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“Tell me something.”
They’re laying in the dark. The blinds gape, letting in strips of neon orange that paint the wall and make Matt’s eyes hurt. He closes them briefly, but quickly decides he doesn’t like the darkness.
“Anything?”
“No.”
Mello rolls over; Matt can feel it in the dip of the mattress, as much as he can feel those probing eyes on him. They’re not quite as far apart as the queen mattress would allow, close enough that their shoulders brush when they both lie on their backs. Matt usually sleeps on the couch, but Mello dragged him in here earlier, shutting off the lights and climbing into bed almost before he’d crossed the threshold.
They did this as children, too; nightmares were common in Wammy’s, and the two of them were far from the exception. Matt lost count of the times Mello had guided him, in the midst of a hyperventilating bump-in-the-dark fuelled fit, into his small bed squished against the wall; or how many times he’d wake up to Mello crawling into bed beside him, still trembling, able to stay awake just long enough to offer him half of the blanket before passing out again.
“No,” he says again. “Not anything.”
“Then what?”
Someone shouts outside, a long, wailing moan that makes the hair on the back of Matt’s neck stand up.
“Something you’ve never told anyone,” Mello says. “Something you told yourself you’d take to your grave.”
The last word sends goosebumps down Matt’s arms, pinpricks of skin that brush against the fabric of his shirt and make him feel hot and nauseous.
“I dunno,” he says. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the strips of light waver with the movement of the blinds. “I don’t have anything.”
“Yes you do,” Mello argues. “Everyone has something.”
Matt chews on his lip. Something breaks outside; a glass bottle, maybe, thrown against a wall.
“I love you,” he says.
There’s a shuffling sound beside him; Mello’s wrist brushes his as he turns to lay on his back again.
“That doesn’t count.”
Matt turns his head.
“Why not? You said something I’ve never told anyone.”
“But everyone knows it.”
Matt frowns. His face is hot.
“Man, fuck you.”
Mello’s head turns towards his. Matt can see his eyes glimmer in the low light, but can’t see the expression on his face.
“Is that your answer?”
Quiet, for a moment. Then Matt snorts, and Mello’s teeth glint in the dark.
“Yeah, sure. Not sure how much of a secret that is, though, if the first one wasn’t.”
Mello laughs lowly; Matt can smell his breath, chocolate and mint and a hint of booze that he doesn’t remember him drinking.
“Maybe not everyone,” he acquiesces. “Just me.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
Mello shrugs.
“Had bigger things to worry about,” he says, and okay, that’s fair. Matt chews on his lip.
“Besides,” he continues, a lilt in his voice, “you weren’t exactly trying to hide it.”
“Still not much of a secret, then. What’s yours?”
Mello’s quiet. Whoever was yelling has stopped now, but Matt can hear them shuffling around in the alley outside.
And then he can’t hear anything, because there’s a soft, warm pressure against his lips, and when he realizes that Mello is kissing him, the rest of the world sort of fades away. He feels a soft noise leave his throat, and he can’t move, can’t think of anything except Mello’s lips and Mello’s breath and Mello, Mello, Mello.
It’s over within seconds, and the world comes rushing back: the scratchy sheets, the sounds of the city, the pit in his stomach. His eyes flutter open to see Mello already looking at him, eyes bright in the darkness.
Matt swallows. Coughs a little, then laughs.
“Well, now I know we’re gonna die.”
Mello quirks a brow, a small smile twitching at his lips.
It’s not funny. Matt grins back.
“What, that good?” he asks, eyes flitting over Matt’s face.
Matt laughs softly; rubs his nose against Mello’s.
“Yeah.”
“Wasn’t for you.” Mello’s breath is warm against his face, but Matt shivers.
“Sure.” They’re still close, and the air between them is a little stale and a little too warm, but he’ll gladly breathe the second hand oxygen if it means staying this way. Maybe, if they just stay like this, time will stretch around them, envelop them, take them within it so tomorrow never comes.
Mello tilts his head up; their noses catch, and his lips brush against Matt’s.
“It wasn’t,” he murmurs. “You’re not the only one who has something.”
Matt’s heart is beating against the walls of his throat. His fingertips are tingling, he realizes belatedly, and he vaguely wonders if that’s something he should be concerned about.
It doesn’t matter. Not now. Not tomorrow.
He can’t breathe well.
“This it?” he whispers. Mello hums; Matt feels the reverberations against his skin.
“This your ‘something?’” he clarifies.
Mello’s quiet for a moment. There’s shuffling sound, and then his fingers are curling around Matt’s over the sheets.
“If I told you mine,” he says softly, “then we’d really die.”
Matt’s breath comes out shaky. Mello frowns against his cheek.
“Matty.”
A cool hand cups his face, and Matt leans into it. It’s a touch softer than it has any right to be; like this, he can’t even feel the blood that Mello scrubs at so diligently.
They meet in the middle this time, and maybe Mello is doing this for his benefit, maybe it’s all some sort of preemptive apology, but Mello is kissing him and touching him and holding him and fuck it, he’ll take the handout. He shifts closer into Mello’s space, and Mello lets him, looping an arm around his waist and pulling him snugly to his chest. He’s not that much bigger than Matt—barely an inch taller, and all lean muscle—but like this, he feels like he’s being cocooned in his arms. His hand is on Matt’s back, keeping him close as their lips move slowly together, as though they have all the time in the world, and Matt doesn’t realize he’s crying until Mello pulls away, and he sees his own tears on his cheeks.
“Matty?” he breathes again, brow furrowed. Matt shakes his head, drawing in a shuddering breath.
“Don’t stop,” he whimpers, “please Mel, don’t stop.”
His voice is wrecked, and he’s shaking in Mello’s grasp. If this had happened on any other night, Mello might have stopped, might have made him talk, might have tried to fix it.
But tonight, Mello swallows and leans in to kiss him again. Mello pulls him flush to his body, rolling them so he’s laying over him, arms framing him, hands holding his face. And Mello doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t know how much time passes, but finally they lay beside each other, sated and panting. They’re both tacky with sweat, and when Matt shifts he feels the way their bare arms stick together.
The darkness has faded slightly, the room a heavy grey instead of black. It sends Matt’s heart into his throat, and suddenly he thinks he’ll have a panic attack—no, he’s not ready, he wasn’t paying attention, he can’t go into this without having slept—his mind starts running the numbers, as it always does, post-orgasmic bliss drowned out by his brain coming back online, how much sleep he’ll be able to get before they leave, how much sleep it’ll take for him to be at full performance, how much more time he’ll have to be awake and alive and—
Mello’s hand cups his face, and he moves with the pressure without thinking until their eyes meet. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his lips are drawn down and he looks frustrated, conflicted.
“Breathe,” he whispers, and it’s only then Matt realizes he’s been wheezing loudly, trying to draw in enough air. He gasps, oxygen flooding his lungs as his heart thumpthumpthumps in his chest.
Mello’s lips press against his forehead, and he takes a deep, shaky breath, trying to slow his heart and his breathing and his thoughts. They stay like that, Matt shaking in his arms, until he feels himself come back to reality a bit, until his heart beats thump-thump-thump, and Mello’s lips leave his skin. He looks into Matt’s eyes, searching for something, and Matt tries to keep his gaze but his eyelids are heavy, mind suddenly fuzzy as the sharp panic fades into exhaustion.
He feels Mello tuck a piece of hair behind his ear, and he melts into the touch.
“Sleep, ljubavi,” he whispers, running his thumb over Matt’s cheek. Matt’s eyes close, head sinking into the pillow.
He thinks he hears something, in the brief moment before he falls asleep. Maybe it’s in his mind, his thoughts resurfacing for one brief, lucid moment, but he swears he can feel the brush of breath across his skin, hear the click of dry lips around the confession.
I’m scared.
Purgatory is between the bedsheets, Mello’s hand laying on his chest and his lips against his neck. His head is tucked between Matt’s jaw and shoulder, and he’s warm despite the fact that the heating cut out in the middle of the night.
They don’t have long to lie here. Pretty soon, they’ll need to get out of bed, get dressed, strap on their weapons. Mello will tell him to eat something, Matt will make fun of him because it won’t matter soon. They’ll both fall silent, and Matt will grab a granola bar, and they’ll watch the camera feeds until Mello gives the signal. Maybe they’ll kiss at the door. Maybe Matt will fist his hands in the front of Mello’s shirt to keep him close for just a few seconds longer. Then Mello will put on his helmet and Matt will climb into his car, and they will never see each other again.
But right now, in this moment, they lie. Mello rubs his thumb in circles over Matt’s collarbone, and Matt keeps his fingers buried in Mello’s hair. Their legs are tangled together, and Matt’s not entirely sure where he ends and Mello begins. He thinks that maybe they could become an ouroboros, forever twisting in on themselves until they are inextricable from one another.
Though, it’s likely that’s already happened. That’s how Matt got into this mess in the first place.
He presses his lips to the top of Mello’s head.
He’s not going to heaven, and purgatory is pretty good. He’ll stay just a little longer.
It’s all sounds and lights and movement, the motor screaming under his feet and the sirens wailing all around him and the neon lights of the street lamps and billboards and headlights burning into his skull. It hurts, his head hurts, and he has a brief, hysterical thought that he should’ve eaten more back at the apartment as he flies down the street, white knuckling the steering wheel. He just has to keep going for long enough to buy Mello the time he needs. He glances at the clock on the dash, then at the screen playing the broadcast of the chase.
“Not my best angle,” he mumbles around his cigarette as he watches his car from above, looking uncannily small from the helicopter footage. “Let’s give ‘em a look at our good side, huh?”
He shifts gears and cranks the wheel, skidding into a turn and narrowly avoiding crashing into the guardrail. He sees red and blue flash out of the corner of his eye and spares a glance to the side mirror, biting his tongue and urging his car faster.
“C’mon, baby,” he grits out, patting the dash, “just a little more.”
Mello hates it when he calls his car ‘baby.’
Matt spits his burnt-out cigarette onto the console. Looks at the clock again. Drives a little faster.
He hopes to god he doesn't hit anyone. It would slow him down.
The lights to his right waver strangely, and he glances away from the road for a second. It’s water, he realizes; there's a river a few lanes over. It captivates him for a moment, and he has the sudden, calm thought that he wouldn't mind this being one of the last things he sees.
Then his car jerks, and he realizes he’s hit a pothole, and he curses loudly as he quickly rights himself. He needs to focus. He needs more time.
He should be close, right? Mello didn’t say how much time he’d need. Maybe he’ll just keep driving forever, looping the same roads for eternity.
He shakes his head hard. Focus.
A buzz, sharp and jarring; his phone.
Matt’s breath catches. He waits for it to stop ringing, click to voicemail. Leave your message at the tone.
Beeeeeep.
“Got the truck. Rendezvous.”
The short voice message plays just once over the speaker, then the line goes dead. Matt swallows. His tongue feels too big for his mouth.
Mello told him he wouldn’t die tonight. He hadn’t said anything about himself. Matt knows him, he knows him under his skin and in his head and his fucking heart, he knows that Mello is going to die tonight.
He’s not sure why Mello thinks he’ll make it out of this. He’s not a superhero, not a badass, crime-fighting, Kira-killing super sleuth. He’s just Matt. He’s going to die.
Oh god. I’m going to die.
It hits him at once, so suddenly slamming into his brain that he instinctively swerves like he’s been hit. He sucks in a breath, vision tunnelling.
I’m going to die.
He’d been numb, before. He didn’t realize it would get so sharp like this. It cuts his thoughts, leaves his brain shredded and bloody, and his hands are starting to shake on the steering wheel.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.
Lights, from up ahead—not headlights, but blue and red flashing against the dull, polluted sky. There’s a blockade, about a half mile down the overpass he’s climbing.
I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die
He’s speeding towards it, and then it’ll be over, they’re going to kill him, he’s not even twenty years old and they’re going to kill him and
It’s a steep climb for an overpass, or maybe it just feels that way when he can’t see the blockade yet, can see nothing but the damning halo of flashing blue red blue red blue red and holy fuck, he doesn’t want to die. He wants to live, please god or whoever might be listening he wants to fucking live.
Matt is a genius. His life is numbers, probabilities and statistics. So when he breaches the top of the overpass, when the road levels out and the blockade comes barrelling into view, he knows that if he stops, there is a hundred percent chance he’s going to die.
He glances out the window, sees the winding roads below the freeway, the headlights of hundreds of strangers; and beyond that, the river with its shimmering will o’ wisp fragments of the city lights.
He’s going to die if he does it. Statistically speaking, he’s going to die. But there’s a small chance, the slimmest, most miniscule possibility, and Matt grabs it and clings to it like a lifeline.
He wrenches the wheel, swerving across the lane of oncoming traffic. His brain is a machine, it’s a fucking exascale supercomputer, running the calculations as he speeds across the lanes, jerking as his wheels crest the lane dividers, and there’s one split second just before he hits the guardrail that he thinks Mello’s gonna kill me.
And then he’s careening over the edge, wheels leaving the road and car sailing out into open air, plummeting towards the highway below.
And maybe there is a god, maybe Mello is onto something, because his door handle doesn’t stick and he counts three full seconds and yes, they’re sailing past the road, his car is going to hit the cement but he knows he can make it, and he wrenches the door open and launches himself out.
For a moment, he’s suspended in the air, free falling, no, flying, floating, Schrödinger's dumbass, alive and dead—
He hits the water with an explosion of pain, starbursts crackling behind his eyes as every bone in his body screams. He almost gasps, but the frigid water shocks him back to reality, and he clamps his mouth shut and kicks back into gear, frantically pushing himself towards the surface. His lungs are burning and he can feel the pull of the water trying to caress him back into its depths, but he just clenches his teeth and kicks as hard as he can, he’s going to pass out he’s going to drown the numbers were right he’s going to die, he’s—
Out, the air stinging his face, and he coughs and hacks as the dirty water laps at his mouth, but he can breathe. His hair is plastered to his forehead, the water is in his goggles, he can barely see, but there’s a dark shape in front of him and he paddles desperately towards it, sucking in air every chance he gets before the water splashes back into his mouth and makes him gag.
It takes years, eons, but then his hands find the cold, slimy cement and he scrabbles for purchase with his fingernails. Something snaps and he cries out in pain, and his finger feels a lot warmer than it did before, but he heaves himself up and onto the ledge.
He doesn’t know how long he lays there, panting and shivering, falling in and out of consciousness. He’s cold, fucking freezing, of course he is it’s January, and the concrete is rough and reeks of algae and something rotten, but he can still feel cold and he can still smell sewage and he’s alive, he’s alive.
He’s alive, but it takes a while for the realization to sink in, and when it does his eyes fly open.
Mello.
It’s many hours later when he finally makes it to the rendezvous spot: an old, crumbling church on the outskirts of the city. He’s still damp, and he’s still cold, and there’s blood smeared on his clothes and trailing from his torn-off nail, but when he sees an innocuous transport truck parked inside, he quickens his pace, heart thumping against his ribs.
He notices the blood first. There’s lots of it, too much, he didn’t even know that much blood could be in a human body. He panics, stumbling over himself to follow the trail, just knowing what he’s going to find at the other end because Mello never intended to make it out of this.
Kiyomi Takada looked prettier when she was alive. And didn’t have a hole in her head.
Mello is sitting against a wall, hidden from view of the road. His head is down, hair curtaining his face, and for a horrible, sickening moment Matt knows that Kira got him.
But then, Matt’s always been number three.
Mello lifts his head, and for a moment he just stares blankly through him, eyes dull and glassy like he’s not even there. Then, as Matt watches, his expression shifts: a hint of light begins to shine through the haze, and he slowly stands up, gun clattering to the pavement.
“Matt?”
Matt can’t say anything. He lifts his arms out from his sides a little. Here I am.
“Went for a little unplanned swim,” he croaks. Mello stares at him.
And then he’s falling again, but the ground is right there, he hits it with an oof! as Mello throws himself at him. His arms squeeze around him so tightly that he swears he can feel his bones start to crack, but he just buries his face in Mello’s shoulder and hugs him back just as tightly.
“Hi,” he murmurs into Mello’s hair, because what the hell else is there to say? Mello exhales harshly, fingers digging into the back of his vest.
“Hi,” he breathes, pressing desperate kisses over Matt’s hair, his face, “hi, Matty, Mail, fuck—”
“‘M here,” Matt says, and it seems to comfort Mello but it was more to reassure himself, he’s here, he’s breathing, they both are.
They’re alive.
“We’re alive,” he says, and Mello makes a noise that sounds like something between a laugh and a sob.
“Yeah,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, “yeah ljubavii, mi smo živi.”
“I have no idea what you just said,” Matt confesses, and Mello laughs and squeezes him tighter.
Mihael Kee
Two letters. Two goddamn letters away.
Mello will talk about it, later. How ironic it is. Number two, two letters short. The poetic injustice.
Matt will tell him to shut up. Then probably kiss him.
They don’t do any of that now, though. Matt hands Mello his lighter, and they both watch as the paper scrap goes up in flames. The sky is lightening; they won’t have the cover of night for much longer.
Matt smells like gasoline. Whatever, he’ll have to throw these clothes out anyways.
He smokes one last cigarette as Mello stares out at the horizon, the slowly creeping rays of pink and purple peeping out from the grey. It doesn’t taste great, having been in his pocket during his little polar bear plunge, and he’s not even halfway done when he takes his last drag, plucks it from his lips, and lets it fall to the ground.
The gas catches instantly, lighting up in a magnificent trail of orange and blue, flames racing each other to the source of the fuel. The church is engulfed in minutes, and the heat feels nice on Matt’s chilled skin, but soon Mello is tugging at his arm.
“C’mon,” he says, “unless you wanna get toasted like a marshmallow.”
“What’re you gonna do with the bullet?” Matt asks as he hoists himself into the truck. He hadn’t watched Mello dig it out of Takada’s head, too gross even for him, half-listening to Mello’s grumbling about ‘it’s either this or toss the gun.’
“Dunno,” is the answer as Mello slams the door shut. “Give it to Near, I guess.”
Matt snorts.
“What, like a final ‘fuck you?’”
Mello hums, starting the engine with a roar.
“No,” he says, more thoughtfully than Matt expected. “More like a promise.”
Matt stares at him.
“Mello. Are you gonna kill Near?”
Mello whips his head around.
“Wh– no!”
“You have no right to sound so surprised,” he points out. Mello rolls his eyes.
“Matt, we’re—we can’t exactly be drawing attention to ourselves right now.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Matt snickers as Mello swats at him without looking away from the road.
“The meetup point with Halle is about four hours out,” he says, glancing over. “There’s a uniform for you in the back seat, you can change while I get us on the road.”
“Mel, if you wanted to get me naked, all you had to do was ask.”
They’re laying on rumpled sheets. The lights are off, but there’s a few hours of daylight left, and the sun is muted and soft through the thin motel curtains. Matt’s eyes are closed, but he’s not sleeping, not yet; more simply being, feeling, letting the moment stretch on for as long as the darkness behind his eyelids remains unchanged.
“You tired?”
Mello’s voice is quiet next to his ear. Matt hums, shakes his head the best he can where it’s nestled between Mello’s neck and shoulder.
“Nah.”
“You look like you’re falling asleep.”
Matt just smiles. He doesn’t open his eyes.
“Can’t a guy just enjoy the moment?”
Mello snorts, but doesn’t reply. Matt feels his fingers in his hair, and a contented sound leaves his throat as he gently presses into the sensation. Under his hand, Mello’s chest rumbles with a laugh.
“Comfy?”
“Very.”
“This bed is gross.”
Matt chuckles, finally cracking an eye open. Mello is looking down at him with an expression he can only describe as ‘fond,’ and his heart does a dumb little skip in the chest.
“‘Course it is, it’s a motel.”
“I was more referring to what we just did on the bed.”
Matt laughs. Mello’s eyes crinkle in the corners.
“You wanna shower?”
He tucks a piece of hair behind Matt’s ear; Matt turns his head and catches his fingers with his lips.
“We should.”
Mello strokes a finger over Matt’s lip.
“We’re gonna regret it later if we don’t,” he continues. Matt kisses the tip of his finger.
“Maybe.”
Neither of them move to get up. Matt lays his head on Mello’s chest and closes his eyes again.
Mello’s arms wrap around him, and he buries his face in Matt’s hair. He mumbles something in Croatian, and Matt used to know the language, but his brain is still a little fuzzy from earlier, and he has a feeling Mello wasn’t quite speaking to him anyways.
He feels Mello’s heartbeat against his cheek. It fills him with a type of warmth he’d never even knew existed before now.
“Hey, Mel?”
Mello hums, lips still pressed to his head. Matt opens his eyes.
“Tell me something.”
A hand strokes down his back. Matt resists the urge to close his eyes again, melt into the touch.
“Tell you what?”
He lifts his head then, looking up at Mello. There’s a quizzical look on his face, and he searches Matt’s eyes like he’s another exciting mystery.
Matt takes a breath.
“What was your something?”
Mello looks at him like he’s talking in riddles. Matt leans up, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
“I told you mine,” he murmurs against his skin, “the other night. You never told me yours.”
Mello stiffens a little.
If I told you mine, then we’d really die.
The room is quiet. There’s a faint buzzing sound from the corner, the heater trying its best to keep up with the January chill.
Honestly, he half doesn’t expect Mello to tell him. There are still things about him that are a mystery to Matt; not much, at this point, but some. He brushes his lips against Mello’s collarbone, a silent apology, a silent dismissal.
“We’re alive.”
Matt pauses. He glances up at Mello, but he’s not looking at him, instead staring up at the ceiling.
“We’re alive,” he says again, softly. “It wasn’t supposed to end up like this.”
Matt swallows. He knows.
Mello was supposed to die.
“It did, though.”
Mello looks down again. There’s something behind his eyes, something that Matt can’t quite place but seems to pierce him somewhere deep inside.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It did.”
He rubs Matt’s back, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, like it’s for his own comfort. Matt’s heart flutters, and he gently kisses his chest.
“I couldn’t tell you,” Mello murmurs. Matt pauses, but doesn’t look up. “Because if I told you, if I said it out loud…”
He runs his fingers through Matt’s hair.
“It would’ve been real,” he says. “If I said it, it would’ve made it true, and if it was true then that would’ve meant that…”
We’d really die.
A subtle tremor; Mello’s shaking. Matt wraps his arms around his waist, presses impossibly closer to him.
“It’s still true.”
Mello folds his arms around him, holding Matt to his chest. Matt closes his eyes; maybe if he can’t see Mello, it’ll give him some semblance of privacy to confess.
“I don’t think…” he hears him swallow, a dry click caught in his throat. “I don’t think it’s ever not going to be true.”
He’s still shivering. Matt wishes he could pull the bedsheets over them, but they’re stuck under their bodies.
They lie in silence. Matt doesn’t open his eyes, presses intermittent kisses to Mello’s skin.
Eventually, Mello stops trembling.
“You don’t need to be brave all the time.” It takes a moment for Matt to realize he’s said it out loud, murmured it to Mello’s heart through his ribcage. Mello stiffens; the air turns heavy.
“You don’t,” he asserts, tightening his grip, suddenly terrified that Mello is going to throw him off. “It’s not even possible, I don’t think.”
He swallows hard, then opens his eyes. Mello’s face is blank, but there’s something swimming in his eyes, and Matt’s chest squeezes painfully.
“I’m always scared,” he confesses softly. Mello’s face doesn’t change. “Somewhere in me, I’m always scared.”
Slowly, carefully, he runs a hand up Mello’s chest. It lingers over his heart; it’s beating fast. Scared.
“I’m alive, though,” he murmurs. “I was scared the whole time, but I’m alive.”
Without breaking eye contact, Matt lowers his head, presses a tender kiss alongside his own hand, over the thumpthumpthump of Mello’s heart.
“Let someone else be brave for you, sometimes.”
He closes his eyes again. His brow is furrowed, he can feel the pressure. His lips remain against Mello’s skin.
“Please.”
The room is silent, aside from the buzz of the heater and the thumpthumpthump in Mello’s chest and the blood rushing in Matt’s ears.
The light is soft and the sheets are messy and Mello’s face crumples, and he holds Matt tight and he cries. Tears drip down his cheeks, and he’s gasping shuddering breaths beside Matt’s ear, and Matt holds him and strokes his hair and kisses the tears. The broken noises Mello is making hurt his heart, but he just holds him and loves him and breathes.
I love you.
I’m scared.
We’re alive.