[A/N: Omigod. So, the morning after I posted Chapter Two, I checked my inbox and expected it to be flooded with Facebook crap, as per usual. But no! It was all from --from YOU guys! And that put the widest smile on my face--I was literally dancing around my computer room, aha! So, thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, favorited, and simply enjoyed my little story. I am so very flattered and extremely grateful. My appreciation is eternal. Also, I know this chapter is LONG overdue and for that, I apologize! Hopefully, it was worth the wait. . ?

But onto the story itself . . .

Ah, Plot! Finally, you've arrived! It's been far too long since we last met! xD Seriously guys, I know mostly it's just been angsty monologues and flashbacks and bloody Mello-ness (not that that in and of itself isn't awesome, but still….) and I so appreciate you sticking with me through these first few chapters while the story gains its footing. But, this chapter and the next will follow the storyline fairly directly, so be prepared. I will have my own little twists now and then, which hopefully you'll enjoy. And not be upset and/or bored with! -nervous grin- And after that….? Well, we'll just have to see what happens with our love-birds, mwahaha. Enjoy! Also, since the manga and anime start to vary at this point, I'm going to be splicing certain things. Just so you know. ]

[Disclaimer : Death Note and all it's plots, characters, concepts, images, etc. belong to Takeshi Obata, Tsugmi Ohba, MADHOUSE, Viz, etc. It is does not belong to me and I, in no way, benefit financially from the franchise. However, I do take credit for any original characters and concepts. Please don't steal!]

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"All my beautiful lovely safe world blew itself up here with a great gust of high explosive love."

~ Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

III

Control

It never ceased to amaze Mello how Matt managed to miss the most important events in their lives. Their world was quite literally collapsing to pieces around them and yet Matt was asleep. Asleep. Somewhere out there, Kira, the world's most brutal murderer, the Judas who slew L, was lurking--killing, even--and Matt was unconscious. Unbelievable.

Mello himself had barely slept at all since his days at Wammy's. As a child, he had been too driven by his studies and too plagued by nightmares to bother making the passage into dreamland. As he got older, he simply stopped trying, learning to use and burn the energy provided by caffeine and raw passion. That and he was far too paranoid to close his eyes for even a second while surrounded by the potential enemies of the Mafia. Of course, now he didn't have much choice but to sleep. Years of pushing himself beyond all concepts of the human physiology were quickly catching up with him. And, coupled with not only his injuries but his painkillers and Nurse Matt's deviously stubborn healthcare, he was helpless. The drugs had all but wiped out the usual trauma of his resting periods, thank God, but he didn't much care for the bizarre, Alice-in-Wasted-land dreams he often found himself floating in late at night. In fact, the only thing that kept him going was the comfort that eventually he'd be strong enough to cope with the pain of both his emotional and physical wounds. That and the positively delightful idea of paying Matt back for the gallons of venomous peroxide the redhead had poured on him.

Smirking at that thought, Mello watched the careful rising and falling of Matt's striped chest from his position at his bedroom's doorframe. The bleached-blue glow of his many computer screens and the water-colored hues of sunset pouring in from the windows played along the pale skin of Matt's face. Goggles askew, lips parted slightly, lanky body curled in a protective coddled state, it would be disturbingly easy to kill Matt. Mello could do just about anything and, given the depth with which Matt slept, he would never know. That scared the hell out of Mello.

Despite the war wounds he carried from his days in the Mafia, it would be absolutely impossible for the blonde to harm Matt. He couldn't even picture such a thing in his head, nor could he understand how anybody else could consider the idea. Matt was an innocent, the innocent when compared to his dirty companion. He was harmless, full of nothing but provocative sarcasm, seemingly endless compassion, and the kind of devotion the people would die for--or from. Matt was perhaps the perfect combination in a person, though Mello was obviously biased given his affection for the subject in question: brilliant without being showy, laid-back without being careless, and madly in love without being a psychotic stalking bitch.

Yes, Mello had said the words--or, thought them, at least. After years of topic switching and awkward pauses and blatant lies, the truth had finally shown her face--and to Mello, it was ugly.

It wasn't the love itself that made him more than a bit sick. No, that would be impossible--how could anyone hate love? It wasn't just a paradox, it was impossible. And it wasn't even the religious part of him that squirmed at that idea of two men together--no, those days, days of his adolescence when he had wanted Matt so badly he literally slept in the church of Wammy's House to make the urges cease, were far gone. After all, it would be a bit too late to panic at the beast with two backs, now wouldn't it? Blood, sweat, and semen had been shed between them and such a bond wasn't allowed to be forgotten. Perhaps it was far too late to panic at the consequences of their childhood romance, but Mello simply couldn't help it. It was just one more thing on the list of things that give him shivers.

He had long ago accepted the fact that, in a few scant years, he had gone from man to monster, but maybe he had over-estimated himself. Maybe Mello wasn't strong enough to be either. The noose was tightening around them, both personally and professionally, and all he could do was waver in uncertainty.

Things had turned out so differently from how he had expected, as life had a bad habit of doing. Somehow, he thought this wouldn't be hard. Facing Kira, facing Near, facing Matt, facing himself--piece of cake, he thought. Combine a few of those seemingly fearful elements, shake 'em together, and--BAM!--there was your solution. Simple. Effortless. Clean. Now, that immaculate overview was laughable--as if the black-hearted, black-humored universe would ever make life so easily for their broken-down prince. No. Of course not. Kira and Near were as unreachable as ever, while Matt and himself were much too available. All the right things at exactly the wrong time. And what had he done to rectify this situation? Nothing. He had done just what Matt had accused him of: brooding and slacking off, attempting to give the cold shoulder towards a world that had forgotten him years ago.

Even though Mello had been nothing more than a bloody sac of uselessness, his other wasn't. Matt was trying, he really was, but he had no desire to catch Kira. Like Mello, he was in this game for personal reasons, but since his "personal reasons" were rotting away in the next room and their goal was as untouchable as always, he was considerably distracted. Not too mention that Matt had always been the more sensitive of the two, meaning he felt whatever was hiding in Mello's heart two-fold. At the moment, they were a disaster--it was a wonder they weren't dead yet.

Grimacing at that thought, Mello realized how very right Matt was: while he was just as intelligent on his own, he simply couldn't fill Mello's place. He couldn't shoulder the burden that the blonde had created for them, nor could he capture Kira or defeat Near. It wasn't for lack of ability, it was lack of want. You could lead a Wammy Kid to glory, but you couldn't make him seek it, Mello had learned that as a child when he spent hours studying while Matt languidly watched his life float on by. And maybe that was part of why he was so driven, to achieve a life for Matt as well as his own. To try and pry the eyes behind the goggles open and make them see the beauty in the break-down of life. Mello had succeeded on that front, just not in the way he had anticipated.

All that taken into consideration, it was clear what needed to happen. The intermission was over and the curtains were going to rise once again whether Mello liked it or not. The players were assembled, the plot had been carved, and the world was watching as Act Two and World War III was dawning. He could either shuffle on stage like the meek little insect he had been made out to be or he could stay in character and return with guns blazing and attitude burning.

Was there even a choice?

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Mail Jeevas only faintly remembered his first day at the Wammy's House for Gifted Children--or, more appropriately, "Wammy's Hellish Training Ground For Tiny Soldiers of (Not Quite) Justice."

His opinion of the giant red-brick mansion and spindly metal gates was limited. In fact, Mail was more or less devoid of a point of view. Not even his beloved games or the drunken mother whose flying vodka bottles had all but killed him were enough to provoke his passion. So, when a kind, elderly man in an expensive pressed suit had approached the soot-covered, fiery-haired orphan with the promise to make him a life, Mail was decidedly skeptical. But he was also starved and freezing in Paris' damp city streets, so he followed in a state of numb silence. He hadn't even bothered to consider all the things that could happen to him if he entered this man's custody, for he simply didn't care. Mail had never cared, not even about himself.

The suit had turned out to be a man named Watari--Quillsh Wammy himself. Apparently, there was a certain amount of pride one was supposed to have at having the orphanage's patron saint pick you himself, but Mail didn't recognize the honor. Prestige had never been much of consideration to the child--after all, Cosette Jeevas was an acclaimed actress, but that hadn't stopped her from hiding and beating the son she hated. So, when walking through the huge, overpowering doors of his new home, trailing awkwardly by Watari's side, he had done everything possible to hide his skinny, filthy frame from the other children's prying eyes. And Watari, empathetic down to his very bones, had smiled down at the frightened child and guided him to his room. He was supposed to take the boy to Roger first thing, as Mail would later find out, but there was something much more important to Watari.

After walking the winding, stiffly carpeted building for what felt like an eternity, they had stopped in front a room, a bedroom. The quiet inside this room was striking, given that every other was filled with laughter, swearing, and jeering. No, behind this door was nothing more than the soft turning of pages. It was at once foreboding and intriguing. Mail peered up at his caretaker with curious jade eyes. But Watari said nothing, a smile still touching his pale wrinkled lips as he turned the knob.

It was the most amazing thing Mail's eyes had ever seen--and would ever see, of this he was certain. The impact was indescribable. Clouds clearing away, aurora breaking on the horizon and piercing the grim, dark hole of an empty eternity he had carried within himself. For the first time, Mail tasted of desire, of wanting--of true life.

Settled on a pin-neat bed was a child, not much older than Mail's ten years, the boy suspected. Still, he seemed infinitely older, wiser, like a man trapped in a child's thin body. A golden curtain of hair obscured his face a bit, but Mail didn't need to see to know what he was looking at: an angel, his own personal savior cloaked in heavy fabric of black.

"Greetings, Mello," Watari murmured, bespectacled gaze eyeing the child as his smile broadened.

The boy snapped up at that, a wide grin on his lips and fever in his ocean-colored eyes. Mail gasped a little at just how marvelous this creature was.

"Watari!" Mello cried out, setting down the book he had previously been studying so intently. "You're back!"

"Just for a little while, unfortunately--L is working on a case in Paris and I must return to him as soon as possible. In fact, I shall be leaving for the airport in an hour."

"Oh," Mello murmured, smile dropping at that. Then, he caught sight of Mail. Eyes narrowing at the child, Mail couldn't help but quiver at that harsh glare. "What's that?" The blonde inquired coldly. In reaction, Mail shifted behind Watari, peeking around the man's legs as Mello's stare held.

Laughing, Watari gently disengaged the shivering child and pushed him forward. "He's a boy, Mello. I'm sure you know of them, given that you are one. And he's also your new roommate"

A thrill of fear and pleasure jumped up Mail's spine as he looked at the ghastly, horrified look on that lovely face. It was clear he wasn't wanted, as always.

"What?!" Mello all but yelled, his tone demanding. "Watari, I can't have a roommate--"

"Why not? Is someone using that?" The old man asked, pointing a shriveled finger towards the spare bed across the room.

"Well, no, " the infuriated blonde admitted.

"Perfect," Watari said before turning to the boy at his side. "If you'll excuse me, I must meet with Roger to smooth the details of your stay here. I have suspicions that you two will be fast friends," he added, giving Mello a stern look before slipping out the door, closing it gently behind him.

Both boys stared at the door rather longingly for a moment before turning to face each other. Mail said nothing and for a few moments, there was silence. Then, Mello broke it with, "You're not welcome here,"

It was a rather painful beginning to a beautiful friendship.

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Nighttime had cast its shadow, moonlit glow over the room as Matt opened his eyes. Eyelids still hanging heavy from sleep, it took a moment for the pieces to click together in his muddled brain. The second they did, he was upright and typing at the laptops with mad speed. Hopefully, Mello hadn't noticed that his hacker had fallen asleep on the job.

After bringing everything back to speed, Matt leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief. He seemed to be spared. Flicking his lighter, he lit his cigarette aflame and allowed himself the luxury of taking a smoky drag. It was only after a few puffs did he notice that Mello wasn't barking at him to put the damnable thing out. Eyebrows knotting in surprise, he called out, "Mel? You in there?"

The blonde's bedroom door was closed, as always, but was unusually quiet. Flirting a bit with asking permission for entrance, Matt instead took the knob in his gloved palm and threw the door open.

Not terribly surprising, the room was empty. The bed was perfectly made, the curtains were open, and the books, Mello's beloved books, were piled on his desk. Nothing out of the ordinary. But, there was something that caught Matt's attention: a note, plain white paper with faint cursive writing printed on it. The first word was, "Near." And the second, "Thanks."

At that, Matt let out a rather hysterical bout of laughter, eyeing the spectacle with a bit of smug satisfaction. "Bastard," he murmured, rolling his eyes. "You never change."

You can never just say what you mean . . .

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The resulting weeks for Mail were awkward at best. Between dodging verbal barbs and bullets from his unwilling roommate and running from the children stalking the new genius on the block, Mail's new life was increasingly more difficult then he had thought it would be. The testing didn't do much for him, either. Spending much of his life hiding his intelligence, Mail was still adjusting to the concept of "academic achievement." And, his high scores did not help his situation with his peers. While most seemed to admire his newfound glory, Mello's reaction was, as always, snide and unfriendly. "Don't think you can ever beat me--I'd kill you first," the blonde warned before turning back to his studies, leaving Mail drowning in a silent mix of disappointment, fear, and loneliness.

All he wanted was for Mello to be nice to him, to maybe even like him a little. All he wanted was to be friends with Mello. He had no desire to trump the blonde's perfect standing in the House, nor did he want this "L title" all the children was always going on about. Such things were, as always, meaningless to him. That wasn't success to him, so he was perfectly content to play second fiddle to Mello's brilliance.

If only there was a way for Mail to convey this to the blonde, but frankly, he was too intimidated to open his mouth. And, given the flavor of competition and conspiracy that stuck to the walls of Wammy, it was doubtful Mello would take him seriously. So Mail kept his mouth shut and took the verbal beatings with a grain of salt and a shrugged shoulder--after all, at least they weren't physical beatings, a major improvement over his last home.

A month after arriving at Wammy's House, Mail's situation had not improved much, remaining just as poorly as it had began. Mello was as furiously silent and sharply-toned as ever while Mail was all but forced to run from class to class to escape the throng of fans he seemed to have collected. It was a bitter irony: everyone seemed to want him except the one he wanted.

One day, sick of Mello's rejections and cruelty, Mail did something he hadn't since joining Wammy's illustrious alum: he went outside. Granted, Mail hated being out in the open, vulnerable to the preying of humanity, but he did enjoy being with nature. And, the expansive, carefully coiffed garden in the backyard was too hard to pass up. Mello made no comment as his roommate, dragging along in jeans three sizes too big for him, quietly slunk out of their room. No, that was an overestimation: it wasn't their room, it was Mello's, a fact the blonde drove home morning, noon, and night--and as many times in between as he could manage. Sighing, Mail paced through Wammy's first floor before coming to the glass, French-style doors that led outside. Pushing them open, his bare feet scuffled along the sharp pavement of the patio before stepping into the garden itself.

The grass was still damp from the thunderstorms that had plagued the country even more than normal and the wet blades tickled the skin of Mail's feet as he walked. The sights and smells were overwhelming, to the point where he could almost taste the colors and see the lurid scents. Hidden behind a towering oak, Mail was about to climb into a ditch by the stream when his heel caught his pant-leg and he fell, face-first, into the dusty embank below.

Aching from the tumble, Mail was about to brush off the incident and climb back up when a stabbing pain in his leg held him still. It was then he realized, looking down at the twisted limb, that he had sprained his ankle. Meaning he was stuck there, with no one to find him since no one knew he had left and he was hidden in the worst place imaginable. And then, when he thought it couldn't get any worse, a crack of thunder boomed overhead and the heavens began to pour.

Panic instantly consumed Mail. He had always been terrified of thunderstorms, ever since the incident when his mother decided to lock him out in one for sadistic kicks. A tree barely two feet from him had been struck and splintered into flaming pieces and he had been traumatized ever since.

Trembling faintly from cold and fear, Mail almost didn't hear the calls over the sounds of the storm. Pivoting slightly, he peered up to see Mello, clothes and hair soaked and plastered to his body. Eyebrows drawn in concentration, he frowned when he caught sight of the ruffled red hair.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked in a loud voice as he knelt beside the enclave.

"I-I t-tripped and f-fell," Mail explained nervously, cheeks as flaming red as his hair.

"Then get up and get inside, idiot. It's fucking pouring out here. That and Roger's pitching a fit and making me his little errand boy. Like it's my fucking responsibility to keep you in line," Mello muttered, voice thick with resentment.

"S-sor--"

"Don't apologize. Just move," the blonde instructed coldly.

"I can't," Mail admitted, eyes on the mud he was laying in. "I h-hurt my ankle and I can't w-walk."

Mello sighed heavily in exasperation. "You're hopeless," he snapped as he grabbed Mail's hands, making him blush. Pulling him up, Mello swung the scrawny redhead over his shoulders. "Hold on," he said and Mail obeyed, locking his arms around his Mello's neck. Feeling Mello's unusually strong and defined muscles flex beneath his body, Mail felt strangely peaceful even as they were stranded in the pouring rain. Of course Mello chose that moment to chime in: "This doesn't mean I like you. I still hate you."

Even at those words, Mail still couldn't help but smile as Mello carried him inside. He knew the blonde didn't mean it. He didn't know how he had suddenly learned to tell the difference, but everything seemed clear now. Mello had saved him and maybe one day, Mail could repay the favor.

After all, even angels could fall.

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It was really a wonder that someone did not call the cops. After all, Halle Lidner lived in a rather classy neighborhood, so one would think that the appearance of a leather-wearing, lock-picking blonde would be noted. Not that Mello was complaining, of course. A part of him would die a sad death if the day he finally regained himself was also the day the cops caught him. Scowling at the thought alone, he worked quickly, jimmying the handle on her apartment door and letting himself inside.

Entering the building had been easier than expected, he recalled as his teal eyes took in the darkened house. Truthfully, Mello had been counting on having to call on Matt to find a way to disable the building's security. Or break a window, if that wasn't possible. But the appearance of a little old lady had made his life significantly easier. With a smile, she had warmly welcomed him into the building, not seeming to have a second thought nor bothering to question his scar; probably thought it would be rude.

Times like these caused Mello's resolve to waver ever so slightly. Even if Kira was a murdering bastard, it would be a lie to say that things hadn't improved since the killer's appearance. People, good people who deserved no troubles in life, finally felt safe and happy with the world around him, so what right did a sinner have to pull it all away?

In an odd twist, his thoughts clamped full circle. That was it, wasn't it? He was a monster, a killer, a brutal and dangerous being. And yet, that woman had simply let him inside her home without a qualm. Goodness couldn't be forced through fear or fighting; a person had to want to live a righteous life to actually walk that path. Evil could be suppressed, but never fully erased. Men were corrupt as long as the sweet taste of forbidden fruit burned on their tongues and Kira was a fool to think he was a God, the God, who could resurrect their lost Eden. Kira wasn't saving people, he was simply blinding them, shielding them from how ugly this world could really be. And Kira hadn't defeated the Devil. If anything, he had made those demons stronger than ever before. Conflict brings out cunning and Mello was surely the Lucifer of the New World, not a fact the Catholic prided himself on but a fact nonetheless.

It would appear that Halle hadn't returned home, giving Mello time to snoop around her home. He wasn't particularly looking for information, but if any was found it would surely be appreciated. No, it was more like curiosity about what kind of person would contact someone such as himself.

Mello was of course hesitant at first to trust anything that came out of the woman's mouth. She was part of the SPK, meaning she was just another of Near's human tools. Already she was tainted. And yet, she was useful. Through Halle, Mello had gained quite a bit more knowledge of the team's workings, like their home-base and how many members they operated with, a number that had decreased significantly thanks to Mello's now-dead Mafia minions. Still, she was shifty. She claimed to cooperate with both of L's successors out of belief that the two working together was much more effective than one or the other. At that, the more emotional of the two boys almost smashed the phone instead of just hanging up, but Matt's pleas kept him on the line. So he listened to Halle Lidner and agreed to form a partnership, of sorts, taking Matt and himself from Winchester and flying into New York City. This was going to one hell of a family reunion, he thought with a wicked grin.

The jingle of keys pulled Mello from his reverie and he slid to the right of the door frame, pulling his gun out the moment Halle stepped inside. She placed a manicured nail over her lips, silencing him. That could only mean she was wired. Mello's suspicions were confirmed as pulled a tiny button from her jacket, giving her orders to Near through it. The sound of the white one's voice made Mello seethe, fists clenching slightly which was dangerous given that one hand was on his gun and the other on his chocolate, two of his most precious things. With a frown, Mello released the pressure on his trigger finger and drew his gun back. Not that it would really be any big loss if he shot Halle, but it would most certainly be inconvenient. He watched Halle walk to the bathroom and, with slight reluctance, followed her. Matt would fucking flip if he ever knew about this. . .

Despite himself, Mello was nothing if not a gentleman, turning his back on Halle as she undressed. Whether or not the woman appreciated his efforts was unknown. She didn't seem to mind if he saw her skin, but saying that she wanted him to would just be a facet of Mello's conceit.

Steam filled the tiny, pristine bathroom, making the leather stick to Mello's body in a rather uncomfortable fashion and his hair prickle along his skull. Nevertheless, he held his ground, back pressed against the linoleum as he waited for Halle to crack.

Finally she did. Her voice was a rasp above the rushing of water, "Near came to the conclusion that you would try to contact me, but I don't think he knew we had already met."

That Mello doubted. If Near was holding puzzle-pieces, no doubt he would put them together. "It's so like Near that think that way . . ." He muttered in irritation, taking a vicious snap off his chocolate.

Halle continued as if the other blonde hadn't spoken, "And you no longer have the notebook, so all you can threaten me with is that gun, right?" At this, Mello smirked slightly--if only Halle knew just how good he was with this gun. "You can't control me, and if you use the gun to kill me, it's only going to make it easier to track you down. I'm going to have to place cameras in all my rooms after this, excluding the bathroom. . ."

"Not my fault Near doesn't trust you," Mello replied.

"I'm not saying that it is," Halle murmured. "So, what will you do? Live in bathroom?" Before he answered, she added, "It's okay with me. I don't mind having you around."

Rolling his eyes, the gunman told her, "I have a place."

"I see. How unfortunate."

"Isn't it, though?" He muttered sarcastically.

"Near also thinks that the new L is Kira," Halle announced suddenly as she turned the water off with a damp pale hand.

That certainly threw the self-assured Mafioso. "L?!" He had been told that the "Second L" was Touta Matsuda, but that he was completely useless and just there to support the name of L. That made sense, given how incompetent this one was when compared to the real deal. But it was possible. After all, people could lie. And no doubt L would throw the Kira case if he was the "God" himself. It would certainly explain much more clearly why the Japanese were so willing to storm his base. The Death Note had been a factor, of course, but this sealed the deal. Besides, as much as he was loath to admit it, Mello knew that Near was rarely ever wrong, just like their idol. If this was Near's theory than Mello was not going to argue it without reason. And his belief his "Near is a dirty, cheating little cunt" mentality was surely not a valid reason.

"So, what are you going to do?" The woman questioned again as she pulled back the curtain.

Mello watched her through narrowed eyes. "Halle, whose side are you on?" He asked finally.

Heaving a small sigh of frustration, she ran a towel over her sodden fair locks. "I already told you a week ago, didn't I? I'm on nobody's side. You, Near, and I all want to capture Kira. We're after the same goal."

That's how it appeared, at least. The truth was that they were all after similar, but different objectives. Revenge was a motive for all. While Mello and Near were avenging their fallen leader, Halle was purifying the memory of some unknown victim. Just another body strewn along the graveyard as far as Mello was concerned. And there was of course the matter of L's title, a tug of war between his two successors that Halle clearly had no interest in sullying her hands with. But there was Mello's own personal crusade as well, his fight for his pride, and no one could or would win that for him.

When her companion said nothing, Halle resumed her interrogation. "Are you going to run away? If you do, I'm going to tell Near that you were hiding in my bathroom and that I met you. Or do you want to meet me later somewhere else?"

No, there would be no later, no more running away. Mello had run from his situation with Near for years while simultaneously chasing the boy's leads and frankly his feet were tired. He needed to finish this or at least bring about some sort of closure that would keep him from completely losing his mind. And it would all happen on this night. "Halle, go back to headquarters."

She shot him a perplexed glare. "But I have no reason to go back there now. . ."

Letting out a small snarl, Mello instantly thrust the gun into her face. "Then make one up," he snapped impatiently. "Go back."

Halle flinched away, glaring daggers at him. "Okay, fine. Just take that thing out of my face."

"That's what you get for letting strange men into your bathroom." A smug sort of smile graced his features as he slipped out of her bathroom.

Showtime.

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Control. That's what it was about, what it always had been. The power and lust that came with

being the guiding hand. And the fear of being oppressed by it.

Mello never once had control. As a child, such a thing hadn't bothered him. In fact, he almost delighted in his lack of freedom. The young Mihael Keehl had never wanted or needed, nor had he ever struggled for himself. He was pampered, sheltered, never even conceiving the pain of his fellow man. That lesson would be driven home soon enough.

He had watched them die. Let them die. Suddenly, the family that had always coddled him was gone. The pillars of his former self pulled away, Mihael was left to drown in a sea of confusion and loneliness, crippled instead enabled by his brilliant mind. Meandering through foster homes, his "families" had torn him to pieces, stripping the boy of himself. So paralyzed was Mihael that he couldn't even speak. And then there was the House, his House.

Watari had found him, saved Mihael's wretched life and bequeathed him a new one. Mello. The child Keehl was dead, forgotten and never to be raised again. Mello was strong. Mello refused to be weak. He needed to be the best and would accept nothing less of his new self. No one could beat him. And at first, no one did. For his first few years at Wammy's, Mello reigned supreme, his shining presence forever looming over the other children. It wasn't until the boy turned ten that he was kicked off his throne.

Near. The boy genius who pulled the rug out from the blonde's bare feet. And just like that, Mihael was once again spinning out of control.

Maybe that was part of why he had allowed himself Mail Jeevas. Even if Mello was no longer the king of the House, smothered beneath Near's icy presence of snow and darkness, he was certainly no fool. He caught those fleeting stares of emerald eyes, filled with a mix of fearful and adoring intoxication. He could feel the creeping, stalking existence of the scrawny wunderkind at his back, knew who is was before even glancing behind him. It was annoying, of course. Given all that Near had put him through, it didn't seem like too big a request to have a room all too himself, one place of solace where no one could touch him without his consent. But no. Instead Watari, with his usual empathetic, enigmatic smile, had tossed Mail into the clutches of the wolf of Wammy's House. Still, the boy could have his uses. . .

Mello could control him. Own him. It would be the one thing that no one could wrest away from him. Not Near. Not Roger. Not even God himself. Mail Jeevas would belong to him and nothing could change that. So, with that thought in the web of his calculating brain, Mello went in for the kill. Of sorts. That was the plan, but when did the world ever move according to its people's plots?

They were both soaking wet and full of skinny bones rattling with cold. Mail had indeed sprained his ankle, fairly bad in fact, and had trouble getting around. Mello, pinned under Roger's withering glare, had agreed to assist the boy in getting around the orphanage. An hour was spent in the infirmary plastering Mail's leg before Mello carried him back to the room, dumping the boy on his bed without much consideration. The painkillers in the redhead's blood knocked him out rather quickly, leaving Mello to watch him, maybe even watch over him, subconsciously. So he watched. And listened. And learned. And waited.

A week later, armed with a collection of mental notes, Mello approached his potential prey. Mail was hidden, as always--a blur of stripes lurking in dim, dusty corners of the mansion. But the quiet, metallic chorus of his games gave away his location and Mello was able to pick him out easily. A tangible silence fell over the rest of the residents as they watched their most volatile creature go to war. Stalking through the library, bare feet clicking to the polished wooden floors, Mello found the boy, pale face and goggled-eyes obscured by a mop of bright red hair.

"Hey," he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly when he received no response. "Hey," he repeated, scowling at the silence. Mello wasn't the type of person one could ignore easily, something the boy prided himself on. And he would be damned if this boy undid him. With a snarl, he grabbed the Gameboy from Mail's tightened fingers and tore out the batteries, letting the dissected system fall to the ground with a clatter. "I'm talking to you!"

At that, Mail peered up at him, eyes wide with a naked, human look to them that made Mello shiver. "Oh," he murmured, chewed up lips puckering around the soft utterance. "Sorry. Uhm, hi." He paused for a moment before asking, "Why?"

"What?" The blonde demanded.

"Why are you talking to me?" Mail asked, visibly puzzled. It was reasonable, given that in the last month or so Mello had done nothing but sneer and snap at his redhead. But the boy had a reason this time, a question he needed an answer to. It shouldn't have bothered him, but it did, and he just needed to know why.

Mello snorted. "Because I fucking feel like it, that's why," he explained as he settled next to Mail on the floor, flopping down in a sea of heaving black cloth. "That and there's something I want you to tell me," he admitted, reaching up to tuck a few strands of soft golden hair behind his ears. It was then he noticed the quiet and the prying eyes. Glaring, he barked, "Do you have a problem?!" Nervously, the children turned away and Mello smirked, satisfied, before turning his attention back to Mail, noting the small upturn of the boy's own lips. Seeing Mello stare at him, the redhead cleared his expression and made himself look as blank as possible, a change that made Mello frown slightly, though he didn't know why. Clearing his throat, he voiced the thought that had been picking at him for almost a week: "Why did you refuse to be L's heir?"

It was a scandal that had spread through Wammy's House like a cancer, that a boy with no "name" had risen high enough to be offered a shot at their prize. And had turned it down. Mello couldn't fathom why the boy would make such a choice, since his own mind was so polluted with drive, but he wanted to. None of the other children had ever interested him before. Not even Near, really. Near was a means to an end, a goal to meet and break in order to achieve victory. If there was even an actual person, lurking beneath those empty black eyes, he held no fascination for Mello. But this boy, Mail Jeevas, did and that was equal parts chilling and exciting.

Mail studied Mello's face for a long moment in silent thought, making the blonde fidget and flush uncomfortably. Finally he answered, tone honest and clear, "Because I didn't want it."

Mello gaped. "WHAT?!" He exclaimed, practically screaming and making Mail flinch. He leaned closer to the boy, staring. It seemed impossible. Claiming L's title was the goal of all Wammy Children. It was what they lived and died, breathed and bled for. And this boy didn't want that? Impossible. But his clarity did make Mello a bit unsettled. The House was not known as a place that promoted the openness in its recruits. Perhaps Mail hadn't been there long enough, Mello reasoned. Yes, that would be it. Soon enough he would become one of them and the blonde would crush him just as he did all the rest.

"Why do you even care?" Mail asked, his tone biting. "I was under the impression you weren't a very big fan of competition," he added, a hint of sarcasm coloring his voice.

That shocked Mello, since no one had ever dared go against him before. "It doesn't matter who gets in my way, I'll beat them all," he growled.

"How nice," Mail replied coolly. Up until this point, he had been nothing but soft-spoken but it was clear that the blonde was pushing the shy gamer's limits. He reached out for his broken console, but Mello smacked it away, making the plastic clatter rather loudly as it slid across the floor.

Clutching the thin wrist in his own grip, he hissed, "You have no right to talk to me like that, you filthy little brat!"

Mail tore out of his grasp, cheeks flushed angrily as he shoved his face towards Mello's. "And you have no right to be a complete dick and treat me like trash, but that never fucking stopped you! Looks like we're even, Blondie!"

Within minutes, they were rolling around on the floor, bodies sliding on the slippery wood as they clawed and bit at one another. Eventually Roger had to break them up, shocked to deliver a stern warning to both boys instead of just the usual instigator. The icing on the cake was that since he had further injured the boy's already beaten leg, Mello was put on full-time gimp duty. With a scowl, he led Mail back to their room, muttering curses beneath his breath the entire time.

Though he'd never admit it, Mello actually felt a bit bad for hitting the redhead. An apology would never leave his lips, but it would lay in his heart. Once, he had accidentally walked in on Mail changing and saw his skinny frame laced with scars. He never said anything, though curiosity had certainly tempted him. It wasn't so much common courtesy that held his tongue, since Mello wasn't exactly the most polite of people. No, it was the poisonous fear he'd gleaned in those grass-green eyes that made him swallow his words. Because, as tough as he was, Mello was sure he was strong enough to handle even that. Sure, his parents had been murdered and he had watched their demise, but they had loved him. Even in his most painful of moments, Mello always had that. But what did Mail Jeevas have? That thought pissed him off to no end, the idea that there was any person who was better than him in any way. But it also made him even more enmeshed in mystery building around the newest of Wammy's Children. . .

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Their tragic affair was reborn in exactly the same way it had died--with a text message.

After that last night together, Matt had sworn to himself that he would never let his love back into his thoughts--and certainly not back into his heart. It would be easy. It had to be. If Mello could leave him behind with barely a goodbye, then surely Matt could return the favor. He would never think of Mello, never see Mello's angelic face painted on his eyelids whenever he dreamed, never cry at the smell of chocolate, or let his eyes wander longingly over the bed across from his own. Instead, Matt would live his entire life in Mello's honor--or, maybe more appropriately, as vengeance to his own fallen angel. It would be as if Mello had never existed, since the only living creature to ever care for him would never even consider him again. It was a perfect plan.

For a genius, Matt was surprisingly thick.

Perhaps he was just too human, a flaw that no amount of brain cells and book-learning could erase. Even the clearest of eyes blurred when turned to matters of the heart, especially when looking into one's own heart. Still, as he sat in their moonlit apartment as he relived his memories and drowned them in cigarette smoke, Matt couldn't help but feel stupid. To think that such a plan could ever work. Mello had made him and had also murdered him. But somehow, the pieces had managed to function.

It wasn't easy. For a while, Matt was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Everyone had tried to fix him. It was as if the tiny redheaded child was a porcelain doll, cracks trailing rivers down it's beautiful fragile face. Like something out of a fairytale, only it felt more like a nightmare to Matt. The comparison, however, was valid: no salve or solution at hand while somewhere in the big bad world lurked a handsome bastard holding the key to Matt's love and life hostage.

For a while, shock dulled the pain, leaving Matt in a cloud of static-like confusion. It took about a month for the heaving cloud of sorrow to bear down on him. And once it did, it refused to let go.

Even Roger, no fan of children and not much fond of Matt, had found the experience painful. There were days when he would walk into the boy's room expecting to find his corpse. A romantic would think that he would have died of a broken heart, but the truth was much more grim. Matt wouldn't eat. He wouldn't sleep. He never left their room and never allowed the maid to take the filthy sheets still stained with the knowledge of their love-making, a perverse and morose obsession that Roger wisely did not question. The headmaster knew they were in true danger when, after yet another plea to coax Matt from his room, the boy pitched one of his consoles at him. Matt had never been violent before and his temper was frightening, certainly. But what was most unsettling was that, as plastic and glass cracked on the floor, the sight glistened in Matt's lifeless forest eyes. Before, the realm of pixels and fantasy had been Matt's home and yet he couldn't bring himself to care. The pain of the real world was too sharp, too bright to be ignored. And that's when it finally broke loose. For the first time, it really settled in Matt's mind: Mello was gone.

Matt had cried for three days straight after that, sobbing so violently he vomited more than once. It was like a detox, all of Mello's influence bleeding out of him in a torrent of bitter tears and rotted memories. To an outside prospective, it appeared to be a break-through; Matt could once again behave as a normal human without the reinforcement of others. The truth was that the redhead was simply a very good actor, a trait he had, ironically, picked up from the source of all his woes. Over the four years they had been separated for, Matt's plan was never once successful : he never forgot Mello and the pain of his loss never lessened. But he managed. Somehow, he survived the storm. Broken and bruised, but alive. Eventually, the searing in his chest dulled to a raw ache, constant yet manageable. His lust for his games and nicotine slowly returned and Matt seemed to be himself again after years of wavering on the edge.

Naturally, it was at this point of relative peace that Mello decided to make his grand re-appearance.

To be fair, it wasn't quite Mello's fault. The real criminal was Matt's still finely-bred loyalty to the blonde. But still, it was easier for Matt to blame Mello than to turn the fault onto himself. Maybe they were both fucked royally; Matt really didn't know anymore.

The day had started out fairly safe and oddly normal, a tell-tale sign of danger when one resides in a place like Wammy's House. Matt almost didn't pick up the scent of trouble in time. Now that he was the oldest child in the orphanage, Roger had tasked him with more chores than he could handle and certainly plenty that he didn't care for. Jammed under a desk and covered in dust-bunnies, Matt was tearing angrily at extension cords in the Computer Lab when a pair of Japanese men attracted his attention. Moving quickly and quietly, he made his way to Roger's door and stealthy eavesdropped on the conversation. Despite the fact that the topic was Kira, most of it was of little interest to the gamer. After all, L and all the trappings the title entailed had never been one of his favorite things. That was part of why Mello had always liked him so much: because he didn't care. And Mello always cared. Pushing away the nagging thoughts of his former friend, Matt pressed his ear against the door and tried to focus on their conversation, a task that became much easier once Mello's name was dropped.

For the first time in years, Matt felt sick. A cold sweat made its way down his skin, shivers trembling beneath his flesh. Listening to the blonde's exploits, the hacker felt on the edge of collapse. Gloved fingertips clung desperately to the wall for support, but naturally found none. He felt like he was going to faint. Or retch. Or die. Or all of the above. Swallowing thickly at the sour pulse in his throat, Matt forced himself to listen.

What he heard tore him in half. A slice of him felt fear and certainly revulsion at all the suffering and sins Mello had committed, convincing him that the person he had loved was dead. But then there was his heart, the heart that had always adored Mello despite reason and rationale. Mello had left him, but still the redhead felt loyal to him. It was a stupid but certainly not a fragile connection between them. So Matt made a choice.

Twenty minutes of hacking had earned Matt the phone number of LA's most infamous mob boss. It took twice that time for the lesser criminal to decide exactly what to do with it. He feared that hearing Mello's voice would rip him apart all over again and no one, Matt included, had to time or patience to re-mend him. The desire to risk all that pain for just a drop of pleasure was both sickening and intoxicating and was not something Matt was willing to tamper with. And that was how the text message had come about, simple, yet precise: Japanese Taskforce snooping WH. Watch your back. There was no response, not at first, which didn't surprise Matt. What did surprise him was the "get off your ass and save mine" call that Mello made when the gamer was, as fate would have it, doing business in LA. And Matt had.

Good or bad, right or wrong, like it or not, Mail Jeevas was thoroughly and often times painfully owned by his paramour. That should have bothered Matt. But instead, it actually felt kind of nice, further proving the theory that the children of Wammy's House were in no way normal.

Somehow, in the span of two hours since he presumed Mello had left, Matt had managed to burn through a full pack of Marlboro Lights. The dark living room reeked of cigarettes and the air was filmy with smoke. Mello would be ripshit when he got home--but at least he would be there, Matt reminded himself with a faint smile.

It was indicative of how bizarre their relationship truly was that Matt was actually relived by the sound of Mello slamming the door to their apartment and the bloodthirsty sneer that curved the blonde's lips.

When they found each other again for that first time, that night when Mello had all but died in his redhead's arms, Matt believed everything had changed Mello was stained with blood, both visible on his face and unseen on his hands. He was a tainted monster, killing the angel that had lived in Matt's heart and memories. But the more Matt acquainted himself with his former friend, the more he realized that, fundamentally, he hadn't changed at all.

The fire that had always burned in the blonde's slim chest still remained. Perhaps, bolstered by crime and passion, it had festered and turned outward on its host; the scar was perhaps the most ironic wound God could have ever dreamt up. But, somehow, it hadn't faded; even in Mello's most lifeless hours, it flickered undefeated, like the sluggish ebb and flow of his heart. And now, like a phoenix from his own ashes, a beaten yet breathing man stood before Matt, both a shall of what he was and a memorial of all he could have been. In this moment, Matt had never loved him more, for Mello was perfectly imperfect. For the first time in years, he was Mihael.

Naturally Mihael picked the next moment to begin his rage

"That fucking Near!" He snarled, voice roaring against the walls as his features twisted in disgust. It was like staring into the face of Medusa and just as the legend predicted, Matt was transfixed. So beautiful and yet so horrifying. So strong and yet so fragile. So determined and yet so conflicted. That was Mello's problem--he was everything and all those characteristics brewed a mess of paradoxes and lies. And yet, Matt adored him.

"Welcome home," the gamer replies with a fond smile, setting down the cigarette he had been poised to light. The man un question said nothing, merely piercing Matt with a glare before shrugging off that awful jacket that Matt hated and Mello always wore. Sighing, the hacker caved. "What happened?"

"Everything!" Came the screeched reply.

"Sounds terrible," Matt muttered sarcastically.

Cerulean eyes shot daggers. "That isn't funny."

"Never tried to be."

Mello was temporarily silent before huffing in irritation and continuing his snowflake-induced ranting to his bedroom. Matt stared after him for a moment, before sighing and placing his frozen DS on the coffee table, following behind Mello. Just as he always did.

Heat crept along Matt's neck and flushed his cheeks as he stepped into the master bed. It felt awkward and frightening and exhilarating to be in this setting with Mello once again. Had he truly never entered this room before?

Still cursing to himself in flutters beneath his breath, Mello stripped off his vest, causing Matt to make a surprised but thankfully muffled squeak. Though Matt had never really minded before, the non-established boundaries of their relationship (or whatever the hell they had between them) suddenly felt like a weight pressing down on his chest. He knew that Mello would never discuss it without prompt, since the former mob boss had placed Matt and all his emotional baggage in the void in his mind reserved for unimportant personal nonsense. But Matt, to afraid and desperate for the answer, would hold his tongue. Denial, fear, and secret affection--It had become the trademark dance of their relationship.

Clearing his throat in an attempt to clear his mind, Matt took a breath before asking, "Did Near give you anything useful?"

"It's Near," his cohort replied with a snort. "He always knows something."

"And?"

"And what??"

"What did he tell you?" Matt questioned, tone thick with uncharacteristic frustration.

Mello sighed. "It was more of what I told him." After a pause, he added, "Near know knows everything I've learned about the Death Note. I'm pretty sure he was aware of most of it, but the Shinigami business was brand new."

"Did he believe you?"

"Yeah. Given the situation, it would have been more illogical not to."

"Makes sense," Matt agreed with a nod. Catching a glint of stone-walling in the teal gaze shifting from his own, Matt's own green globes narrowed in suspicion. "What else?"

"The fake rule," Mello admitted.

"What?!" The redhead exclaimed, eyes widening and eyebrows raising in surprise.

"I didn't tell him what the rule was, just that it existed. Though I have no doubts he'll figure it out," he added thoughtfully. With Matt still gaping at him, he frown and explained, "Right now, Near has far more clout than I do; without the Mafia's resources and with my name in the hands of the Taskforce, my moves need to be few and far between. Each one needs to count." Pausing, he continued, "Even though the Taskforce doesn't entirely trust Near--most likely due to the Second L's influence--they'll still be willing to work with him to catch the bastard who killed their chief."

"You?" Matt suggested coolly.

Mello glared at him, arms crossing over his bare chest. "Kira, you asshole," he growled before adding, "Near has more tricks than I could ever even dream of. He'll get what we need."

"So you're going to use him?"

"I'm just returning the favor," he replied, a twinkle of both malice and mischief that Matt recognized even after all this time. And, strangely enough, it was welcome.

A thought occurred to Matt belatedly. "Wait, what does the Second L have to do with this? He's completely useless."

"Actually, he's Kira," the blonde answered flatly.

Bespectacled eyes widened. "For serious?"

Mello nodded, face grave. "Near's theory is that the Second L is really the First Kira."

After a moment, Matt replied, "It would certainly explain why there's been no recent progress in capturing Kira."

"My thoughts exactly."

"What about the Taskforce?"

"Personally, I think they're clean. Kira isn't controlling them with the Death Note; according to the rules, he couldn't stave off their deaths for such a long period of time. And the idea of new members just seems really unlikely. I have no doubts that the Second L AKA Kira is manipulating him, but they probably don't know it. Near thinks so too and he'll probably make a move sometime shortly, something to turn the Taskforce's suspicion towards the 'new L.' And then we'll move from there."

"And until then? We just wait around on our asses?" Truth be told, Matt didn't give a flying fuck about the Kira case; he was content to let L rot, Near win, and Kira take over the world. But then there was Mello. Mello, who seemed to live his life for the sole purpose of being a complication. If it wasn't for Mello, Matt would sit on his ass and do nothing. Today was the first time in too long of a time that Mello had seemed a semblance of his old self--and Matt was determined to keep it alive.

"Of course not," the man in question scoffed. "I have a plan. All we have to do is wait."

"Sounds vague and boring; I'm so excited my eyes are melting in their sockets."

"I warned you about those damn games," Mello replied in his typical arrogant, annoyed tone.

Matt rolled his still fully-functioning eyes. "It was a joke, not an ocular emergency."

The man in black smirked. "Ha-ha." It was then something slim and filmy fluttered from the pocket of Mello's leather hip. Curiously, Matt walked over and plucked it from the floor. What he saw shocked him--quiet literally. A sharp snap of heat and electricity wormed its way into Matt's chest and he sucked in a shuddered breath.

Etched upon the slick paper, weathered from age, was the face that had saved Matt's life and almost ended it years later. A menagerie of silver and gold and the ocean's ice swirled together to compose the face of the young Mello. Grinning with a mix of innocence and brutality, carefully crafted from a lifetime at Wammy's Hell House, his eyes glittered with the fierce passion of both a boy and a man. Though it was almost as far gone as the child himself, that glint still clung to Mello's modern-day visage. Running his thumb over the lines of the photograph's smile, Matt's own lips curved up.

"I almost forgot how adorably insane you were," he commented dryly, eying Mello. A haunted look had claimed the blonde's eyes and Matt reluctantly slid the picture into grasping leather fingers. Before Mello snatched the item away, the hacker caught sight of the curvy letters on the back. Dear Mello, he thought. Near. . .what were you thinking? What do you think? Of Mello? Of Mello?

In seconds, Mello had shredded the remnants of the years passed before taking the cheap plastic lighter hanging limply in Matt's hand. Piece by piece, the blonde lit the fragments, burning himself away until they were nothing more than ashes on the plush white carpet. . .

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The storms had continued through the week and eventually even the mansion fell victim to the hard rains and piercing winds. That night, the electricity shut and their world was plunged into darkness. Still, the children got by; Mello read Freud by candle and Mail's pale face was illuminated in blue shadows by the light of his Gameboy. The toy had been reclaimed and fixed as the blonde looked on with his trademark glare in place. They hadn't spoke since they had nearly beat each other bloody but now Mello was determined to break the silence. Quiet moments made him think and what they stirred up made him antsy.

"You've got a bit of a temper," the blonde commented from his position on the bed across the room, resting his textbook in his lap and making the already-loose spine flex even more.

Mail scoffed. "You're one to talk," the boy said dryly, eyes narrowing slightly. Mello could see them much better now that his trademark goggles lay on the bedside table.

"When pushed."

"Same for me, I guess."

"Yeah, I noticed," Mello muttered sourly.

Frowning as his pixilated avatar met a rather unfortunate death, Mail set the game aside for a moment, staring at his roommate in that critical fashion that always made Mello twitch. "You hit me first."

"'Cause you provoked me."

"And you provoked me first."

Mello gave an sigh of irritation. "Fine, I'm an asshole, all right?"

"I never said that--"

"You didn't have to."

"And I don't think that, either," Mail finished evenly, as if he hadn't been interrupted.

Taken aback, it took Mello a moment to comment. "That's stupid."

Mail gave him a wide grin that made the blonde's heart freeze up slightly. "Yeah, probably," he allowed before adding thoughtfully, "You don't seem all that bad, though."

"Gee, thanks," the boy bit out, scowling.

The redhead frowned. "That wasn't an insult, you know. I don't hate you or anything. I'd actually like you a little, too, if you let me," he added a tad bitterly.

Mello rolled his eyes. "Don't hold your breath on that."

"If I did, I'd be dead by now.

A small, serpentine smirk curled the older boy's lips. "You're really not afraid of me, are you?"

Mail cocked his head the side in wonder. "Nope. Sorry."

Mello shrugged. "Whatever. It's your funeral."

"Somehow, I doubt you'll get me killed," the gamer laughed as he reached for his console once again. "But if you do, just bury me someplace nice."

A rough chuckle escaped Mello's lips as he really saw the boy for the first time. "Done, my friend."

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[A/N: Sweet Jesus, these chapters keep getting longer and longer! I decided to take out all the stuff that happened at the SPK, because it's boring and I didn't feel like writing it xD;; Hopefully you all enjoyed my belated third chapter and are hungry for more. Review, maybe? -puppy dog yes- Ah, also, if you have any questions, comments, etc., feel free to message me =D

Also, brownie points to all of you that noticed the following:

--The fire metaphor, and how his passion both saves and ends Mello's life, along with symbolism of his drive devouring his former and current self (the burning of the picture, which also foreshadows his death at the church).

--The fact that Matt's last POV scene of this chapter ends with the idea of Mello's destruction and the last scene with Mello's POV ends with the idea of Matt's destruction. More foreshadowing, which was actually a very interesting coincidence I happened to spot during the editing process

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If not then. . . Well, I hope you liked it anyways, hehehe.

Until next time amigos! (which could be a while, knowing me -shifty eyes- xD;;)]