A/N: Hello again! This is actually a bit unexpected for me even. I hadn't really expected to have this up and posted until after I finished Thicker Than Blood, but I've hit a bit of a snag with that story and I wanted to get this up to tide people over until I can finish chapter 2. Don't expect this to be updated completely regularly, but it will be finished and updated on a semi-regular basis. I honestly have most of it planned out and about 30 percent of it already written.
I thought this up back when I was writing Beyond and I just couldn't help myself. This AU setting was just calling to me, so I had to write it. It's written from Matt's point of view.
Normally, I hate writing AU but this...this was a lot of fun. It might be because Catcher in the Rye is my favorite book. lol. Well, I do hope you enjoy this. I work on this when I hit a writers block with my other stuff, just to keep my mind going.
Until the next chapter, enjoy! Please read and review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note. If I did, this would be a spin off in a heart beat. Death Note belongs to Ohba and Obata.

Chapter 1 - Prelude

Worst. Fucking. Day. Ever.

That was all I could think as my shoes filled with water from the deep puddle I'd suddenly landed in outside the coffee house. It was pouring down rain and every single person that walked past me seemed intent on bumping me or jostling me...

You know, maybe I should start at the beginning.

I've got a bit of a problem with that, I can never start things properly.

My name is Mail Jeevas, but my pen name is Matt. Just Matt. I'm a writer, not an author.

You see, authors are successful, authors are published.

I've been published once and I don't think more than ten copies of it ever sold. I sometimes wonder if it's my agent's fault. Naomi has a tendency to come on a bit strong to other publishing houses. Even so, I'm a bit thankful for it, since she always manages to get things done. If that idiot Matsuda were my agent, I knew that nothing would ever happen for me.

I've been writing for the same publishing house for about 2 years now, since I got my first manuscript accepted when I was 18. Soichiro Yagami, my editor, is always sending my manuscripts back, complaining that the story isn't mainstream enough, that my topics are too alternative.

That's how I got here, to this coffee house on this God awful day. It started pouring the moment I parked my car. I would have been able to park closer, but I got caught in the rush hour traffic jam. So, since all the spots close by had been taken, I had to walk almost 7 blocks just to get there.

See, that's the kind of luck I have.

So, there I was at this mainstream coffee joint, dripping wet, crammed in with a bunch of angsty teens and snobbish grad students and promiscuous college girls and I couldn't even try and enjoy myself even if I wanted to, because this was technically a business trip. I wish I had some cash on me, because then I could have bought something to drink and claimed reimbursement or something.

It was such a small place. Not so small that I had to breathe everyone's body odor, but small enough that you had to actually watch where you were going if you didn't want to run into someone and get coffee spilled all over you. There were all these pillows on the floor and beanbags and couches and shit on one side, tables were on the other. I opted for the tables, the less crowded half of the place.

I finally found some table in a dark corner, next to this couple who couldn't stop sucking each other's faces off for even a moment. I was tempted to tap them on the shoulder and tell them that a very comfortable couch had just become available across the room, though I decided that I really didn't want to touch either of them. It just seemed gross, to touch someone while they're making out if you're not the one being kissed. As I kept listening to the slurping and sucking noises they were making, it became clear to me that I had much better things to do than this.

I really didn't like people all that much and I rarely went out. I had only a few friends, only one of which is close to me.

I had a therapist when I was younger; she told me I was fiercely anti-social and that I was afraid of others. Eh, to be honest, I think she was a little over dramatic, but it was true that I didn't enjoy being around people. I suppose it's a space issue.

Even though I felt uncomfortable as hell, I got out my legal pad and started scribbling idly as someone came up on the small empty area at the back of the shop, a stage of sorts. There were almost no lights in this damn place and the few they had were all pointed at the man who was at the mic.

It was some sort of musical performance by some local artist. God, I wish I had brought ear plugs. I was in no mood to listen to some townie who wrongly thought they could hold a tune. I barely even listened to the introduction, but apparently the musician went by the name Mello.

"Isn't that cutting edge," I muttered sarcastically.

What a bullshit name.

I really wasn't that interested in the whole music scene, it wasn't going to help me with my writing. Maybe if it had been a poetry slam or an open mic night, that may have been a little more helpful.

I kept my head down, currently drawing stick figures across the legal pad. Stick figure Naomi was burning me at the stake for failing to finish my manuscript in time for the next editor's meeting and I was more than happy to help her pour gasoline on my body.

Then...I heard it. The most amazing sound I had heard in a long while.

It was...a cello. Someone was playing the cello up on the stage. I froze for a moment, my pen only halfway done with an illustration of me being drawn and quartered by the rest of the editor's, and the name "sucker" written in big letters over my stick figure double.

It was such a beautiful sound, the opening note so strong and powerful, tapering off into a wavering sigh, into running eighth notes, up and down, like a petal turning on the breeze.

Hell, I found myself writing this stuff down as this "Mello" kept playing. Images of empty stone corridors and grassy fields and powder white skin and intense ruby lips filled my head. They kept moving about my mind like lightning bugs in the woods and I was chasing after them with my jar to capture them and put them on paper.

I realized suddenly that my scribbling was quite loud and the couple next to me were telling me to be quiet. My train of thought was broken, but I was still entranced by the music being played, which had taken up a much faster pace.

So I finally looked up to see who it was and...well, I must have gasped, even though I'm embarrassed to say so. The couple gave me an odd look and I tried to cover it up as if I were just sighing.

It was a man who was playing. At least, I think it was a man who was playing, fairly sure it was. If it wasn't a man, it was a very flat chested woman, because there were no breasts beneath the white dress shirt they were wearing.

A white dress shirt and black slacks. God, he looked young, really young. He had a youthful face, as if he were only about 15 or 16. There was a rather bad scar on the left half of his face, but that didn't detract from his image. You know how sometimes, people with scars are quite beautiful when you can't see them, but once you do, you can't seem to see anything else?

This guy was nothing like that. If anything, his scar made his image, it gave him that air of mystery and danger that I could definitely feel surrounding him.

Man, I must have looked like a fucking idiot, staring like a goddamn pedophile.

He had this lovely blond hair that glittered like gold as he played, shimmering in the spotlights as it swayed back and forth in time with the arm moving his bow across the strings. That was what made him look womanly, his hair, cut in a feminine bob that framed his face so perfectly. He paused, slowly retaking, tilting his head to the side before drawing the horsehair over the strings once more, gold spilling over in front of his eyes that were closed in a placid expression.

He just radiated this wary calm, if such a thing could exist.

I began to focus on his fingers, moving up and down the neck with such speed that I could hardly keep up. They would jump and shift and slide along the strings, nimble and agile, nails that were perfectly trimmed and cleaned. For some reason, I wanted to touch his hand, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

God, I must be fucking crazy.

I didn't even know this guy and already I'm fantasizing about what his fucking hands feel like.

The pace was picked up again and the bow began to move faster and his fingers moved faster and the notes grew more dissonant and sharp and tragic, like the death wails of a man desperate for revenge. Then, as it looped back to the main melody, he finally opened his eyes, though they weren't looking into the crowd or at anything in this world. I could see he was looking out at someplace very far away and very out of reach of any of us. He was smiling too, and it was the most genuine I had ever seen. I mean, it was a smile that said, clearly and blatantly, that he enjoyed what he was doing, that he loved the music he was making and that it was a great passion for him.

I never see those sorts of smiles on people.

And then, a series of descending scales, falling and falling and falling like Alice down the Rabbit Hole and touching down with a harmonious pair of firm, but gentle chords.

It took me a few moments to realize he had stopped playing. Only when the kissing couple finally pulled away from each other to applaud the young man did I see that he was standing and taking his bows.

Hell, even I clapped for him. What the hell was a talent like him doing in this tiny little hole?

I watched as he walked off the stage and handed his cello to someone standing near the fire exit, before this big guy with an angled, sharp face and these broad shoulders came up next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked so tiny in comparison to the man, not because of height, but just the sheer size.

I don't know what exactly it was that tipped me off, but something immediately felt wrong. The way the young man suddenly tensed, the way he held himself, the way the hand on his shoulder tightened possessively, almost obsessively.

No, I think it was the way he hung his head, as if he were submitting to the man, as if he were waiting for some sort of violent blow to the face.

I tried to keep my eye on them, but I suddenly lost them in the crowd and the feeling of unease in my gut slowly dissipated.

The moment it was gone though, I was writing like mad. I'd have to remember to thank Soichiro for suggesting this place. I wasn't even writing a coherent story, just jotting down anything that came to mind, anything descriptive and vivid and meaningful.

Then I began to draw little pictures of my editors getting stranded on a desert island in a plane crash and wailing that they were wrong about me.

When they began to announce another musical act, I grew hopeful. Perhaps that blond would decide to play an encore.

Unfortunately, no. It was some crappy local rock group. Everyone jumped from their seats, crowding around the stage as three guys with this whole grunge rock look started squealing on guitars and banging on drums and just plain making a bunch of noise.

I decided it'd be a good idea to get the hell out of there.

But, as I packed up my things, I realized that I had to pee like hell.

"Hey, where's your bathroom at?" I asked the guy at the front counter.

He pointed back to a hall next to the stage. "It's at the very back of the building. The lock's broken though, so make sure you knock first."

It took me a good five minutes just to make it back there, what with all the people I had to push through. I couldn't remember when all of them had started pouring in. I guess this group was popular.

They sounded horrible though.

The hall at the back of the shop seemed to go on and on forever, but I finally found the door reading "restroom" on it.

I knocked on the door, but the band was still pretty loud. I had to shout to make myself heard. "Hey, anyone in there?"

Nothing but a loud crash and bang and boom from the band. So, I opened the door...

"HOLY FUCKING HELL!"

Holy shit! There was blood all over the place! It was all over the walls and on the floor and...fucking everywhere!

I was frozen in place there, in the doorway of the restroom, too scared to fucking move.

And right there, in the center of it all, was that blond cellist, crouching down on the floor, the front of his shirt stained with blood and dripping down his hands and all over him. I could see it in his hair and splattered across his face.

The big guy I'd seen him with was sprawled over the tile floor, eyes wide and dead and horrified as they stared ahead with no end in sight. The side of his head was dented in and I could see more blood and some of his brains spilling out of his skull.

That was when I realized that the crash I had heard wasn't from the band. It was the sound of the man's head hitting the bathroom sink, which had a rather large chunk missing from it (it was resting only inches from where the bloody corpse on the floor lay), and the boom was from when he'd hit ground.

I jerked suddenly as the blond stood, slowly, as if he were afraid I'd run.

God dammit, I wanted to! I wanted to fucking run and scream and vomit and cry and-

I just wanted to get the hell out of there!

But, this kid held my eyes with his, rooted me to the spot with his expression, still as calm and placid as before, but deathly serious and grave, not even a trace of a smile on his lips.

"W-what the fuck happened?!" I stumbled as I felt my arms and legs beginning to shake.

"Do you have a car?"

He caught me off guard with his question. I'd been expecting something different, like "You didn't see nothin,'" or "You're next, bitch," or maybe even a "Get the hell out."

"W-what?"

He took a step towards me, a drop of blood dripping from his ring finger. There were shards of broken glass in his hands. The mirror above the sink had shattered too. I could see stray stains of blood in between the spidery cracks in the mirror's surface. "Do you have a car?"

My eyes kept darting to the spray of red across his cheeks and forehead and chin. It was almost like war paint. His brow furrowed only slightly when I hesitated answering. "Do you or don't you?" he asked again, sharply this time.

"Y-yeah, I do," I finally admitted, slowly raising my hands above my head. "P-please don't kill me."

He clicked his tongue quietly and reached up to pull my arms down. "I'm not going to kill you. Can you drive me somewhere?"

"I...I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

He turned away from me, turning on the tap on the broken sink. The faucet let out a weak, unsteady trickle. "Anywhere, as far away from here as you can get me." He began to splash water on his shirt, trying to rub the blood stains out. Even I could see that it was a pretty hopeless endeavor. When he realized this as well, he took to pulling the glass out of his hand, hissing in pain as blood began to pour from the wounds.

This guy had just murdered a man in cold blood and now he was asking me for a ride?

I'd have to be crazy to say yes.

But, I've said it before, I must be crazy.

"I'll take you where ever you want."

He glanced up, seemingly just as confused as I was by my compliant answer. "I'm not going to kill you, no one is going to come after you, you won't get arrested. You don't have to do this."

"I-I know." I swallowed hard. What the fuck was I doing?!

"Shit!" he exclaimed quietly as he pulled another shard out. I couldn't tell if he was cursing from the pain or from something else "I need to leave now."

I nodded quickly, fully aware of the urgency in his voice, the authority of it.

I gave him my jacket to hide the blood and smuggled him out the back.

I felt like I was in one of those suspense films, always looking back over my shoulder, fearing that there would be some guy with a gun right around every corner.

"Relax," the blond ordered. He seemed too calm. I wonder if he realized that he just fucking killed someone! "You're only making yourself look more suspicious. Fucking hell, I thought you said you had a car!"

"I do, I just...I had to park far away, okay?"

His entire mood changed instantly, from tranquil to murderous in the blink of an eye. His arm was up and around my neck from behind, holding a large piece of broken glass he'd been hiding in his pocket to my throat. "Listen you little fucker," he hissed menacingly in my ear and I thought I might actually piss myself. "If you're trying to walk me into a fucking set up, I swear to God I'll slit your throat right here."

"I promise I'm not!" I gasped, struggling to breath as his arm tightened against my windpipe. "I don't even know you!"

"Then why the hell were you so eager to help me?!" I winced as he pressed the glass harder against my skin. A small trickle of blood dripped warmly down my neck.

"I don't know!" I flushed, knowing how stupid my next words were going to sound. "You...you played so nicely and...I don't fucking know, I guess I just wanted to help you!"

He was still for a few seconds before he finally released me, looking embarrassed. "Keep walking."

So I did, touching the small cut on my neck every few moments. Neither of us said anything more until we reached my car when he brusquely told me to hurry up as I struggled to unlock the damn thing.

Again, silence fell between us as I started the car and drove away as quickly as I could, listing off as many places as I could in my head that were a reasonable distance from the coffee shop.

Well, there's the airport, the highway, the mall, a bunch of suburbs, some apartment complexes and strip malls, and...well, my place.

"So...um, who was that guy?"

"My father," he said bluntly, gazing out the window, wrapping his hands tightly with the sleeves of my jacket. I hadn't even considered that he was ruining the upholstery with blood.

"Oh...wow..." Oh, wow? What the hell? How lame was I?

"Go ahead," he murmured. "You can say it."

I blinked. "Say what?"

He turned to look at me, a glimmer of surprise in his eye. "That I'm a horrible person, that I'm disgusting and ugly and a freak. I know that's what you're thinking." He touched his face with bloodied fingers, leaving red smears over the scarred half of his face as he looked away again. "I saw you staring."

"I wasn't staring-!" I realized I'd raised my voice and quickly lowered it. I have a tendency to shout if I get excited or defensive. "I wasn't staring...at that." I cleared my throat, feeling my face burning. "I was just staring at you, I guess."

"Pervert."

"Tch. I'm allowed to have my own opinion." I said, rather annoyed with him all of a sudden. "Would you rather I tell you that you're hideous?"

"Yes, I would," he said, almost inaudibly.

I had nothing to say to this. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that he was hideous, because it honestly wasn't true.

I'd never met someone who could still look attractive while covered in blood.

"What's your name?" The question sounded so sudden in the quiet.

He was silent again for a second or two. "You were there. You heard them say my name."

I smiled a little, despite myself, despite the fact that it might have come off as rude and cruel and callous. I really couldn't help it though. "Mello? That's your real name?"

"No," he cut in. "But why the hell would I tell you my real name? Mello is just fine."

"I'm Matt, then." I felt a bit smug that I was allowed to be secretive too. "That isn't my real name either, though."

"Where are you taking me?"

"I don't really know. Where do you want to go?"

He let out a soft, cold laugh. "Where ever is safest."

I licked my lips and took a slow breath. Great, I picked a fantastic time to start acting nervous. "Well, I've got a house that's about a half an hour away..." I looked over at him to try and glean a reaction.

Nothing but an empty stare.

"If...you'd like to, you can stay there."

"Fine, I don't care." Then he leaned against the window and fell asleep without another word.

"AH! Jesus fucking Christ, Matt! Just do it already!"

"Listen, Mello, I really don't think I'm qualified to do this!"

Mello took a large swig of vodka from the bottle in his hand that I'd given him. I didn't know how old he was, but he insisted that he was old enough. I felt a bit sorry for him though.

If I had to pull glass out of my hands, I'd want a strong drink too.

"Look, just grab it, pull it out, and clean it up. It's not that difficult."

He was sitting on the couch in my living room, his hand dripping blood onto his pants as he held it out to me. I was kneeling in front of him, looking like a complete idiot. Shit, the tweezers in my hand were shaking like a leaf. I took the bloodied hand and made to pull a piece out, but he suddenly gasped in pain as my wrist suddenly jerked in a nervous spasm.

"Shit, Mello, I can't do this!" I exclaimed, leaning back from him. "We should call a doctor or something."

He grabbed the collar of my shirt, jerking me towards him. "Doctors ask questions," he said, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. He didn't seem angry, just scared and desperate and impatient. I was beginning to suspect he was trying to drink himself into a coma just to get away from the pain. "And you don't. So grow a fucking pair and just get it done!"

Damn, he was intimidating.

But in a good way, like he was pushing me to do my best, to overcome my fears, instead of threatening me into performing amateur surgery.

So, I finally began again. For the first few pieces he was cursing his head off at me because my hands kept shaking. But, eventually, I calmed down a little and the rest of it was almost easy.

12 pieces of glass and half a bottle of peroxide later, his right hand was bandaged and glass-free. I went to start on the other hand, but he stopped me.

"I can do it now."

I ignored him and took the other hand. "Judging by how badly you're slurring your words, I really don't think you can."

"I am not slurring!" he insisted, his words just as muddled as before.

"You're drunk," I stated as I pulled out the first large piece. "Just sit back, alright?" I tried to smile up at him. "I've got this. You don't need to worry."

He scoffed at me as he leaned back against the couch. "You're quite the naive one, aren't you? You do know that I murdered my own father back there, right?"

I didn't answer him, I didn't want to hear him. I just kept myself focused on pulling glass out of his hand, hands that might possibly strangle me in my sleep.

He laughed, cruel and bitter. "Yeah, I killed my father, so what's to stop me from doing the same to you? Yet here you are, nursing me back to health." He said the words in a sickeningly sweet tone, mocking me. "You drove me here, brought me to your fucking house. God, you just want to die, don't you?"

He yelped in pain as I swiftly pulled out a particularly large shard. For a moment, I did nothing to stop the blood that flowed freely from the cut. I just watched it well and drip.

Then, this awful whimper escaped his lips and he shivered and the trance was broken. The peroxide was in my hand and I was pouring it over the wound and he was calling me every single obscene name under the sun and a few I had never even heard before. I quickly looked up at him as I wrapped his hand.

He was practically crying.

Jesus, now I felt like absolute shit.

"I've got a futon in my office. I can move it in here for you."

He grunted and looked away from me, cradling his hands against his chest.

So I went and got the futon and began dragging it out and down the hall, only to find that he'd somehow found my bedroom and was sprawled out over my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a bit irritated that he'd invited himself onto my bed.

But, I also felt this small surge of excitement at the sight and I don't quite know why.

"I like this room more," he said, never taking his eyes off of the ceiling. He pointed to the empty spot near the window. "Can't you move it here instead?"

"You...want to sleep in here?" He nodded slowly. "With me?"

He smirked and finally looked over at me. "Pervert."

I groaned in frustration. "I was just making sure you were up for sharing a room with me, I wasn't insinuating that I wanted to sleep with you."

He pushed himself off my bed and pressed past me to help carry the frame.

"You don't have to insinuate it, I could already tell that you wanted to," he breathed against my ear.

I went as still as a stone and suddenly stopped breathing. Was he rubbing against me? What the hell was going on?

Then, he had moved on to the other side of the futon to help me carry it. "Well? Are you gonna move this or not?"

I started at him for a moment and I briefly considered that I'd simply imagined it all. "Y...yeah," I said slowly before moving the futon into the bedroom.

So, this was how it was going to be. Tonight, we'd fall asleep and I'd probably wake at some ungodly hour to him with his hands around my throat, slowly choking me to death because I'm insane and stupid and secretly desperate for attention and company.

I gave him a pair of my boxers and a t-shirt to sleep in and put his other clothes in the wash. I doubted the blood stains would come out, but it couldn't hurt to try.

He was lying in bed, already changed and nearly asleep, when I came back. He was smiling up at me as if I were his best friend in the entire world. "Do you think you could take me somewhere tomorrow?"

"What for?" I was really tired, I felt emotionally and physically drained. Slowly, I turned off the light and climbed into bed.

"I need to go back to my house and get my cello and a few of my things." The streetlight from outside was pouring in the window, casting his face in an orange light.

I nodded sleepily. "Do you want me to close the blinds? That light is going to be right in your face."

"No, it's fine."

I nodded again unquestioningly and rolled over to go to sleep. My digital clock on the night stand read 11:30 PM when I closed my eyes.

"Hey...Matt?"

My eyes fluttered open. The clock said 1:15 AM. Was I dreaming? Mello was leaning over the bed, staring at me. He looked as if he'd been crying.

"Mello, are you alright?"

He wiped a hand over his eyes and set his face in a serious expression. "I'm fine."

I raised my head from my pillow slightly when he didn't move. "What is it?"

"Can I..." he crawled halfway up onto my bed. "Can I just lie here for a second?"

I tried not to give him a weird look, but it was definitely an odd request. Still, I kept getting this feeling like I had an obligation to help him. So I told him he could and he got up onto the bed and laid on his back, not bothering to get in under the sheets. He was staring at the ceiling again, as if there were something simply fascinating up there that I just couldn't see.

I smiled slightly and reached over to gently touch his shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed, flinching away.

I pulled my hand back, looking scared. He looked scared too, with eyes as wide as dinner plates, as if I'd just jabbed at him with a knife or something.

"Please...don't touch me."

I nodded slowly and retreated back to my half of the bed, silently pondering what must be running through his head.

I wasn't wrong, I knew I sensed some sort of animosity between Mello and the man who I now knew to be his father. Maybe his father was abusive, or maybe Mello was legally insane and I was actually harboring some deadly psychopath, or maybe he was lying and that wasn't his father at all, just some guy who owed him money or something.

Or perhaps I would find out from Mello in due time.

It was late, and I really didn't have the mental capacity at that moment to process all the information.

Still, I stayed awake until Mello got up and went back to the futon, muttering a quick "thanks" on the way. It was 2:00 AM when we both finally fell asleep, and both of us still couldn't get into each other's head to find out what exactly it was that compelled us to do the things we'd done.

I was up at 8:30 the next morning. Mello slept in until 10.

Hell, I was just thankful to still be alive. Guess he wasn't such a deadly psychopath after all.

Still, I wondered why he would have said those things to me last night. Maybe he was just trying to scare me into not calling the cops on him or something.

Geez, maybe I should be calling the police. I mean...did this make me an accomplice to a murder? I couldn't afford to go to jail!

I kept thinking about what prison would be like as poured syrup onto a pair of toaster waffles. What if I get shanked? What if they give me a life sentence? What...what if I drop the fucking soap?!

"What are you doing?"

I wheeled around, brandishing the syrup bottle like some sort of weapon, only to find Mello staring at me, leaning sleepily against the doorframe.

He wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrow in confusion. "What the fuck are you trying to do? Bludgeon me with Mrs. Butterworth?"

I quickly set the syrup bottle down once I realized what the hell I was doing and turned back to my waffles. "Sorry, you just startled me." I looked down to realize that I'd drowned my breakfast in syrup when I got lost in my thoughts. The waffles were practically floating in the sugary substance.

He stepped up beside me, yanking up on the waist band of the boxers I'd lent him. He was pretty fucking thin, I noticed, now that I looked closely. They kept slipping down his hips every few seconds. And the neck of my shirt was too big, nearly slipping down his right shoulder. My clothes didn't look very flattering on him. He was looking at my waffles disgustedly. "Well, I'll have to avoid startling you from now on, lest I wish to die a thick and buttery death like these guys here." He nodded to my soggy waffles.

"How are your hands?" I had noticed that he'd changed the wrappings around them himself. He must have found the gauze I had set out in the bathroom.

"They're alright, actually. Most of them have healed over already."

I couldn't fucking believe I was having this conversation. He had just killed someone, and I was more concerned about how his hands were healing?

My priorities are pretty fucked up.

He seemed to notice my concern, probably because I was staring at his hands. "Look, if you've got such reservations, you can call the police."

"No, it's not that." What?! Yes, it was! God, what was it about him that made me so fiercely protective of him? Was I seriously that desperate for someone to talk to?

I still couldn't figure out what it was about him that drew me in.

"Well, none of them were very deep," he murmured in a tone that said he was just talking to fill the silence. "A few days and I should be able to play again. A few weeks and it won't burn like hell." He popped his own waffles into the toaster and sat down with me at the kitchen table while they cooked. "So," he began, setting his chin in his hands. "When can you take me?"

I shrugged, doing my best to wade through the syrup on my plate. "Anytime, I guess."

"Don't you have a job?"

"I make my own hours," I answered cryptically.

I'm not a secretive guy or anything, but he'd been playing these little mystery games with me since he got here. I had this childish urge to one up him in vagueness.

His waffles popped up out of the toaster, but he kept looking me over before going to get them. "Salesman?"

I laughed. "Hell, no."

"Well, I suppose that's lucky," he said as he went over to put his waffles on his plate. "I can't stand that type." He walked over to my fridge and opened it. "Do you have any chocolate syrup?"

"Yeah, it's in the second shelf on the door." I watched him pull it out and begin pouring the stuff onto his waffles. "You're weird."

"You're one to talk," he playfully retorted as he sat down again. "A normal person would have had me arrested last night." He took a bite of his breakfast and kept giving me that scrutinizing look. It was odd, but for some reason, I didn't mind it. "Public relations?"

Yes, the anti-social guy as a public relations expert. "I'll forgive you for that one, but only because you don't know me. Come on, this isn't fair. Don't I get to ask you questions?"

"Only if you're okay with the fact that you might not like what you hear."

I looked up at him and we stared at each other for a moment, a second of quiet that seemed to last years.

"You're a cellist," I finally said.

He snorted at me, licking a drop of chocolate syrup from his lips. "Brilliant guess." I shrugged and he laughed a little bit. "Alright, um..." He tapped his fork thoughtfully on the edge of his plate. "Journalist?"

"Close, but no." I finished off my waffles and pushed my plate aside. "My turn then. Where are you from?"

"Austria." I must have looked shocked because he started to explain himself. "I was born there, I only lived there for a year. My father was from America, my mother lived in Cyprus, but she was born in Switzerland. What about you then?"

"I don't remember," I answered.

"Oh, come on, that's not fair. You have to answer it. I answered yours."

I shook my head. "I honestly don't remember. I've lived in an orphanage in the city all my life. The only thing I have of my parents is the inheritance they left me. It bought me this house."

"Was it lonely?" He asked, his voice suddenly gentle.

I hesitated answering. Had it been lonely? "Wait a minute, it's my turn to ask a question. Why were you playing in a coffee shop last night?"

"Why wouldn't I be?'

"No answering questions with questions."

"Fine, elaborate your question then."

"You play like a fucking virtuoso, why were you at some tiny local event?"

"Because I wanted to." He gave me a large grin. "You're asking the wrong kinds of questions if you want to get useful information out of me." He, too, finished his breakfast and pushed his plate aside. "Author?"

"Writer, yeah."

"What's the difference?"

"It's not your turn."

He scowled at me and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go on, then."

I tried to think up something to ask, something that didn't come off as nosy or suspicious, something casual. What would he enjoy talking about?

"Why did you start playing music?"

I had been expecting him to smile, to look happy, like he had last night on that stage.

No, he went deathly white on me and gave me this frown as if he were trying to tell me, "I really wish you hadn't asked that."

"You know," he began, really quietly. It was almost difficult to hear him since he was staring down at this hands in his lap instead of looking up at me. "Johann van Beethoven took the example of Leopold Mozart when he raised his son, Ludwig. He got his son involved in music at an early age when he realized Ludwig's talent, hoping that he would be the next Wolfgang Mozart. Johann marketed him as a child prodigy and lied about his age for publicity. He wanted Ludwig to make it famous so that he would make the Beethoven family rich. Johann was an abusive father with an alcohol addiction and liquor wasn't cheap. So, to make sure his son would do his part to earn him his booze money, he'd drag him out of bed in the middle of the night and force him to practice until dawn. He'd hit him and criticize him and call him an embarrassment to the family name." He finally looked up at me again and there was this powerful look in his eyes, vivid and clear.

It was a deep sadness, a pain that I could barely even stand to look at.

He was hurt. He was broken.

"Still, even though it probably reminded him of his father's cruelty each and every time, he continued to play and write music until he died. Even when he went completely deaf, he kept on going."

I hadn't even noticed I was leaning forward eagerly in my seat, as if what he were telling me were the most captivating story I'd ever heard. I felt like I was getting a history lesson from a college professor."Yeah?"

He gave me a small smile and leaned forward as well, resting his elbows on the table and putting his bandaged hands over his face with a heavy sigh. "That's why I play," he answered through his gauze-wrapped palms. "That's why I started playing, that's why I keep playing."

What? But, he hadn't even really answered me...had he?

He brought his hands away from his face. "Do you think we can leave soon?"

"Sure-" He stood to leave and I grabbed his wrist. "Wait!" He paused, glancing down at me, suddenly looking tired. "I...I don't understand."

He looked away from me, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Then, unexpectedly, his arm was yanked from my grip and he made a gesture as if he had just had a brilliant idea, an enthusiastic wave of the hand. "Try listening to his symphonies," he said before turning and walking back to the bedroom.

Even with Mello being all smiles during breakfast, I shouldn't have been surprised that he was strict and cold once we got into the car. The only times he spoke to me were to give me directions to where ever it was he wanted to go. He wouldn't tell me where exactly, he was being really tight lipped about it. It was still a little scary though. I kept remembering the sound of his voice when he'd held that piece of glass to my neck last night.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

We were downtown when he finally told me to pull over, at these old, historic buildings that had been turned into homes and loft apartments. I began to wonder what kind of home Mello came from. These types of places didn't seem to fit him or his personality. I'd been expecting this big mansion with a posh yard and a driveway that was half a mile long.

"Stay in here, don't get out and don't talk to anyone," he instructed as I pulled over where he'd told me to.

I nodded obediently as he stepped out of the car and walked up to one of the houses, ringing the bell.

The door opened, but I couldn't see who it was standing in the doorway.

"Mihael!"

Mihael? Was that his name?

"I need my cello, Roger," he stated. His attitude was all business. "And a set of my clothes."

"I-I don't have any more of your clothes." The guy sounded old with this raspy voice. "Why don't you come in and stay? It's safe here."

"Yes, Mello, it's quite safe here." Another new voice, this one young and monotone.

"I'd rather they kill me before I stay here," Mello spat, glowering at whomever had just arrived. I couldn't see them either. "My cello, please, Roger."

"Mihael..."

"Would you like to come in and play with me, Mello?"

"Go to hell," he said, completely straight faced.

The old man cut in. "Give me a moment and I'll fetch it for you."

It seemed to take him forever to come back with his cello. I kept watching Mello who's expression hadn't changed from one of pure and utter loathing, eyes cast down at something, presumably on the floor.

Dear Lord, he wasn't really talking to a child that way, was he?

The man finally came back though, handing his cello case off to him. The moment it was back in his hands, he turned and strode back to the car, motioning for me to pop the trunk so he could put his cello in there.

I did as I was asked and , just as I had guessed, this old guy came out of the door and hobbled over to my car with this walking stick. "Please, Mihael, I know you're upset by all of this, but you must think rationally!"

He ignored the guy the whole way, refusing to even look at his face. I felt a bit bad for him as Mello got back into the car.

"Drive." That was all he said, quietly, as he buckled his seatbelt.

I hesitated for a moment and the man was staring into the car, looking utterly confused and overwhelmed.

"I said drive!" he snapped and I quickly drove away.

As I passed the old man's house, I saw a pale haired boy crouching in the doorway, dreamily waving goodbye to us.