Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note.

Sometimes, we sit and we drink. And we sit and we smoke. And I think, Well damn. And sometimes I say it, too, and he asks me "What?" and I say "Nothing, Mello. Nothing at all." And he says "Okay. You do that." And we keep sitting and drinking and sitting and smoking.

He smolders, you know that? He smolders like… like a dying fire. Like those little orange specks in the burned tinder, those little eyes. They feel like eyes to me, like they're watching, waiting for the opportune moment to blink out of existence. Like they're paranoid that they might miss something if they leave too soon. Who knows what goes through their heads.

But he smolders. He's smoldering right now, sitting on that couch, one foot propped up on the opposite knee, his chocolate bar hanging desolately from one hand. He's smoldering, and who knows when he'll blink out of existence. Who knows what goes through his head.

Well damn, I think. Well damn, indeed.

I'm a replacement, you know that? A replacement. Mello won't admit that to himself, though. He just won't. He pretends that it's all okay. Well, no, he doesn't. He pretends that none of it is about him. That it's all just in pursuit of finding Kira. Of becoming L. But it's just stupid one-upsmanship, just a stupid attempt to impress him or someone or something.

It's just stupid.

But Mello's stupid, and nobody ever gets anywhere by denying the truth. So Mello's stupid and that's the truth. But I'm not getting anywhere, am I? No, I'm not. Hell, for all I know, I'll be stuck in this stupid mob apartment for the rest of my life. For all I know, I'll be shot in the middle of the street tomorrow.

I don't think that'll happen, though. Mello and I are immortal. We're like cockroaches. We're like Twinkies, or Keith Richards, or Cher. We'd live through an atomic bomb. We're just like that.

But I'm a replacement, and damn if that doesn't sting.

It does sting.

Well damn.

He wishes I were Near. He realized that today. I saw it in his eyes, saw the way they widened that little tiny, tiny bit, in that way that just screams "Fuck." That's what he says when he has a moment of insight into his inner Mello. He says "Fuck" and then he devotes himself to breaking up those damn chocolate bars with more zeal than should really be possible.

He did that. He muttered "Fuck" just after his eyes widened, and then he devoted himself to breaking up that damn chocolate bar with more zeal than should really be possible.

And then he was almost nice to me for the rest of the day. It was subtle, but he was almost nice. And the only does that when he feels bad for something but doesn't want to say what it is for fear of making me angry or hurting my feelings or something. Who knows what goes through his head.

Who knows.

But he wishes I were Near, and he knows it now, and he feels bad for it. For whatever reason, he feels bad for it. And damn if it doesn't sting, because he wishes I were Near even though I'm not.

Well damn.

Well damn.

This sucks.

It's ironic as hell, but it still sucks.

I'm in the middle of the street, and I just got shot. At least it's not ''tomorrow'… that would really suck. But I can't help thinking that… maybe… maybe Mello'll feel better about it all if he thinks I died without knowing. Maybe he'll stop looking so pained and embarrassed all the time if the thinks that I think he still respects me, still likes me.

Somehow, I doubt it. But then again, who knows what goes on in his head.

Who knows.

This sucks.

He wishes I were Near.

I'm a replacement.

He smolders.

We sit and drink and sit and smoke and drink and sit and sit and smoke and sitdrink and smokesit and chocolate and chocolate and fuck this hurts I never got to touch his hair, oh God, I never got to touch it and I never told him, I never told him a single thing that mattered, I never told him that I loved him, even if I did only love him as a brother, but fuck, I never told him and fuck, fuck this hurts.

At least I have my cigarette.

At least I have that.

Well damn.