Chip:Alright, so for clarification guys--this is a story I'm writing every now and then, in my free time, when I get inspired by some random bit of Deathnote-fangirly-ness. You'll have to forgive me. I know the status says 'complete' but that's just because I don't people asking me for updates all the time. If I write anymore, I promise, I'll post it. I'm a review whore so anything I can get, I'll take. Hmm, once again, the warning. I don't own Deathnote, at all, because if I did--this is how the story would have turned out. Mello, Matt and Near, all together, all sleeping together, all the time. Beware the slash. It's below.

Triptych

Chapter One

Fingers caressing over bare, pale hips. Nails tracing the network of barely-there blue veins showing under skin smoother than porcelain. So much about this boy was like porcelain...

Pale, breakable...

...made from the clay of the Earth and forged under fire...

...and all the more delicate for it.

- - -

The escape from Kira's supporters went flawlessly, without a hitch. None of them mentioned it, but really, there'd never been a doubt that it would work. It was Near's plan and Near was, by far, the strategist between them.

The trip on the secret shuttle to the main underground train in Tokyo was silent and tense, more so out of Mello's general displeasure then any real fear of ambush or capture. The japanese transportation system was famous for its near-perfect time and Near used that; they stepped out of the utility terminal and out onto the main platform, just as the tide of passengers was beginning to flow inward. No one looked them over, not even once. What could be strange about three young men riding the train?

It was too packed and their clothes weren't nearly that outrageous in the main stream populace. No one chanced to glance at them.

From there, it was a short jaunt through crowded streets and cross-walks to the airport. Mello's long legs led the way, his fierce eyes scaring aside jumpier pedestrians who dared step just a second too slow or an inch closer than they should; Matt kept up with his easily, well-used to his manner of parting the sea.

It was Near who caught Matt's attention though, what with his unusual venture into the public. Occasionally, he found himself risking a hurried peek over his shoulder to check on the smallest member of this mismatched squad. Still, he shouldn't have been surprised. Despite his reclusive nature, Near was thin and lithe; he moved through the crowd with mid-range strides and the look of someone who contemplated everything and nothing at once.

The airport was a hive of activity, backdropped by the blur of motion on every side and the soundtrack of roaring engines breaking the air between their blades. Here, despite his natural inclination to lead, Mello faltered. The blonde had taken them from the commercial and domestic terminals to the mouth of the private one, but from there, he could only guess.

Fingers brushed imperceptibly over Matt's ungloved hand, hanging at his side, as Near ghosted by him. There might have been the slightest of a crook to the boy's lips as he stepped in front of Mello smoothly--without hesitation--to take the lead. The snowy genius took three steps and disappeared behind a sudden wall of foot-traffic from some concession stand.

Matt grabbed Mello's forearm and tucked the seething blonde along after him.

It took another five minutes to reach the furthest gate in the terminal, one that was nearly empty, but for the tall stewardess standing by the rope. Near approached her immediately, his hands in his pockets to fish out a few papers.

The stewardess smiled kindly, took the papers and went to the computer behind the desk-station. She typed rapidly, glancing at the papers casually.

Mello was startled to realize that it was Linder under all that navy-blue cotton and polyester. The chignon she pulled her hair into looked rather severe and completely altered her appearance.

Matt leaned in, casually, to whisper in Mello's ear. "Isn't that...the chick he's got on his staff?"

Mello blinked once, "Yea."

The red-head nodded, "You've got history." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Matt knew how Mello got his initial intel on Near; he was fine with it. He shrugged one shoulder, shifting the material of his shirt, "She's pretty enough."

"And a mean-spirited woman, at the core." Near was suddenly at their side again, though how he moved so quickly and so silently was beyond either of his associates. He gave them a sly crook of the lips, "But that's what makes her particularly good at her job."

"Oh, and what job is that? Whoredom?" Mello asked, non-too-quietly as they were beckoned forward by the disguised agent. She held the velvet rope away to make a path. Mello sneered at her briefly--and as such, completely missed the half-smile on Near's lips.

Linder's eyes cut toward Mello like the lethal edges of a dagger coated in phosphorous-green flames. She said nothing, though, and Near made no move to intercede between the two blondes.

Mello smirked, victorious, as they slipped down the walkway and onto the tarmac.

The roar of engines from the other end of the airport was slightly lessened here, but for how long that respite would last, Matt couldn't say. He walked a half-step behind Mello, his hand pushing at the other man's lower-back every so often.

Matty had sensitive ears, don't ya know?

The twin-engine jet was sleek and silver, marked by the commercial logo of Near's biggest front company. A fashion mogul. Who'd of thought it of this brat?

Of course, his name was only on the paper-work and on the checks, and it was all pseudonyms anyway. No one was ever going to link the successor "N" to Nathaniel Le-Bleux, the President of L-Ucrative Fashions.

Matt had laughed when he hacked his way through the encryptions to find that tidbit; he laughed again now, under his breath. In jeans and an untucked-botton-down, Near was anything but fashionable.

They were on the plane in a moment, the interior unremarkable in its theme of white, gray and navy blue. The seats looked comfortable though, and were. Mello threw himself down into the first one he saw--too close to the front wall but next to a window.

Matt stood, looking Near over as the boy paused in the doorway to wait for--in theory--Linder, the stewardess.

"You have a private jet and a clear lane. You must have a flight-plan as well." Matt raised an eyebrow, "That's a loose end, ya know."

Near nodded, "It is indeed, except that it is not." A shrug of thin shoulders, "Forged flight-plans and a certain system of cloaking will be employed. We won't be followed, nor will it be possible to track us at a later date."

"Ah," the red-head said, understanding. "Fakes all around, then?"

"Indeed."

"Well done, brat."

Near bowed his head, imperceptibly.

"Fuck Matt," Mello growled, "Could you be anymore of a kiss-ass? Just come over here and sit the fuck down, already. Leave the twerp to his shit, 'kay?" He was slumped in his seat, his leather-clad legs thrown wide with one boot planted on the floor and the other on the wall.

Matt's eyes slid heatedly over those long legs and the juncture between them.

Mello's face heated, but he didn't look away.

Near might have rolled his eyes as Matt sauntered away.

"Oh, honestly," the youngest said under his breath.

But he didn't complain any louder. Linder the Stewardess--and, incidentally, the Captain of this vessel--appeared a moment later, two flight-plans in hand. She nodded at Near, eyes forward, and then disappeared into the control cabin, shutting the door behind her.

Near took his seat as well, several aisles to the rear of the plane, with empty space all around him. He sat in his usual fashion, with one leg raised to rest on the edge of his seat, the other hanging free. The fingers of one hand curled in his hair; the other hand rested in his lap, directly over the zipper of his uncomfortable denim pants.

The plane took off not fifteen minutes later, guided by Linder's skillful control.

Near nodded off, waiting.

- - -

"Fuck...Matt..." The moan came out on a ragged growl as Mello arched his back off the comfort of the seat and into a near perfect bend; his head thrown back brought his gaze to the light console above his head, but the blackness pressing down on the edges of his vision took away the banal and made it extrasensory.

There was tingling in his head, not enough air in his lungs and Matt's hot mouth all around his cock.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" He panted, barely hearing Matt's chuckle--rather, he felt it, as a pleasant vibration. He clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the sides of his seat. Breath puffed between his lips as he fought to keep a top on it. He risked a glance downward, loving how hot Matt looked on his knees.

Matt laughed again, at Mello's expression no doubt. The vibrations stole down the blonde's length and made him hiss.

"Fuck Matty--do that again. Now."

Matt's lips tipped high like the Cheshire Cat's and he spent the next ten minutes humming the British national anthem around Mello's twitching, swollen member. It was almost taboo, except they didn't give a damn about that.

On the last bar, Mello's entire body went rigid, his back arching higher than before and his hips thrusting powerfully into Matt's waiting mouth.

And like a cat with his cream, Matt drank it all down with that same be-damned smirk.

- - -

It took ten minutes--or less, who knows--for Mello to recover his rational thought process. He came to looking at the light console and taking deep, dragging breaths. His hair was sticking to his slightly dampened skin in some places and his pants were unbuttoned and unzipped, his flaccid penis lying against his thigh.

Matt was seated next to his, one leg crossed over the other's knee and a cigarette burning between his fingers in blatant defiance of the red-lit sign overhead.

"I love watching you go soft, Mel." He took a drag on his cigarette. "It just says, 'Job Well-Done, Matty-boy'." He blew smoke through his pursed lips, watching Mello the whole time with those fuck-you-anywhere eyes. "It's damn gratifying."

Mello didn't say anything, just keep watching Matt smoke his cigarette. There was always something so sexual about it; just watching Matt smoke made Mello crave that mouth on his cock again. The way those perfect lips closed over the filter-end mimicked the smooth-sweet way they slipped over the head of Mello's ...

Matt's fingers broke air between them, startling Mello with the snap. "What the hell," he grumbled, "I was looking at you."

"Yea, you were looking Mel...like you wanted to eat me." Matt gave him a sly smile, "But, if you recall, it's my month to be on top, thanks." He shook his head a bit, "Don't think just because we've got little tag-along-Teddy over there that you're off the hook." He laughed a bit under his breath.

Mello fixed his pants, slipping himself back inside neatly and refastening the buttons and zipper. "Yea, yea...keep laughing, you prick."

Matt's eyes went dark with fire, "You didn't seem to mind my laughing a bit ago, sweetheart."

A pause.

"I'm going to sleep now, asshole. Go bother the shrimp and leave me be." Mello rolled onto his side, facing the window and plating both feet against the wall in front of him. He closed his eyes deliberately to distract from the sunshine flowing like water over the clouds outside the window.

Matt touched the skin of his lower back where his vest rode up. "Sleep tight, Mel-love." He traced a little circle there, across the warm flesh--then rose to go away.

Just at the edge of ear-shot and the verge of passing out, Mello said, "Love you."

Matt grinned, "Ditto, beautiful."

Mello faded out of consciousness with a smile.

- - -

Near rarely dreamed--but when he did, they came in only two varieties. They expressed tendencies that accompanied the boy in his waking state, but which were never given attention nor credence.

There were dreams over toys, and of playing with toys. Of stacking blocks for the sheer hell of it, not because he needed a clever visual aid to explain a strategy to his agents. He never dreamed of strategy; he was in need of no such forethought.

He dreamed of dealing cards with unknown friends and of rolling dice across a card-board playing field, littered with shiny metal figurines. He imagined that, perhaps one day, he might convince someone to play a game with him.

A natural, non-leathal sort of affair, yes?

Those dreams--of toys and games--they were easily understood and put aside. They were facets of the boy that Near could not be--would never be--because he would not allow such a thing. He had no time for games for their own sake; no playmates to while-away the hours between one globally-important case and the next. Frankly, he was sure that he didn't need playmates, nor companions.

But he was human on the inside, sometimes, and he dreamed as such, on occasion.

The other type of dream was not so easy to dismiss, partly because it was more realistic--more a re-lived fantasy on repeat--than the toy dreams. These dreams were of companionship and hot, hot, heat. Of feeling sensations and giving in to certain temptations--desires, bodily wants--that had always plagued him.

Plagued him, but rarely ever conquered him.

But there were times.

Six years ago, he gave in. To Mello, in closets and under staircases; in the blonde's darkened bedroom and in the bushes of the ever-green Wammy-grounds. On the floor of the playroom, surrounded by the ruins of the block-tower they destroyed when Mello tackled him.

Their interactions were hot and about the bodily need; about the undeniable, but annoying desire they felt to rip into one another, hands and teeth first. To rend and plunge. For Mello, it was to bury himself inside Near until the boy hissed at him. For Near, it was to make Mello beg for the pleasure of his service; to make him crave his tongue and his touch.

It wasn't very pretty and it wasn't very kind, but it was sex and that was how they learned it, in the beginning.

Until Matt.

Ah, Matt...

There, on the plane--Near dreamed that second type of dream...

...and dreamed of Matt.

- - -

He hated jeans. Hated the stiff denim chafing against his thighs and the unyielding seams that restricted his every movement. Jeans were nothing like his softer draw-strings. God, he wanted them off.

Long fingers tugged knowingly at the waist band of the damned pants, nails tapping against the copper button and scratching at the zipper. He angled his hips up, offering the offending clothing up for the shredding. He wanted them ripped off, to have nothing left but tatters.

Those hands skimmed over his hips as they tugged the slightly-too-big jeans downward a bit, all with Near's encouragement. The boy bit his lip and shut his eyes. The torture of wearing the denim was excruciating, reeking hell and havoc all over Near's tactilely oversensitive body.

A breath puff across his face, warm and cinnamon-scented. The hands and fingers which were stripping him of the evil clothing inch by inch suddenly dipped lower to rub whirls in the hollows of his hip bones in a way that made his back arch. He gave a whispered cry, because only two people knew how he liked it...

The calloused fingers gave way to an impression and there was suddenly an image of burgundy hair and blue-green eyes. Of a smile and lips he drank of, tasting gray smoke like a small waterfall.

Matt...

"Near..."

- - -

Lashes fluttered upward over blue-silver eyes, though the fog of slumber had yet to clear properly. Still, the sensation was familiar, however long-unfelt. A pair of warm hands slipping low over his hips, thumbs rubbing into the dips there; a slick, hot tongue tracing the curve of his outer ear and the scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the air around him.

"Matt..." he whispered.

"Ah, Near," came the soft reply, syllables brushing directly over his cheekbones as Matt pressed a half-kiss there. "How have you been, punk?"

A breath skittered between the smaller boys lips, "As expected..." He rolled his head across the seat, turning his eyes toward the wall and away from the sight of Matt. "Has Mello bored you so thoroughly already?"

There's a chuckle--warm and hot at once--in his ear. "Hm, no, of course not. He's asleep. We were having a pleasant conversation before that, though. See?"

Near made the mistake and fell for the oldest trick in their long history--he looked back and Matt captured his lips under his own hungrily, forcing his way inside with that clever tongue and his fingers pressing around Near's jaw. The red-head made a sound that was distinctly pleasurable, reminding them both of what exactly they'd lost over the years.

On Matt's tongue, in his kiss, there's the taste and scent of his particular brand of cigarettes; of smoke and something different; of salt and numbness. A taste Near hadn't had on his own tongue in such a very long time, even longer than...

He pulled away, staring up into Matt's devious eyes with his ice-water gaze.

"That, Matthew, was uncalled for."

Matt's lips crooked upward in a smile, "Don't pretend you don't miss his taste, kid; you miss it almost as much as you miss mine." His fingers pressed into the side of Near's jaw still, massaging idly. "Of course, the way I think of it, you probably have to miss mine more since you usually didn't have to bleed for the privilege."

Lips too young to look so cruel tilted, "There's naught wrong with a little blood-letting, every now and then."

Matt's laughter was quiet, smooth like smoke. "Fuck, I'd forgotten what a twisted little pervert you are, Near. I think I'm gonna like reacquainting myself to the habit."

A single, pale eyebrow arched against a paler forehead, "Oh? The assumption that you'll be given the chance to 'reacquaint' yourself appears unfounded."

This time, Matt pulled all the way back, standing now in the aisle beside Near's seat. The curvature of his lips was calculatedly arrogant.

"We'll see, punk. I'm always three steps ahead and you're always one ahead of that, so don't try to fool me into thinking you haven't got some grand master plan behind all of this."

Near's face did not change expression at all, "As I've said before, Matthew--you overestimate my own devious nature. I'm fairly sure I am not possessed of one at all, actually."

"Sure, sure, kid. Who ya trying to convince?" And with that, the red-head turned and sauntered away.

Behind him, Near's lips curved upward and his eyes flittered down toward the floor; one hand rose to curl in his hair as the other wrapped around his own ankle, holding himself still in that fashion.

And despite whatever he might have said, the smirk he wore was distinctly devious.