.:One:.

Mello's abrupt departure is surprisingly docile; he packed with the surety and calm silence of someone with a plan, though beneath that was the panic of a child, eyes bright and feverish after catching a glimpse of a shattering world and a fallible idol who delivered only ambiguity and doubt. Then he's out of there, left Wammy's House for good to stumble his way boldly into the world. He leaves without goodbyes, and Matt is one of the last to know.

At Wammy's, you are taught that a clean cut heals faster and hurts less. This is the cleanest it gets--no messy farewells or corny, tearful last words like in those soap operas Linda never admits to watching. But dammit if this doesn't sting just the tiniest bit--all right, a lot, but honestly, what the hell could you expect from Mello?

(Nothing, really, not that Mello was selfish, although, yeah, he was that, but more like he was unpredictable, you couldn't expect things from him because everything he did was unexpected.)

It doesn't make him any less angry though, the abandoned boy in the abandoned room, hands tightened into fists and feeling lost, furious, hurt.

"I hate you," he hisses, the words sounding choked rather than vicious. "You selfish prick, I hate you--" And he knows that it doesn't make sense, he knows that it's impossible and stupid and childish (and maybe that's why his friend, his best friend--what a filthy lie, what a gullible boy--left him behind). But he hopes that these words reach Mello somehow, hopes that he can hear them and feel them and that they'll hurt him half as much as...

Roger finds Matt curled on Mello's old bed that night, buried deeply in the sheets with his head resting next to sun-gold strands of hair.



.:Two:.

So how much time has passed? Two, three, four years--not that Matt's counting, mind you, because he doesn't give half a shit where Mello is, or what he's doing, or if he's alive. Matt's days-weeks-months move on in the form of slow mornings and sluggish nights where he's too lazy to even sleep, languishing in this dirty old apartment playing video games all day and living on Wammy's House funds.

If you could call this living.

And no, it doesn't mean anything at all that, when the phone rings and the voice on the other end speaks, he recognizes it almost immediately. Not-at-fucking-all.

"So how've you been?" Mello asks. As if this was a normal conversation between two casual friends. As if you could just put relationships on pause and then come back like nothing was wrong. As if he didn't desert Matt's sorry ass for four years, 11 months, and 22 days.

(Or, alternatively, 259 weeks, or 43,632 hours, or 2,617,920 minutes, or 157,075,200 seconds.)

So, how's Matt been. He struggles to sit up, laden with junk and dirty blankets--he hasn't bothered to get out of bed today yet, despite the fact that it's already past noon--and surveys his surroundings. Crushed cigarettes and other shit all over the place, a pile of rancid laundry he was going to get to months ago, a life he's rotting away, tangled wires and leftover take-out boxes...

So, how's Matt been.

"Great," he answers smoothly, not missing a beat. The resentment almost doesn't creep into his voice.



.:Three:.

The first thing Matt thinks when he sees Mello again is, Fuck, what happened to his face? His second thought is more along the lines of, What the hell is he wearing?

His eyes linger a little too long on Mello's tight tight leather and the flash of skin on his stomach. His legs have grown long and slender and girly, not that he'd ever tell Mello that. Matt finds himself staring and hopes Mello doesn't notice.

He does.

A week later, Mello has him pinned against the headboard, mouth pressed tightly to his as his fingers ghost across Matt's bare skin with disturbing expertise. And never has anything felt so good, so...

Wrong.

It doesn't take as much effort to shove Mello off as Matt thought it would. He musters his best glare.

"I'm still pissed at you for leaving Wammy's without even telling me, you asshole."

But before he can react, Mello's moved in closer, warm breath on his neck and a hand traveling down, wrapping around him, and oh, but if this doesn't completely derail Matt from his train of thought, if this doesn't leave him gasping for words.

"Still mad?" Mello asks, an honest-to-God crazy grin on his face.

Matt manages a strangled "no," but his nails dig painfully into Mello's back.



.:Four:.

Mello seriously needs to fucking sleep more.

Matt dozes off around eleven, Mello still typing away furiously on his laptop while mauling his chocolate bar with his teeth. He's in a pissy mood, although, judging by the way he still bothers to flick chocolate crumbs off the keys (and onto Matt's pants, but he'll graciously consider it an oversight on Mello's part), he's only mildly irritated, not winding up for one of his really epic, gun-pulling tantrums. Matt doesn't bother riling him up like the pleasantly dick-ish friend he is, even if it'd probably cheer Mello up in some weird way, because Mello was never the most normal of people.

It's almost four in the morning when Matt starts awake, roused by Mello closing the laptop and shifting on the couch, leather creaking loudly in the silent room. Sometime during the night, Matt had squirmed his way across half the couch, goggles half on his forehead and feet dangling off the armrest. One of his shoes is missing, and he's left a trail of drool on Mello's shoulder. Which he'd just been snoring on, to Mello's apparent disdainful tolerance.

"Long day at work, honey?" Matt simpers. His voice is scratchy and half-awake, but he makes the falsetto.

"Got a plan," Mello tells him. "We won't have to do it unless the shit really hits the fan, but--"

"Is it risky?" Mello won't stop moving, and his goddamn shoulder's already pointy enough when it's not jabbing Matt repeatedly in the face.

"It'll be exciting. You'll like it." Mello leans back onto the seat, and Matt sprawls obnoxiously over him.

"Okay, exciting. Sure. Awesome." Mello fidgets some more, jittery and full of nervous energy. "Seriously, quit squirming. You're a shitty pillow."

When Matt wakes up again, it's already bright outside, sunlight valiantly trying to poke through the gap in their old, dusty curtains. Mello's asleep for once, breathing steadily into Matt's ear. Matt pokes Mello's hand, and when he doesn't respond, he twines their fingers together, because deep, deep down, he's pretty much a sap.

It's really not the excitement that he likes or makes him stay.



.:Five:.

The shit really hits the fan.

They stand awkwardly outside in the pre-dawn light in the morning, Mello fiddling with his keys and Matt half-dressed because he doesn't have to be out until later that night. Mello looks like he's about to say something, not something rude or careless, but something meaningful, and that would be wrong, that would be like admitting defeat because he might not be able to--to say it later, so instead, Matt punches him on the shoulder, then, almost as an afterthought, pulls Mello close, fingers lightly on his wrist so he can feel the pulse, and rests his lips lightly on his.

"What, all I get is a grandma kiss?"

Matt snorts, tosses out an amused "Fuck off," and "Be careful," and, finally, as he's turning around, "Talk to you later, then, dude," over his shoulder, and then watches Mello leave, taillights weaving through the early morning traffic until he disappears around a bend.

And, later, in a little more than twelve hours, Mello sees the grainy images on the TV, hand tightening on the wheel, remembering--

"Talk to you later, then..."

(He doesn't.)

--and all he can think is, youliedyoulied you fucking lied to me.



.:Once:.

It's really not funny, but he spits out a laugh anyway, the burning feeling hot and tight in his chest, hands scrabbling uselessly for purchase on the dashboard. Thinks, "Talk to you later, then," and

(He does. He will.)

thinks, you didn't lie after all.