Matt x Mello

BY : Genevieve
Category: Death Note > General
Dragon prints: 8296
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

I’m sorry, L.

The words were imprinted in Mello’s mind for days, weeks even, to the
point that they had become almost a familiar absolute, steady and oddly
calming, but that night, the night they mounted the airplane to Japan,
there began to form a strange paralysis that left even this shrouded in
flickering anxiety.

They were ready, they knew the mission by heart, they knew what to do
in case of failure and in case of emergency, what prints to use where and
what prints to avoid and how to see in the dark and how information travels
in fibers of light, and why this is the right thing to do and how even
if it wasn’t, now there is no way out anyhow.

When Mello closes his eyes, he remembers suddenly when first L left
for Japan, many years ago when he was younger and didn’t want L to go,
and definitely didn’t want L to go to battle against Kira.

I’m sorry, L.

But perhaps this is what L had wanted, too.

It’s cold and dry on the airplane, and they’ve never been to Japan before,
and they’ve been so heavily wound and so meticulously prepared for the
job that they haven’t really given much thought to the fact that they’re
on their way to a new country.

Sueprmax, that’s the slang term used to describe maximum security
facilities, and that’s the kind of place they were going to infiltrate,
and, Mello hopes, not the kind of place where the two of them will ultimately
wind up.

It didn’t sound very nice at all.

Prisoners have gone mad from the things that go on there, he heard,
but he also heard that Kira was already mad to begin with.

Mello thinks he’s going mad, too—from anxiety and tension and sometimes
regret, and he wishes almost that this was something loud and hard and
violent and not so hauntingly eerie.

They arrive in Japan two stops and almost a day later, red-eyed and
tired and disoriented and jet-lagged but quietly alive with stress, and
when finally they are on the cab ride to their hotel, Mello feels his head
collapse almost automatically against the bony angle of Matt’s shoulder.

Then comes the gentle brush of long fingers through Mello’s hair, and,
very softly, Matt says to him, “We’re here, Mello, we’re in Japan.”

And for some reason unknown even to himself, Mello feels suddenly the
brittle film of wetness that has lined his eyes for weeks begin at last
to break and tremble and come undone in hot streamlets of raw despair.

Very quietly, Matt gathers him closer and leans to kiss his forehead,
whispering things that Mello can’t hear and that he, himself, doesn’t understand,
and, really, he’s nervous, too, but it’s all he can do to console his friend
for now.

They’re very quiet when they reach the hotel room door, and, after sliding
the card key through and pushing the heavy door open, Matt all but pulls
Mello in after him. It’s night now, but his friend is wearing sunglasses,
because a cool guy like Mello isn’t supposed to cry.

Matt leaves the suitcases by the door and, turning to his friend, he
runs his fingers along the plastic handles of the dark sunglasses, sliding
them out from under his hair and then placing them gently on the nearby

Mello’s eyelids bat a few times, and his eyes are red and inflamed and
tired, and, in a delicate gesture of compassion, Matt leans in and kisses
each of his eyes.

“This isn’t like you,” he thinks of saying, but instead he holds his
tongue, because he knows that when Mello isn’t like Mello, it’s usually
because of L.

His fingers come gentle and warm against his friend’s skin when he pulls
down the zipper at his vest, and Mello watches in distant silence as he
leans in to kiss the skin beneath, but no matter how warm or how gentle
or how kind Matt tries to be, Mello remains tight and rigid, cerebral and
frozen solid with ominous despair.

“Okay,” Matt gives up at last, and he doesn’t try anything on Mello,
but he attempts to explain to him that they’re going to have to get some

“I’m sorry, Matt,”

it comes quiet and serious when, some time later, they lie wide-eyed
in the darkness, and Matt moves closer to the warm body at his side, and,
gathering him closer, he replies,

“Remember when you used to sleep over in my room? Back at Whammy’s?”

“Yeah, when we did homework.”

“Not that. I mean, after the homework.”

“You always fell asleep before I finished my homework.”

Matt thinks about this.

“Always? You sure?”

“Yeah, because you studied on your bed.”

“I studied?”

Mello smirks. “You know you did, dumbass.”

And then he grows quiet, because he realizes that Matt has managed to
make him smile for the first time that day.

His hands come slowly around Matt’s naked back, and when he moves closer,
he’s trembling, but the memory of doing homework at Matt’s desk all those
years ago is somehow comforting, and he doesn’t remember when exactly or
how or whether it’s in his head or aloud this time when, inaudibly, he

I love you, Matt,

but he does, at last, fall asleep.


It’s twilight when they set out the next day.

They’ve trained a long time for this, coming in undercover with every
print and ID and code, and with the sterile needle strapped to the inside
of the metal buckle in Mello’s belt.

It rings at the security check as expected, and he takes it off and
watches as the guard passes it through and hands it back to him on the
other side of the gate.

They pass through the entrance hall unscathed, and on to the second
wing, not because that’s the right way, but because this way is more common,
and then down beneath the solitary confinement unit and through to the
fifth wing.

They’ve memorized the entire layout, but, needless to say, it’s entirely
different in real life.

It’s entirely different when at each hall you have to reproduce the
code sequence associated with that door or that ward or that turn.

It’s entirely different with the hitch in breath that comes with adrenaline
so intense in one’s blood that Mello wonders if, by the time they actually
arrive, he won’t feel more heavily drugged than Kira, himself.

Most of the cells they pass are lined with bars and hard glass, and
while some of the prisoners are calm, some stare at them and whisper or
say things, and some sleep and some don’t bother or don’t care, and because,
really, Mello and Matt have no idea what they’re in for in the first place,
they can’t help wondering how different from them they really are.

So they walk past the units with bars and the units with glass and the
units with windows in doors until they reach a hall with units that have
no windows and no spaces at all and the doors are white, heavy metal and
you can’t see anything in or out, and the flickering, fluorescent light
of the ceiling lamp gives way to a greenish dim, and they stop almost in
place by the very sound of their own footsteps when they come at last before
the cell, itself.

Cell G.

This is the first of two doors.

You get in with a dual sliding key.

They don’t look at each other; they can almost feel each other’s heartbeat
through the mutual slide of the plastic cards.

There comes the ringing echo of the snapping lock within, then the heavy
slide of metal as, like all the other doors there, these ones come apart.

And then again the disconcerting sound of their own footsteps on the
white linoleum floor;

And the second of two doors.

This one works by fingerprint.

They had the prints mounted to the very underside of their fingers,
because there are cameras all around.

Mello thinks he’s never felt a pulse beat so undeniably alive through
the vessels coursing in him; from the corner of his eye, he peers at Matt
peering back at him, and, hand trembling, he reaches for the print pad.

I’m sorry, L.

Biting down on his lip, he presses firm, tense, hard, deaf to all the
world when there comes again the heavy sliding of doors, slow and cold
and metal—

And then all is silent.

They’re in.


To be continued…


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