Matt x Mello

BY : Genevieve
Category: Death Note > General
Dragon prints: 8281
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.

Even Light seems to watch Matt with genuine fascination as the younger boy works at rewiring the electrical controls in the cell. Soft hair falling featherlike over the still-moist skin at his forehead, Matt is quiet, tuned out to all the world but the fine wires in his palm, glistening colored plastic between the skilled, gloved digits of his hands.

“How much longer,”

Mello grunts with restless agitation, and, almost as expected, Matt replies with gentle patience that

“Only a few minutes more,”

and Mello knows that, despite it all, despite the tension and risk and trouble, despite it all there is after all almost definitely enjoyment in Matt’s voice, an unmistakable contentment that he can’t help because the guy really does like doing this.


He says some time later, green eyes sparkling with interest as his long fingers test gently at a metal switch, and, blinking in thought, he turns to Mello in a way that would make even Light go jealous, and he smiles with infinite patience,

“I’m actually surprised at how they wired this,”

He says, rising now to his knees and beginning to scan the floor for pieces of his clothes,

“I would expect that in a cell like this, the electrical board would be a unit alongside similar ones in a larger cluster, but—“

“Matt, shut the hell up already,”

Mello cuts him off with an impatient growl, “can’t you tell me about that later? The freaking audio would go on before—“

“How much time have we got?”

It’s Light’s soft voice now, calm but serious, and, turning both their heads, the boys gaze at him in mutual silence.

“About ten minutes,”

Matt replies with a note of submissive compliance, as if afraid that this might not be enough.

Light goes silent for several seconds more.

“We need to hurry, then,” he says, “I don’t know how long the anesthetic will take to work.”

Matt goes last. He and Mello watch in silence as, elegant and fluid, Light maneuvers his long limbs back onto the bed and then, gazing at them from under his hair, asks them again to strap him in.

There's a haunting memory hovering very strange in Matt’s thoughts as again he watches his long fingers at work, and they trembled, he sees them, they tremble with odd reserve, because, of course, this is just like when L taught him how to do this, and, as his eyes rise gradually to meet Light's, he finds himself wondering in the oddest of ways whether L had taught him to do this for this very reason.

L, the fastened binds rest long forgotten between the slender digits of Matt’s hands as green eyes stare absently ahead, L, do you know?

And, trembling still, those slender digits take Mello’s wrist with love, with the same focused gentleness that he rewired the controls at the electrical board, and, as the boys had been taught when they trained for this mission, he takes the needle to the anticubital fossa.

Mello’s eyes dart to the needle in Matt’s hands and then to his face and then back, and Mello is a tough guy, isn’t he, Mello isn’t afraid of things like needles and shackles and sterile sharps, and there's no fear in his eyes when he stares back at Matt staring back at him as he presses the needle in.

And Matt doesn’t need to ask Mello whether he trusts him when, one hand still pressing the needle down, he reaches with the other toward the switch at the manual drip. Just a little turn. Just a little more. They taught them how to do this, too.

There's something racing strange throughout the brittle thoughts in his mind, something flowing uneasy with the oddest sort of terror when he can see at last Mello’s eyes batting slow with lethargy, because, regardless of the number of times they practiced giving an intravenous injection, they had never done it with real anesthetic. He had never before felt this nagging concern that what if—

What if by some sort of mistake—

What if he did this wrong and, after this, Mello would never—

No, don’t think about that. There isn’t time. He has to do this right. He has to.

But Mello isn't an electrical switchboard and the way he sways back gradually against the hard wall behind as the long lashes of his eyes come down at last over the tired glow of his eyes is somehow very disconcerting to Matt—Matt, who nevertheless tries his best to act with courage, but who nevertheless feels just the oddest bout of pain that he’s going to wake up, right, after this they’re both going to wake up—


Think. He timed this. From the time he upped the dose and the time the anesthetic began to take effect, there seemed to pass a little under three minutes. He would do Light second and finally himself, conspicuously leaving the IV in his own arm as to alert the guards to the supposed “actions taken before death as dictated by Kira.”

This is also a means for them to ascertain that they really could trust Light in this regard—that is, that he allowed Matt to give him the same IV that the two of them had taken.

Light goes quietly, cooperatively and without a sound or single gesture at all of defiance, silently and cleverly alert until at last his own gaze turns fatigued and once again he lies harmless before Matt, curiously defenseless in his arms.

And then Matt is alone. Alone and tense and oddly terrified; so terrified, in fact, that he thinks suddenly his own adrenaline will win over the anesthetic in the drip.

This is dangerous, he knows, because if something goes wrong and the guards don’t come in in time, a dose like this running forgotten really could be lethal.

The needle isn't sterile, either.

But, really, there isn’t time left to rethink any of this, and he hasn’t any other choice.

And so, fingers trembling, Matt takes the needle to his own arm, watching it go in straight and steady as he settles down across from Mello where the wall meets the floor just a few feet away. Gazing at his friend for several seconds, he leans closer, one palm flat on the cold surface of the floor as he presses his mouth to Mello's, and then, leaning back, he turns his gaze again to the needle in his arm. He holds it in place until at last his fingers tingle numb, and then, tilting his head against the wall, he closes his eyes and waits.

* * *

Whirring sweeps.

And the rolling of etched rubber wheels across the scathed linoleum surface of the floor, and chatter, somewhere off in the distance, incoherent chatter that rises in volume and falls with the occasional opening and closing of doors, and sometimes it’s women and sometimes it’s men and how rude, how aggravatingly rude that whoever it is who’s making all that racket isn’t even trying to keep it down as they come deliberately closer to his bed, setting something down nearby with the ridiculously loud clash of plastic against wood, and then again the whirring sweep of something close, and it’s a curtain, he realizes in a moment of revelation, it’s the sliding sound of curtain rings drawing over the length of the hanging rail above.

And rain, somewhere out there it’s raining, isn’t it, it’s raining very hard.

Mello’s eyes come gradually open, squinting hard against the bright halogen light in the hospital room, and he isn’t sure how long he’s been awake or partly awake or partly asleep, nor does he remember what the hell is going on or where he is or how exactly he got there, but he’s dully numb and seeing double in one eye as he watches the nurse walk off after placing what appears to be a tray of food next to his bed.

He turns his gaze toward the tray, staring at it quietly for several moments before beginning very slowly to gather his limbs up into a reclining stance.

He isn’t hungry. Not at all.

His eyes dart sideways as he realizes the that chatter he hears is indecipherable—Japanese, no doubt—and he remembers slowly that he and Matt have flown to Japan.

They're still in Japan, then. In a hospital. This was Light’s plan, that’s right. Reaching for his face, he realizes that there's a long tube coming out of his nose, and, fingers still aching numb, he tugs softly at it to pull it out.

That’s right. They were feigning suicide. Running his hand slowly through the long locks of his hair, he turns his gaze now to his abdomen, where the bony frame of his body lies just barely covered beneath the loose folds of a blue hospital gown, and he slides his legs over the side of the bed until he feels the floor cold under the bare palms of his feet.



What in the hell—?

Turning his gaze back down, he notices to his vast astonishment another long tube, this one running clear from right under his gown to a receptacle on the side of the bed.

A catheter.

Oh, bloody hell.

Matt. Matt! Where in the hell is Matt…?!

But before he can even begin panicking about how exactly to get this thing the hell out of his body, his eyes fall on something almost as interesting hanging off the end of the bed.

There’s a clipboard attached there with several papers hanging loose, and he’s very interested to read what it says about him there. His patient chart.

Sliding closer, he reaches with still tingling hands, taking the thing and bringing it closer and then beginning to turn it around in his hands.

Fucking hell, it’s all in Japanese.

But at the top of the page there suddenly appear words in English that catch his eye, and he realizes that it’s the false name on the ID he carried with him into the cell. His eyes dart in periodic saccades in their search through the page and those that follow, looking for words, any words in English that he could possibly pick up.


NPO? What’s that? Some medical procedure? The name of a drug, perhaps? Can’t be. Undoubtedly he was given other meds, and he can only deduce that their names were written in Japanese, because there are no pharmaceutical names written anywhere else in English. Strange.

He keeps flipping through, until suddenly, all at once, he feels his body go frigid.

Can’t be.

There, toward the bottom of the third page, written in English and clear as daylight is his name.

His real name.

Mihael Keehl.

What the hell. What the hell…?! How….?!

He stares ahead frozen, heart beating suddenly hard against the naked wall of his chest, mind racing through possibilities, until, astonished, he realizes,

He really was, he really was Kira, Light really was Kira, he could, he could see their names, he could see their na—

And he remembers suddenly that when first he removed Light’s blindfold, the boy stared at him, quiet and intense, and then calmly had said,

You’re his heir then, he must really trust you.

He knew. He knew all along. He knew Mello’s name and, more chilling still, he must have heard his name before, because in that moment, there was, Mello realizes now, a revelation of silent understanding.

The name that appears now on Mello’s patient chart, they got it undoubtedly from the note Light left behind. It really wasn’t a piece of the death note then, or he and Matt would really have died.

Matt. Matt! Where in the freaking hell is Matt—!

Light is Kira. Light really is Kira. But he didn’t kill them. He could have killed them, but he didn’t. But why? And where is he? And where the hell is Matt…?!

Panicked, Mello rises from the mattress with one quick stride, cringing suddenly in pain as the catheter rips out long forgotten from within him, and then, falling back onto the rail, he mutters an elaborate string of expletives as again he reaches clumsily for the curtain swept all around his bed.

And there he is.

Mello breathes a sigh of relief as his eyes fall on the sleeping form of his geeky best mate, passed out serenely with tubes coming out of his nose and out of God knows where else and seeming to all the world like the very embodiment of sleeping beauty.

Mello, of course, has no patience for this.

He leans closer, and, in a moment of sadistic agitation, he yanks hard at the catheter tube, remembering how bad it hurt for him just moments before.

Matt awakens with a tremendous start, staring up at Mello with disoriented bewilderment, and while Mello knows that certainly his friend has no idea where he is or what happened and that most likely he’s still mostly numb and probably in actual need of that catheter tube, Mello really doesn’t care.


He whispers, eyes wide with panic, and he hardly gives the other boy time to recover before, long fingers reaching for his bony shoulders, he attempts to shake him into cognizance,

“Matt! Matt, what in the hell does that mean, NPO…?!”

Hardly even attempting to look back, Matt cringes in pain, eyes closing as he curls partly up toward the place where Mello yanked out the tube just moments before, and he’s too confused and disoriented even to curse.

Mello isn’t helping, what with the furious muttering and whispering about their names and about Light and danger and Kira, and what’s NPO, what the hell does that mean, NPO, and, fascinatingly, there slowly rises Matt’s arm and with a thin, pointed finger, he motions toward a large sign posted right behind Mello’s bed, and, just barely conscious, he murmurs,

“What—you mean, like that?”

And, very slowly, hands still locked on Matt’s shoulders peering naked from under the slide of his hospital gown, Mello turns his gaze toward the sign.


There, in very big letters, right up behind his bed, there it is again.


Nil Per Os.

It's in Latin, Matt tells him, and it means nothing by mouth.


Time seems to have stopped for several moments before, suddenly, Mello’s eyes go big.

The tray. There’s a tray sitting right there by his bed. A tray with food. That the nurse had given him just moments ago.

Mello blinks.

Was the nurse Asian…?

All at once, he practically leaps away from the bed, grabbing at the chart hanging from the end rail. His fingers tremble as he reads through, and there it is again – NPO. And then, farther down—

Mail Jeevas.

Fucking Christ.

Mello yanks hard at Matt’s wrist, all but lifting him entirely off the bed with one solid jerk, and, now fully awake with the maddening pulse of adrenaline, he runs toward the door, breath coming hard and choppy under the terrified whisper of mumbled words,

Is it safe, is it safe, can we leave, is it safe, can we go—

“Mello, what, what are—“

Matt is just barely awake, batting uselessly at the tube dangling still from the inside of his nose, until, flipping his head suddenly toward him, Mello stares with a mixture of aggravation of despair before tugging hard at it to pull it out.

We have to go, Matty, Matt, we have to get out of here, we have to leave, the FBI has—“

He stops suddenly, ducking and holding his breath as a physician makes her way down the hall past the outside of their room.


Mello whispers, lips trembling against Matt’s ear,

Let’s go, now…!

His fingers shake as he nudges open the handle at the door, and, very quietly, he takes Matt by the arm, moving fast toward the letters glowing bright in English—


The stairwell.

They slide past the door and, gradually coming to, Matt follows along behind Mello as he trots down the steps, hospital gown light and flailing open at the back, until suddenly the boy freezes in place.


He breathes, and he brings his hand hard against Matt’s mouth as they both listen, and their breath comes moist and terrified against the thin air in the stairwell, and there are footsteps, the unmistakable sound of footsteps climbing up, so, all at once, Mello spins around and, pulling Matt after him, he begins to run upward, not even trying to keep quiet this time.

He doesn’t know how long they’ve been at it. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been running, but soon there’s a dead end, there’s nowhere else to turn, there’s just the door at the top of the stairs, and it’s the door to the rooftop, and after that, there’s nowhere to run—

It’s raining, it’s raining hard when, out of breath and out of sorts, Mello yanks Matt out the stairwell and onto the naked concrete surface of the hospital rooftop, and they’re cornered against the edge, cornered when the footsteps grow ever louder and the door swings open at last, and there, there before them, it’s her, her in the flesh, Naomi Misora staring directly at them from behind the pointed barrel of a gun.


There is silence, silence as Mello and Matt stare forth at her, her dark hair flailing wet all around the expressionless gaze in her eyes, expressionless with bitterness, hard and dead inside ever since he died, ever since Light took Raye from her.

Hard and dead since, despite it all, L fell in love with Light, and, despite it all, fought tooth and nail so that the guy who murdered her fiancé could live.

The thin, almost transparent cotton edges of their hospital gowns flail soaking in the wind as, slowly, Matt and Mello raise their hands in a final moment of surrender, when there comes suddenly the quiet whirr somewhere in the distance of a helicopter moving close.

The sound grows louder, and with it the flowing gusts of air as wet drops scatter all around, whisked asunder by the air and spraying wet in their hair and their gowns and the naked expanse of their skin, and before the helicopter door even opens very far, she shoots, hard and fast and direct, and she hits, too, because before they see who it is who’s come to take them, there comes the sudden motion of collapse, and they hear the desperate cry of pain, and it’s L, she shot L, and it’s him she was after all along, wasn’t it.


Before Mello and Matt can fall to their knees in anguish, there comes the soft, elegant voice of reason, and there, standing far on the opposite end of the rooftop, there he is, it’s him, it’s Light.

Standing before them in the rain, he is equipped with nothing more than a pen and a book.

His thin black book—the Death Note.

“Shoot her,”

Light says civilly, and, strands of hair swaying fluid, he’s staring ahead toward the helicopter, where, still alive, L is clutching the wall beside the door with one arm, the other dripping red with blood, and there’s a gun in his hand, there really is a gun, and he says nothing, but he doesn’t shoot.

Light stares back in silence, and his teeth clench down in the first ever display of rage that Matt and Mello have seen him pull,

“Shoot her! Shoot, you idiot, shoot!"

Hands trembling on her gun, Misora flips her gaze to Light, and then back to L, and she cocks the barrel—

“Shoot already!” Light yells, and, unable to bear the tension any longer, Mello hears himself scream,

“You’re bloody Kira! You’re holding the Death Note! Why can’t you—“

But he stops mid-sentence.


L, do you know?

L knows.

L knows.

But, tragically, for all his unparalleled, precocious power of deduction, there's nevertheless one little thing that L really doesn’t know.

Very slowly, Mello and Matt turn to stare at Light.

If Light killed her, Light would die.

Light really wasn’t Kira anymore. He knew their names because he was a—

Kira really was executed in May of 2005.

L, himself, was witness to that.

The boy who supposedly never loved anyone really was dead all along.

Oh, hell, Mello whispers, oh, fucking, fucking hell…

All at once, Mello leaps forth, running at Misora and toppling her to the ground. They wrestle hard for several moments before Matt joins him, and she manages to shoot him in the arm before at last they somehow extract the gun from within her grasp.

It’s Matt who shoots her in the end, and he and Mello remain there, drenched in water and sweat and blood as they hover trembling over her on the rooftop, staring at Light and L stare each other down in silence as finally L understands that, for once, he really was very wrong about Light—

There was, it would appear, one person Light loved after all.

To be continued - epilogue

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