses they explored.

It was dark, but the darkness didn't bother him; he had never even had a night light before. The comfort of a miniature wall-light plug in was never a luxury he knew, so becoming used to the dark was inevitable. Nobody was in the room, but the space was clearly lived in. There was a small bed, a dresser, a closet, a chest, and a bookshelf. Because it was familiar, he was drawn toward the closet, where he shut the door to take the nap he so desired. He made his pillow out of a bunched up dark shirt and jeans, curling up on his side, closing his eyes.

He woke to strange thumping from outside. Holding his breath, he felt himself transported home. Not the new mansion that had unexpectedly and suddenly become his home within the last few weeks but home, home — the cramped New York apartment with Mom again. He was in the closet of their single, shared bedroom, waiting for her to call him back out and tell him it was safe. The noises from outside fooled him. His hand pushed at the door, forgetting that she hadn't told him it was okay yet.

"Mama?" He asked, nudging the closet open.

"Mama? Who the hell are you, creep?"

Another little kid stared at him, eyes burning with rage, lips twisted into a harsh, territorial snarl. Matt couldn't quite make out the other child's face in the darkness. He couldn't tell if the other person was a boy or a girl, only that they were royally peeved and had golden hair that shimmered in the light of the open doorway.

A little like Mary-Kate and Ashley.

Go figure.

"What are you doing in my room?" Matt asked, delirious from having been woken up from his nap.

The other child scowled, fiercely clenching his fists at his sides. "This is my room, stupid."

"Your room?" Matt's eyes flitted around the room wildly. When it became evident that the other child was right, his memories from the last few weeks returned. The sleep clouding his mind ebbed; he became more and more alert.

"What? You're a new student?" The child guessed. For some unknown reason, he was unhappy with that information; somehow, Matt's arrival was bad news. Then, the blonde let out a loud resigned breath, as if accustomed to accepting shit news.

"Student?" Matt asked. He had been under the impression that the mansion was to be his new home, not a school. Not that he would have minded (he liked school — it was where all his friends were), but he didn't want to live in a classroom.

"Maybe they made a mistake dropping you off here."

Matt scowled. "Mistake?"

"Yeah, they accidentally dropped off a parrot."

At that, Matt's displeased expression faded, amused by the comparison.

"This is a school. They're going to teach us how to become detectives." The blonde explained, eyes still narrowed into slits.

"Like Mary-Kate and Ashley," Matt said, trying to check his understanding.

"Like detective L."

"I never watched that show."

"He'sa person.He's the best detective in the world."

"If he's the greatest, why haven't I heard of him?" Matt asked dubiously.

"I don't know, like I said, maybe they brought you here by accident."

Matt wasn't satisfied. "Why do you keep saying that?"

"If you haven't heard of L, didn't know this was a school, and couldn't even figure out that this wasn't your room then you're obviously here by mistake."

"Maybe I was." Matt wasn't offended. "I don't want to be a detective. I want to be a fireman. Will they kick me out?"

It wouldn't be so horrible. Matt missed his mother.

The blonde huffed a laugh. "I don't know. I don't have to worry about that. Get out of my room, weirdo."

Mello hadn't realized it at the time, but he had been Matt's first teacher in that moment. He was the one responsible for educating him about the purpose of the house — the way orphans earned their keep. The only requirement at Wammy's House was being a productive member. If a student possessed no deductive aptitude, their teachers pushed them to find a skill or craft through mandatory extracurriculars. After all, they weren't personally selected to be part of the school out of kindness. Each student was recruited as a utility; it was important to be the best at something. There was no such thing as a useless student.

So Matt became the best at studying Mello. He was stupid at everything else, but he wasneverstupid for Mello. Mello only admired smarts; Matt dedicated himself to becoming an expert athim.He loved that the brightness of his hair outshined the artificial lights and dreary Mondays in February. His own personal sunshine for gloomy winter days. He liked the arrival of the long-awaited summers they played kickball and wrestled in the dry grass together. He remembered when he started putting effort into studying — back when the dreamy notion of becoming a detective had first filled his mind with wonder. How romantic the idea had been, of traveling the world with and having Mello look at him as someone worthy of respect.

But the first ranking list had been pinned on the wall of the study room, placing his name far beneath Mello's, nearly dead last.

Roger had called him into his office to discuss his far-below-basic grades and schedule tutoring sessions. Matt couldn't have given less of a shit about any of that.

Then, from the window of Roger's office, he saw his friend speaking closely with some girl, one of the children who placed third that year. Mello rarely acknowledged anyone like that. He was leaning in close to her, their faces nearly touching, talking about something Matt died to know. Inside of him burned the same anger he had always seen in the object of his affection's eyes — the venom contained within someone who wanted to be the only one.Maybe ifhewere L, Mello would lean in close to him that way.

Matt didn't want to be a detective. He had always wanted Mello.

After that, he made sure his name was never far behind his.