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.


 



Epilogue



"I know you're there."



Nine in the evening.



In the barren attic of an orphanage somewhere in the south of England, L was gazing blankly ahead through the iridescent glow of a computer monitor.



July 20th, 2005.



Thin white fingers danced with gentle irritation around the porcelain handle of a small teacup, but he didn't bring it to his mouth.



Nothing was so unsettling to a man of reason as the prospect of something potentially unexplainable.



"Go on,"



He murmured calmly despite the fear, cold and genuine, welling at the base of his chest,



"I figured eventually you'd come."



There was no gust of wind, no ominous flicker of candlelight, but merely the gentle sound of footsteps, the black lacquer of shoes pacing softly across the wooden floor.



"Ryuzaki,"



Light said quietly, even though now he could see the long-coveted letters of his real name, floating clear and large in English just above him—



"This is blank,"



Came the reply, and as his white fingers flipped through the notebook lying open on the floor just inches from his feet, L did not bother even to turn around to look at the other boy.



"Yeah,"



Light said simply, and he stopped in place.



"This is good,"



Came L's toneless voice, and he continued flipping, mouth now pressed against the bent crook of his elbow resting just above his knee.



It's good because death gods prolong their own lives by taking other people's lives. There was no way to make sure Kira stopped killing even after he had died, because, really, he was still around. It wasn't possible to stop him now, and if he wrote people's names in the notebook, then, technically, he could go on living and killing forever.



"I'm not Kira,"



Light said softly, because, even before he died, he relinquished ownership of the Death Note he had, but that was not enough to absolve him of punishment.



"I know,"



L's voice was a subtle note softer now, but still he didn't turn around.



In the months before Light died, L really did believe he was no longer Kira. He had actually appealed against his execution and instead for his arrest.



The FBI didn't really know about death gods. Neither did the Japanese police.



Neither did Light's family.



"We'll tell them you're still alive, and you're under arrest,"



L murmured into the bent angle of his knee, "and that's really what we'll do."



Slender digits still fingering the hard edges of the book, L turned around at last.



"We'll make it look like a top secret issue," he said, now taking the cup to his lips, "like nobody's supposed to know that you're really alive, and we'll keep you in a cell."



Light was not happy about this.



"And what about my family,"



He said, voice hard and quiet with subdued anger. L's eyes rose up and to the left as he sipped his tea quietly.



"We'll tell them the same thing. And we'll let them meet with you now and again. That'll be their proof that you're still alive."



And L will keep his notebook, and that way Light would not be able to write new names in it, and that way eventually his own lifespan will run out.



Light's fingers clenched hard into fists and his teeth came down in rage, but, even though nobody else in the house could hear him, he didn't fly into a fit about how cruel it was of L to say such awful things with impeccable composure.



"You could get into a lot of trouble if the FBI ever found out."



Silence for several seconds more as L stared down into the now-cool liquid in his cup.



"That's right," he replied, putting the thing back on its saucer at last.



There was a knock then on the door.



Silence.



Slowly, L unfolded his long limbs and rose to his feet, placing the notebook to the side of the computer facing away.



"Come in," he called to the door, and, as it opened slowly, in paced a tall, thin teenager with shoulder-length blonde hair.



"What is it, Mello,"



L said quietly, pacing toward the door, and Light watched with distant curiosity as the boy's face lit up with the strangest glow of admiration,



"Hi," he said, not bothering in the least to hide his smile, "I thought maybe you wouldn't mind reading over my history paper."



"Mm," L said, fingertips nudging at his lower lip unawares, "let's have a look…"



And Light looked on as, taking the paper from the boy, L paced toward the window in silence, fingers still pressing absently against his mouth as he read.



The boy – whose name apparently wasn't what L called him – didn't leave the room, but rather settled down at L's computer, staring deliberately at the screen and reaching not for the Death Note that was hidden behind the case, but rather for L's forgotten cup of tea.



Hair falling softly over one bony shoulder, Mello lifted the cup, and the way he brought it closer to his lips and inhaled softly was enough, enough to make it all too clear to Light, who raised his eyebrows with curious surprise, that this was infatuation, this was real love—



"Yech,"



Mello curled his lip in disgust upon tasting it,



"You really do put too much sugar in your tea, this is more like some kind of….tea…syrup…"



"Mello should drink his own tea then," came the reply, quiet and unimpressed, from the other side of the room.



But both L and Light knew that Mello would go on drinking it anyway.



When finally it was over and both Mello and his history paper had left the room—and not without L's obligatory praise and Mello's subsequent shameless euphoria—L paced back toward what he hoped was left in his teacup.



Grumbling to himself in obvious dissatisfaction, L gazed into the upside-down empty hollow in his cup as he held it high between his thumb and forefinger.



"That's Mello," he mumbled to Light without turning around, "one of my heirs."



This guy had heirs….?



"Now you listen," L said, now pacing back toward Light, "if ever there was a danger of anyone finding out—"



He turned again to his computer, bending down to place his cup back on the floor and instead reaching for the notebook,



"I'll think of some way of letting you know. There should be some way that you and I could communicate, but that of course would be monitored – so if that ever happens, I'll have to send someone else to you."



L will keep Light's notebook.



Whoever he'll send to Light will have some way of coming in contact with it—like an inadvertent touch or by paging absently through its blank pages left supposedly forgotten on L's desk or maybe collecting the occasional sheet or two of scratch paper scattered embarrassingly together with an unpaid phone bill among the disorganized sheets of a report project.



XXX



The—



The ride back from the emergency room—



—blood—



Staining dark, dark, but somehow never showing from beneath so much white skin—



When later he recovers, investigative forces will turn again to him in despair, all questions about the note found at the scene—



Overdose on anesthetic by deliberate subcutaneous injection to the cubital fossa



—preceded not only by the names Mihael Keehl and Mail Jeevas, but also Light Yagami



—whose body, however, never was found—



—and all, all is silent—



—dust floating in the sunlight—



I've missed you, I've missed you



The vapor flow, breath of expiration, dreaming flicker of eyelids and vulnerable, fragile, injured, white, the lingering traces of obsession long forgotten, naked, tremulous, human, heart-wrenchingly human—



—there passes through the empty room an immaterial gust of silver which cuts through the heart and cracks open the air—



I've missed you



The satin black of eyes, clever against white skin, and, oh, what words could never say—



And he doesn't dare—



Light doesn't dare touch him.



Silence as through the dust floating in the sunlight they gaze at one another from across the room, silence as they hold hard to restraint that comes almost second nature to both, and Light—



Behind the hard reserve in the liquid shimmer of his eyes, Light is still a child, stubborn and naïve despite it all, and he finds—



L finds—



"Good morning. Light-kun."



It comes soft and airy but somehow laden with years of restrained despair and sorrow yet unspent—



Silence.



The only suitable counterpart for L and the only suitable rival to L—



And L finds that he—



"Good morning. Ryuzaki."



And Light doesn't cry, does he, but his eyes glisten nevertheless with the shattering combustion of words unspoken and ancient restraint—



L beckons to him like he would to any child, and, fists clenching and unclenching in hesitation, Light does not move, the slow flutter of his long eyelashes the only sign that he's there at all—



I've missed you, I've missed—



In the end, he was innocent, with neither malice in his heart nor any recollection of being Kira—



And only—



Only—



—years spent in patience bound and shackled and blinded, with nothing really holding him in the cell but his own desire to amend—



How long has it been? How long since they—



"Light-kun,"



L beckons to him again, and this time, despite his broken arm, he shifts quietly in bed in attempt to sit up, and Light watches with mute reluctance as then L murmurs,



"Ah; It hurts…"



There's a tremor coursing electric through Light's skin, and maybe his breath hitches then when at last he joins the older boy, and, leaning at his side, he says with quiet reserve,



"Don't move it. Ryuzaki."



L's eyes roll toward him with a mixture of surprise and interest, and, before he can think, L replies,



"I'm sorry."



In the sunlight, his black eyes seem just the slightest bit lined with gray—



—and Light seems just the slightest bit—



—human.



It was tragic, wasn't it, for such a young boy with so much self-restraint and determination, and L finds that he—



—seductive, beautiful, clever, political, but also, there was genuine melancholy there, genuine agony and also there was love—



—and it's genuine despair that has Light collapse at last into L's arms, at last forlorn and vulnerable and brittle, and this is real, this really is real, and like he would to any child, L gathers him in and holds him quietly until he's subdued—



It hasn't been easy for Light.



Beneath enchanting and beneath political and beneath cunning, at last he is human, he has never been so human—



Until the day he died, Light has never cried so openly—



So—



—wetly into the crook of L's neck, Light is visibly broken at last, and, quiet and composed, L closes his eyes, white fingers of his good hand running slowly through the feather-soft strands of Light's brown hair, and I've missed you, I've missed you—



"Here,"



comes L's quiet voice as he pulls Light's weightless form onto the bed, and, looking down reluctantly at the bony arm wrapped all around his waist, Light complies in silence, and L gazes into his face and turns his chin toward him with a gentle finger—



—and Light's gaze alternates between L's finger and his eyes and then his finger again, and he says nothing, but he swallows quietly, and L brushes the hair from his eyes before leaning in very slowly to kiss him—



—hot vapor, moisture and breath and whispers inaudible against wet skin, I've missed you, and Light was only nineteen years old when he died—



—and he clings curiously to L, wet lips pressed motionless against wet lips,



"Ryuzaki, I—"



love you



And L finds—



I've missed—



—that he's wanted to believe that ever since a long-forgotten match of tennis—



"Shh…"



—and the slender body surrenders weightless in his arms as he holds on with white, wiry limbs, and he'll never release him again, because it would be very lonely, very lonely if ever again he let him go, so, subdued at last, Light rests his head on the bony angle of L's white shoulder as the older boy draws the blanket over him, and, dust floating in the sunlight, all is still all throughout—



"I've missed you. Lighto-kun."



XXX



Matt's head is resting on the smooth curve of Mello's thigh, hair cascading softly on the taut black leather, fingers absently tracing the bony condyles at the knee.



"Does it hurt?"



Mello asks quietly, and his voice is hard and blunt as always, but—and perhaps only for Matt to know—laced forever with invisible undertones of love.



"Yeah," Matt replies, "yeah, it hurts."



He suffered a bullet to the arm for L, and, romantic notions aside, it hurt, it bloody well hurt.



FBI or not, they were treated at the same hospital that day, both L and Matt, but after that they were free, they were home free.



And there, safely back in England, is Mello, doing work for L as always.



Hard and quiet as always.



Matt bites down on his lip slowly, eyes blinking as the absent stare in his eyes traces silhouettes of the furniture from across the room—the sofa, the coffee table, then the TV—



In an eerily unexpected display of attention, there comes then the feathery slide of hair against his cheek, then the wetness of lips moving in tones too loud for so tranquil a moment,



"I'm almost finished,"



Mello says,



"I've been writing this for a long time, haven't I."



Matt doesn't turn to look. Eyes mild and half closed, he appears deep in thought as he follows still the outline of the furniture,



"It's been a while since you screwed me on the stove top," Mello continues, and Matt can feel the soft movement of lips as his mouth stretches into a smile.



"I don't think I can do that right now,"



comes at last the reply, because Matt is injured, his arm is in a cast and, really, light though his friend may be, Matt doesn't want to try lifting him up and holding him in kinky positions over the counter exactly right then.



"Yeah, okay,"



Mello says after a silence, and Matt feels the long, yellow strands sweep away as then Mello straightens his back before returning again to work.



"Y'want anything?" he adds several minutes later, just barely daring to glance down at the boy in his lap, and, simply, Matt replies,



"No."



Mello nods quietly to himself, sinking back into gradual focus before again his fingers begin typing at the keyboard.



"So he's probably gonna make you his heir, isn't he."



Long fingers stop typing.



"Hmm?"



"L."



Mello's eyes dart downward.



"What made you say that all of a sudden?"



Matt sighs with feigned lightness of heart. "Kira thought so."



Mello continues staring down at Matt, and he doesn't need to say anything about how badly he wants to be L's successor or how the notion just now made his pulse skip a beat, because there's no point and Matt already knows.



L really is amazing, isn't he.



Blue eyes roll back to face the monitor screen, and, without a word, Mello resumes typing again.



And Kira, he's really amazing, too.



"He wasn't really Kira," Mello says eventually, but neither of them is really thinking about that right then.



And really, Mello isn't thinking about his project anymore, either; his mind wanders as absently the long digits of his hand reach across the keyboard for a small twig they had sitting around on the desk since last Christmas.



Matt doesn't need to look up at Mello before knowingly he murmurs,



"Put that down before you hurt yourself,"



and his voice rings with a gentle mixture of concern and cheeky ridicule.



Mello turns his head downward and remains silent for several moments before the smile in his mind surfaces at last, and he bends again over Matt again, and, with surprising gentleness, takes hold of the injured limb.



"I bet it itches,"



he says, and before Matt can pull away, his friend slides the twig under the edge of the cast.



Matt's first impulse is to shake himself loose, but, unexpectedly, it actually feels kind of nice, so, looking up warily, he allows Mello to go on.



"Just…" he murmurs, "just don't get it stuck this time, yeah, mate?"



Blue eyes gaze at Matt from behind too-long bangs, and, with renewed intensity, Mello nods in silence.



Yeah, L sure is amazing.



Kira's pretty amazing, too.



Mello pulls the twig gently out from under the cast.



"I'm sorry, Matt. I got you shot."



The younger boy watches as Mello returns to his computer—to save the document and turn it off at last.



"Maybe…" Mello thinks aloud, fingers trailing at the edge of Matt's hair as he leans down to kiss him,



"…maybe we can play Mario Golf."



Matt actually smiles.



"You don't like Mario Golf."



Mello smiles back, eyelashes flickering against the bridge of Matt's nose as he draws closer, and his lips are warm when then they kiss,



"Sucks for me then," he laughs quietly, "don't it."



End.



XXX



Intermediate scene between L and Light inspired by the song Here in your Arms by Hellogoodbye



Like it or not, Matty, this story remains dedicated to you. I'd be lying to myself if somehow I pretended I didn't write all along with you in mind. It hasn't been easy, has it, but I always did love you.



- Mello




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