Infatuation

BY : Moony
Category: Death Note > General
Dragon prints: 1581
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.

Mello sighed as deeply and dramatically as he possibly could, then looked at Matt hopefully.

No response.

“Mahahaaat!”

Still no response. There was no legitimate reason, as far as Mello could see, for Matt to completely ignore him in favour of watching some little fucking mouse jump over…hedges and things, or whatever one does in whichever game he had at the time.

“Pay attention to meeeeee!” Mello attempted to blend the exact mix of desperation and need that would evoke some form of pity.

Since Matt made no move to stop his game, Mello decided drastic measures were in order. Being sure to make it clear that his every movement was a monumental struggle for which he should be given the utmost sympathy, Mello swung his feet from the armrest to the floor, trudged over to Matt’s chair, seized the Game Boy from his hands (despite loud yells and stammers of protest), and fumbled for the “off” switch. Matt blinked up at him, his eyes filling with tears and disbelief.

“Mello do you…do you realise the gravity of what you just did?” His voice had cracked. Jesus Christ, did a game really mean that much to him?

“I successfully got your attention.” Mello smirked gleefully. “Now come on! Let’s go on an adventure! I have a really, really cool idea. Ready? We can steal flour from the kitchen and put it in Near’s clothes or something—he wouldn’t even notice until he’s all covered in it because it’s white, y’know? And then when he goes to take a shower it’ll get lumpy and-”

“Mello, you do understand that Near will notice if there is flour all over his stuff. And there has to be egg in it for it to get lumpy. But I’m not helping you anyway, because I was just about to beat Lance, you bastard!” With that, Matt shoved his head under the cushion he had been sitting on and wailed as pathetically as he could.

“Well maybe you should have saved!” Mello was aware that it was not entirely fair for him to have turned off Matt’s game, but he felt very justified. He had not been paid attention to, which he considered to be a serious offence.

Matt removed his head from beneath the cushion to glare angrily in Mello’s direction. The dramatic effect was a bit diminished since his glasses were dangling precariously from one ear and there were tears and snot all over his puffy red face. “YOU CAN’T SAVE IN THE MIDDLE OF A BATTLE, YOU FUCKING N00B!”

Mello stopped snickering and slapped the back of Matt’s head, causing the glasses to finally drop to the floor.

“DON’T call me a n00b, bitchface!”

“Whatever! I’m not talking to you!”

“Fine! Then stop talking to me!”

Matt pursed his lips, plucked his glasses from the floor, shoved them onto his face with more force than was strictly necessary, and stomped out of the common room, leaving Mello with his Game Boy and a disconcerting sense of defeat.

Stupid fucking Matt and his stupid fucking Pokémon.

Mello began the long, arduous journey of roughly fifteen metres back to his bedroom, making sure to kick aside any small objects (and children) that dared to stand in his path.

Great. Now he was short a best friend. How the hell was he going to spend the rest of his afternoon?

Mello kicked open the door to his and Matt’s room, fully expecting to see Matt already skulking on his bed. Instead, he found the room to be completely devoid of life. Strange. Mello tossed the Game Boy onto Matt’s bed and began to vaguely wonder where he had got to, but before he could further explore that idea he became very distracted by a bit of paper on his own bed.

Cautiously, Mello edged toward it, suspicious of Matt and his need for revenge. Closer inspection, however, revealed that it was simply a very thin envelope and was therefore unlikely to cause Mello any bodily harm unless it contained anthrax or something, which he doubted. Where would Matt even get anthrax? Pssh.

Mello tore open the carefully sealed envelope, extracted the folded-up paper inside, and shook it open. His jaw dropped just enough to make him look incredibly daft.

M—
I need to discuss your placement with you. Please stop by my room sometime this evening—I’m on the third floor this time. You and N are the only children who know I’m at Wammy’s right now; please do not change this.
—L
P.S. I have chocolate cake. You may have half.

Mello’s stomach had rocketed up, then plummeted down, and was currently bobbing between the two. This made him slightly nauseated.

L good! Placement possibly good, possibly bad. No way to know.

Mello shot a despairing look at the clock on his nightstand and was horrified to find that it was only four in the afternoon. Four, thought Mello, is most certainly not the evening. Neither is four-thirty. Five would be pushing it, but surely L wouldn’t mind.

Mello flopped onto his bed and jiggled his foot impatiently. An hour. Sixty entire minutes. Three thousand and six hundred seconds. This was a simply unbearable length of time!

A thought so terrible that he had to bolt upright occurred to him: what if L had decided that he, Mello, was entirely too stupid to possibly inherit the title of L? What if he was going to tell him that he had to leave Wammy’s immediately? What if Mello would be forced to roam the streets selling drugs and his body until he died of AIDS and pneumonia, all alone in a box in the snow and smelling of urine? Oh God, this seemed to be a completely plausible scenario!

Slowly and stiffly, he laid back down onto the bed, looking more like a cadaver than anything else.

Calm. Mello could be calm. Mello was as one with the universe. One with the fucking universe, damn it.

He glanced at the clock again. Fuck. 4:12 pm. Mello contemplated this. He could wait and be painfully anxious, or he could risk having L think he was overly eager. The second choice was obviously preferable. He’d just need to take up as much time as possible grooming himself. That was all.

Mello hopped off his bed and set about the process of making himself presentable. Perhaps if he was extra-pretty, nothing bad would happen. This was a good, solid plan. He carefully stepped into the bathroom he and Matt shared and nearly cried—the floor was completely covered in his and Matt’s clothes, and the countertop was coated in a lumpy collage of toothpaste, soap, and spilt nail polish. These were not the correct conditions! Where the hell was the brush? How would he paint his toenails?

Mello released a bit of his frustration on Matt’s towering pile of dirty trousers. Matt’s trousers deserved to be kicked. What had they ever done for anybody? Besides cover Matt’s bits? Nothing.

He let out a sharp yelp of pain as his toe collided with something distinctly hard and un-trouser-like. When he glared down to find the perpetrator, he discovered that he had located a brush. How clever of him! He had obviously planned it to be so.

As he happily jerked the brush of dubious cleanliness through his hair, Mello was startled to hear a strange sparking noise. It sounded a bit like…static?

Shit.

Mello turned to the perpetually fogged-up mirror, wiped it with someone’s jimjam bottoms, and was horrified to see that he resembled a very surprised hedgehog.

The best solution to this was clearly to put his head under the tap. Quickly! Mello immediately regretted this decision when the cold water cascaded upon his abused head and splashed without mercy onto his shirt. He retracted himself to find that there was now toothpaste in his hair. Sick. Mello used a towel he could only pray was clean and rubbed as furiously as he could without too much risk of split ends.

Shit shit shit shit shitshitshitshit….

When he paused this mantra for a quick glance at the time, he saw that, through some cruel trick of fate, it was five o’clock.

Shit.

Mello ran for the door, tripping slightly over the various unmentionables on the bathroom floor. He completely forgotten that five was a bit early, really—instead, it seemed to him that he had to hurry— for if he did not, all sorts of bad things would happen!

Matt chose that moment to carelessly fling the door open and run headfirst into Mello, who fell back onto his bum in the least dignified manner possible.

“OW! Matt, what the hell?”

“Ha ha! Oh, wow. Just a sec.” Matt held up a finger to demonstrate this and bent over to catch his breath, still chuckling. He seemed to have temporarily forgotten his argument with Mello in his excitement; Mello was not inclined to point this out.

“Okay, okay. You really should have been there! I was in the common room, right? And Near was in there too, putting together a puzzle for a change and then Roger walked in all important-like, like he’s so busy and stuff, and then he stepped on one of Near’s trains that he had lying around and the wheels moved, like they do, and he fell over and he tripped over Near and it was awesome!” Matt grinned proudly at having had the foresight to be present for this monumental event.

“So I ran here to tell you and-” he stopped short, having noticed Mello, who was trying very hard to not clutch at his pained bum. His hair was dripping a disgusting mixture of water and toothpaste.

“You look kind of…” Matt gestured vaguely towards his own head and pulled a face. “And your pants have got brown all down the front.”

“It’s chocolate!” snapped Mello, perhaps a bit too defensively. “And I have to go now.”

“What?” Matt’s face dropped. “But we need to go make fun of Roger!”

“Yeah, well, I have important stuff to do.”

“Looking like that?”

“YES!” And Mello stomped out, clicking the door shut in a very, very mature and sophisticated manner. He walked as casually as he could manage with his eyes wide and joints refusing to bend until he rounded a corner, then he abandoned all pretences and sprinted down the hall, up the stairs, down another hall, around a corner, and stopped short in front of a set of double wooden doors.


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