(You have no idea how long I've had this sitting around. XD Gah. I think ages ago someone gave me the prompt 'stripped' and I set out to disappoint/surprise, but I wasn't entirely happy with how this turned out so I never really went back to it. Still, I 3 narrating Matt. He's so...normal. I mean, writing the rest of the Wammy's crowd--or Light, gack--makes me feel so incredibly stupid. Do you ever feel like you can feel the Death Note cast glaring over your shoulder and telling you you're unworthy?)

Video-game music wasn't anything special, but it was all right. He didn't listen to it 'cause it was Mozart, anyway. More to the point, it was conspicuous and irritating, and it drowned out all the noise from boring people talking. Matt had this thing about boring people talking.

His parents had been good parents as parents went but then they went and died, woo-hoo, what the hell, nice going, guys. Matt had done the sob-fest thing and he'd been a kid—well, he was still a kid, but only kind of—and he'd sat down in a stupid green plush chair in a room with no windows, a messy desk, faded travel posters from destinations no one wanted to go to, motivational posters with, like, dolphins and sunsets and stuff. It was hard to see when you were crying and his eyes hurt, so he buried his face in his hands.

Hey, Miles, a kind voice was saying. Are you alright?

Uh, obviously not, duh. He didn't answer.

--oh, I'm sorry. Look, my name is something from somewhere. I'm going to help you, okay?

Great.

Now, I know it must be hard for you. You're probably feeling like—

She continued. Ms. such-and-such had, apparently, a real talent for continuing. She was full of reassurances and tactful references that no matter how tactful didn't stop the inevitable images from popping up in his head—a slideshow with a host of emotions; good times. And he wasn't even watching her. He had his mind's eye, that'd do.

--and he was still half-crying, God, who wouldn't be. They were gone and they wouldn't, he wouldn't, what would, oh, this had to be the worst feeling in the whole world.

(But it can't get any worse—)

He felt horrible and lost and sick.

Still, he had space to think (after a while), almost dryly and with no small amount of annoyance: Wow, she's boring.

Boring people shouldn't talk, he decided.

He was depressed and he had a headache and he was bored, so he'd sort of (definitely) quit listening. At the time he'd even known that was stupid. You always needed to know everything about your situation. That was just common sense. He'd said that a long time ago and he'd gotten himself labeled a…what. A prodigy, that was it. Whoops. He'd acted stupid after that once in a while.

Now he just didn't care either way.

Not caring. He had a talent for that.

-

And they'd sent him here and they'd told him stuff beforehand and it hadn't been nearly enough, but he'd ignored that, 'cause he'd find out later—

he'd flown across the sea, miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and Miles wasn't his name by the time they landed, it was the distance between that place and what used to be home, and—

right, it wasn't miles anymore, it was kilometers (got to memorize the metric system), going to Europe (like in history), to England (wonder if they'll have accents), London, somewhere (that'd be cool--)

-

It had been eight days since he arrived and he'd reached level sixteen that night. Homework had been so absurdly easy but everyone else still seemed to be doing it. Whatever. Meant the hallway wasn't full of boring people, anyway. It was weirdly silent.

Then there was, like, this noise.

What.

Matt blinked. The he—

Rrrrrrrrrip.

…The hell (it had stopped being heck fairly recently) was that?

Rrrrrrrrrrip.

Definitely not video game music.

He looked up from the controller, distracted. Towards—the wall, yeah. It was coming from the wall. Next-door vandals?

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrip, rrrrrrrrrrip, rrrrrrrrrip.

It had kind of a rhythm to it, sort of..repetitive-motion, or whatever.

Rrrrrrrrrip. Rrrrrrrrrrip. Rrrrrrrrrip—and then a clear voice that sounded all kinds of weird in the midst of that, cursing in what sounded like German. It also sounded like the German equivalent of 'fucking shit', going by the intonation. You know.

A moment of silence.

Then—

Rrrrrrrrrrip, rrrrrrrrrrip, rrrrrrrrip.

…What.

Matt stared at the wall.

What the crap was that…guy? It'd sounded like a guy. What was he doing?

He hadn't talked to many people since he got here, but he was pretty sure he'd notice someone who was speaking German; German was kind of distinctive; also would have noticed someone ripping stuff up. Whatever it was, it sounded like it was in bad shape,

he stood up, he walked to his door and opened it and stepped out and slammed it shut, then walked straight over to the door adjacent to his. The ripping sound was more muffled out here, but he could still make it out.

He knocked twice.

Didn't say anything.

Rrrrrip. Rrrrrrip.

…He knocked again.

Rrrip. Rrrrrip.

(sighed and almost turned away)

Rrrrr—

…The door swung open.

There was a boy sort of leaning into it, hand resting on the doorknob like he'd swing it right back in Matt's face if he damn well felt like doing so—boy was a word that seemed kind of—inadequate—or something—shoulder-length blonde hair was in disarray around his face, which was full of angles, and

dark narrowed eyes lit with strangeness; suspicion; interest. "Yeah?"

Well, well, well—"I'm in the room next to yours," by way of explanation. And he was thinking about the edges of a British accent in his next-door…neighbor was a stupid word, too, this guy, whatever his name was, and thinking that was German, though, wasn't it?

"Yeah?" The boy stared. "Did you w—oh. The wall." –and a grin flashed across his face, changing it completely. "Is that annoying you?"

"Not really," Matt said honestly.

"Then why're you—"

"I—"

"Wanted to know?"

(Quick, no, fast: half-impatience with everything and half something else…?)

Matt shrugged.

It felt like the thing to do.

He was eyed critically, somehow, within the space of a few seconds, and then that grin reached the other boy's eyes at last. "Who're you?"

"Matt."

"I'm Mello," said Mello.

Matt couldn't think of much to say at the time, except "Oh." And then, stupidly, "Were you speaking German?"

"What?"

"Earlier—"

"Oh." Mello nodded. "Yeah. That was German. You know, swearing in German, so much better than swearing in English. It sounds like what it means. You know? I mean, I'm not going to say 'bugger me', right?"

This person saying 'bugger me', Matt agreed, would be completely ridiculous. Funny, but ridiculous. He said as much.

"Damn straight. So."

"—What were you doing?"

There was something lazy in Mello's tone; something pushing the limits of nonchalance. "Swearing in German, what else?"

Matt just waited.

"…You stick to the point, don't you?"

"I guess so." He hadn't honestly thought about it.

Mello thought about something for a second, then answered, "See for yourself." and opened the door wider, stepping out of the way with an offhand gesture that was (essentially) an invitation. So Matt walked in:

(The room was a complete mess; chaos brought down to the mundane level of clothes and chocolate bar wrappers and crumpled-up looseleaf paper and photographs and haphazard posters all over the wall, diagonal, askew, overlapping except--)

The southeast wall (thought it was southeast) kind of drew his attention. It was a complete wreck of mauve and white and looked like it might've once looked like Matt's own wall (apathy-plain) before—whatever—hit it. Strips of mauve were scattered all over the floor right below it. Putting two and two together—

…Uh, okay. "You're stripping the wallpaper?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"'Cause it's hideous." –said like, come on, that should have been obvious. "Look at it."

"Well…yeah, alright, but are we allowed to do that?"

"Does it matter?"

"Um—"

"It doesn't," Mello finished for him, in a self-satisfied drawl. "They've got us here for a few reasons, but Yes Of Course Sir ain't one of 'em."

…That, for reference, was the second time Mello finished his sentence for him. Ever. And it was something that with anyone else would've made him extremely annoyed, but with Mello he didn't so much mind, y'know, well, maybe the first few times he was too busy thinking whoa, what the hell, this guy's—and trying to find the right adjective even from his damned extensive vocabulary—

But also, he'd notice later, their voices really didn't sound all that bad. Together. Or whatever. It wasn't like being interrupted, it was like throwing a thought to someone across a room and saying 'Catch."

"Well, I knew that," said Matt.

Mello eyed him critically. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I hacked into Roger's computer, but, I mean, you can tell by the ranking system—"

"What about the ranking system?"

(--the question was too quick, wasn't it?) "It's aimed at something really specific. Really driving. All this competition," which Matt privately thought was stupid and pointless but through his not-bad intuition decided not to describe to Mello, "it's not, like, caring gently for the well-being of coincidentally brilliant orphans; they focus on all this weird stuff—"

"You don't—" Mello began.

Then, silence.

"…Don't what?"

Mello shook his head, meaning, drop it.

(Even then you could always tell what everything meant, when he wanted you to; sometimes when he didn't.)

They just sort of…stood there anticlimactically, trying to outdo each other's bad postures or something.

At length, Matt cleared his throat.

Mello arched an eyebrow. Like, what?

"…Need any help?" said Matt.

Something completely different darted across Mello's face.

He didn't recognize it, exactly. Not when it turned into 'thoughtful' two seconds later, when Matt was waiting for an answer.

"…Sure," Mello said finally. "Alright."

--Matt caught the scraper in his left hand and it felt a little like a weapon.