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Matty	By : flagfish Category: Death Note > Yaoi-Male/Male Views: 2314 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I make any money from writing this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Prologue
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 3
- 4
- 5
Matt’s eyes glittered in astonishment as he scanned the tiny, minute knots holding the dart in place.
Little fucker turned me in.
How else would they have linked the evidence to him?
But slaying a dragon, wasn’t that worth something? Certainly—
“Save your breath,”
The man laughed dryly to himself, still going through the various instruments on the benchtop, “I don’t care what they say, there’s no way a dragon that size could be killed with darts. All evidence shows it was burned to death.”
Matt went mute with surprise.
What? But I—
“I—beg your pardon—?!”
What could you really say to someone who accuses you of lying when you’re not?
“The dragon was burned to a crisp,”
Came the man’s voice, deep and guttural with disinterest as at last he returned to Matt, not with an axe or sword or knife, but with a small black container.
Matt couldn’t help but smirk at this, laughing to himself despite the situation.
“It was a fire-breathing dragon.” You moron.
“Fire breathing dragons don’t set fire to themselves.”
Whatever Matt was going to say next remained frozen mid-syllable at his lips—
Dude had a point.
Matt thought back now on the gusts of smoke rising all around the tremendous body of the beast, the putrid stench and his own body, covered entirely with grime. But he killed it, he killed it fair and square—not with fire, but with darts.
Glimmering green eyes darted back and forth in astonishment as Matt tried uselessly to make sense of the events that transpired then, before, all at once, the man’s large hand pressed tightly against his forehead.
“Wh—!”
The next thing he could see was the other hand raised just above his eyes, dropping something inward, some kind of powder—
His screams pierced all throughout the large chamber, reverberating loud and heart-wrenching, agonizing and shattered with despair.
And then there was a blast, and then everything went dark.
***
Everything was very hot.
Matt dreamt there was a young man, a very kind young man, dark hair, speaking to him, saying things in a language he couldn’t understand, gentle, paternal, warm—
Yth geou troth wux agantal, isthasy.
And then again there was encompassing darkness all around, giving way to the unconsciousness of sleep.
***
Small, angry fingers, small but hardened already with the foreshadowed anticipation of adulthood to come, silent, silent, quietly picking at rocks, little rocks, little gravely trails engraving angrily into the hard stone wall of the house.
Angry words, obscene words.
What the hell was the point of having a friend.
There was a fire,
Now it was a fire, and before that there was the plague, and if you get yourself to care about people, things like this can become your business, and then things like this can really piss you off, and they can really hurt—
Mello’s small fingers grasped hard at the cross around his neck, painfully, tugging, yanking at the thing with silent rage and regret—
It was like a horrible curse that bound him to his fate.
In his anguish, Mello had leafed bitterly through manuscripts he never before cared to study, the Holy Scriptures of the Old Testament and the Bible, scrolls and songs and psalms,
There were no survivors
Is this the pity the Lord has on us, is this the grand, ultimate plan—
The entire building had burned down,
And now the one friend he had made was gone.
Small fingers tugged hard at the cross around his neck, and with a hard twist of his hand, Mello tore the thing off, chucking it directly against the hard stone wall and listening to the metallic clang as it fell to the earth from there.
***
He didn’t know how much time had passed.
But when Matt woke up, he was tucked in white sheets and blankets, bandages all around.
The room was dim with the golden glow of afternoon drifting softly through a window somewhere, and his vision was fuzzy, straining somehow.
“You’re awake,”
The voice was so deep, so much like that of the man who tormented him, that Matt nearly jumped in place—
The man who—
Was he still there—?
He couldn’t see very well, but nearby was the very large figure of a great, big person, dressed no doubt in the familiar robes of a priest, with the same large hands his tormentor has had, but somehow, nevertheless, with remarkable kindness.
What happened?
Where am I?
This place wasn’t Wammy’s House.
Slowly attempting to sit up, Matt turned his head to inspect the priest nearby, only to discover that, in the dim light of the room, his vision would not focus. No—it wouldn’t focus at all.
“You’re lucky to be alive,”
Came the man’s voice, deep and calm, serious but merciful. He approached the bed and knelt beside him, a cup in his hand filled with water.
In the man’s large hand, the glass seemed somehow very small, a miniature doll’s mug encircled by the enormous digits of a giant.
Matt’s body hurt, his abdomen piercing sharp with pain as he bent to reach the cup, pretending by nature to smirk at the pain, nah, that’s, this, this is nothing.
His small fingers closed around the mug.
Priests grow gardens.
They found him in the forest, the man told him, unconscious on his back and half naked, patches of dark ash along his skin here and there, dehydrated and covered in grime.
They thought he wouldn’t last, they thought he would die, they took him into the monastery for refuge and cared for him there.
He was out cold for the past two days, the priest said, they thought he was done for by now.
In the forest. In the forest? He tried to remember what happened—he tried to remember where he had been, and, slowly, the scene at the dungeon returned, the torturer who reminded him so much of this man before him now, but different entirely in demeanor, different completely in tone.
This man, a large giant of a man, bald and with a small dark beard, was just as cumbersome and large as the man before—but, quite distinctly, he was gentle nonetheless.
The water felt good against Matt’s throat, and he didn’t realize until then just how parched he had been. Small hands grasping hard at the cup, he tilted it all the way, water streaming down his chin and his neck as he drank, and, green eyes darting toward the man with deliberation, he murmured into the crucible,
“More.”
But how—he must have fallen unconscious at some point. His small hands grasped hard at the mug. They didn’t sever his hands.
All at once, he dropped the cup, the thing falling unto his blanket and from there to the floor with a large clink, and, grasping at the sheets, he tugged hard, peeling them back.
Through a cloudy haze of sight, he could tell his limbs were all there, his body, despite the bandages, in one solid piece.
“You should drink more slowly,”
Came the priest’s voice as he bent to collect the mug from the floor, pouring in more water, and then,
“What is your name?”
Matt looked up, hands still grasping hard at the sheets.
“Mail Jeevas, sir,”
He replied softly, filled curiously with wonderment at his own unbefitting formality; he seldom addressed people as sir.
He then added, “They call me Matt.”
When he told the man he had come from Winchester, the priest gazed back for a long time with astonishment.
“Impossible,”
Came the quiet reply, anxious but oddly composed— because Winchester was very far away.
***
Mello left.
He had packed up his things in a little bag, his clothes and his sword and whatever money he had, and, without so much as a word, he left Wammy’s House.
When he paged through the Holy Scriptures some days before, he had come across something very unusual. From among the glittering pages of a manuscript there slipped out a curious, small document, completely circular and lined with odd symbols all across, circles and wedges and lines the likes of which he’d never seen before, and, curious, Mello copied them down, meticulously to his own page, before returning the paper back to its source.
Maybe this was magic writing, too. Maybe now that he ran away, at last he could become a mage.
He wandered for a long time, for hours, before approaching the stores in the town and a quiet tavern, where, settling his things on the counter, he asked for a pint of mead.
The barman laughed, and others laughed nearby at the sight of the angry little boy who took himself so seriously as though already he were a man, and Mello accepted the drink with mute rage, glaring as he slid his money across the counter.
He was there for hours, and when later that night L had found him there, practically collapsed at the bar stool, he quietly handed the barman a handful of coins for the odd number of mugs that still were unpaid.
Carrying Mello in his arms, L took him to one of the tables instead, seating him down and beginning slowly to wrap a large fur cape around him.
“Nnnh…”
Mello stirred, and, dark eyes darting in the direction of a nearby barmaid, L tugged softly at her sleeve.
“Some water, please,” he asked.
When later Mello’s consciousness had begun to return, he noticed L dangling something from in-between his fingers.
Mello’s rosary.
“I found this in the garden,” he said softly, “near some interesting words carved into the wall.”
Silent with rage, Mello said nothing.
“Mello gave up on priesthood, isn’t that right.”
Easy for a mage to say, Mello thought.
For a few moments more, L merely gazed at the cross, hanging quietly at the curved center of the string.
“There was someone else who didn’t want to be a priest,” he said, still looking away, “when he was a boy, Master Wammy was very sick.”
Mello’s blue eyes moved slowly in L’s direction, hidden for the time being beneath a mane of yellow hair. He didn’t speak, but, even without looking, L knew he had his attention.
He told Mello about how Wammy, too, had lost his family to the plague, how he had been ill, himself, a pale, sickly boy who nevertheless subsisted, built curiously to persevere, and was raised in the abbey as a priest.
It may or may not have been God who saved him, or perhaps it was the strength of purpose, the determination to survive that comes with hard work.
Priests grow gardens, this also is true, and thereby through herbalism he came to learn alchemy and expertise in potions, and thereby, too, he became an inventor.
“But really, Mello is grieving his friend.”
Mello said nothing, his fingers emerging determined and white from beneath the furry rim of the cape. He traced small trails on the frost lining the mug, eyes straight ahead as he watched the water dripping slowly within the streaks.
I have no friends.
They sat in silence for a long time, L drinking his own mug of water beside Mello and waiting patiently for the boy to speak.
They had taken Matt away to punish him for theft, but then the whole building had burned down.
I don’t want to be an inventor.
Something like that doesn’t just happen. Buildings don’t just randomly burn down like that. Theft isn’t punished by burning.
Mello felt dizzy and tired with all the mead he drank; somehow, the boy who took from him his one chance to slay a dragon was the only thing he longed for now that he was gone.
L’s long arm came slowly around Mello, gentle, fatherly and warm as he drew him carefully to himself.
“Let’s go home,”
He said softly, and, leaving some coins on the tabletop, he lifted Mello carefully in his arms, tucking the cape all around him as he climbed up from the table bench.
Mello didn’t resist. He was exhausted, miserable and drunk as his small arms came as of their own accord around L’s neck, yellow hair cascading over the bony angle of his shoulder as the young man carried him out.
At home, after L had given him a bath, he laid Mello down on his mattress, carefully tucking him in beneath the sheets.
Alone again, after so many nights that he and Matt had shared a bed.
Quietly, the long digits of L’s hand came around Mello’s neck, careful as they fastened his rosary back in place.
For a very brief moment, Mello thought of asking L about the document he found inside one of the books, the circular paper with the strange writing. But he held back, instead. It’s probably magical writing. He probably never was supposed to see it at all. They probably won’t tell him anything.
He’d probably just get in trouble.
Very gently, L leaned forth and, long fingers brushing through Mello’s hair, he kissed the boy’s forehead, goodnight.
Ten years passed since then.
To be continued…
- 3
- 4
- 5
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Matty