Note: We're back!!! Dlvvanzor and me first thought we would end the fic before posting it, but since it's going to be longer than expected, here we go!
You will get a chapter per day, each chapter is from one POV, so one day it will be Mello, the next will be Matt, and so on.
And as usual, Matt is written by Dlvvanzor and Mello is written by xxbeyondxbirthdayxx.
Yeah, it was supposed to be called 'Dante's Inferno', but in the end, it didn't fit the fic at all, so we changed the title!
Oh, and Dlvvanzor says 'hi'! XD
Mello:
I regained my senses as the car slid along a wet dark road. The flight from Berlin to London happened in a daze and I didn't even process it until now, realising I couldn't even remember if my seat was window or row, or even how long it had lasted. How did I get to the airport at first?
It didn't matter, nothing mattered anymore. My parents were in all my thoughts, and the rest was just absurd. Absurd car driving from London to whatever absurd place I would have to go on with my absurd life, when all I wanted was to be with my parents: deep down under freshly digged ground, between wooden planks.
I wasn't even allowed to attend their burial. Too dangerous for me. Denying me this important part of the mourning process, I read that in a psychology book, and had tried to use that fact for them to let me be present that day. But more than being present the day they would start rotting, I wanted to have a chance to be taken as a target. I was the son of the biggest Mafia mob in Germany, and I had all powers, except the one to die.
I couldn't kill myself. It was forbidden, in my religion, I mean. I didn't want to disappoint my parents, dead or not, or God. Not that wanting to be taken as a target wasn't related to suicide, I guess it was all the same, but maybe I could trick God in this?
I'm thinking too much. Even now, even in this situation, I can't stop my brain from working. Genius, huh? What for? I used to work hard to be the best because I had someone to be proud of me. And now what? Be proud of myself, alone? Too bad, I'm someone craving attention and care. And I wouldn't get any of those anymore.
My parents loved me, raised me well, made me respect them and God. But that's parental unconditional love, so I guess it was normal for them to love their son. It wasn't that easy for people not related with me by blood to appreciate me. Some would lick my shoes because of my position as a Mafia heir, some would despise me because I looked nothing like my strong and impressive father, rather like my fragile and delicate mother. Natural born fag. That's how they called me in my back. I heard them, but never showed I did. It's not like if a ten years old kid could stand for himself face to a handful of bodybuilt thugs. I could beat them at any mind game, but I was physically as strong as a twig.
I took a look at the man driving. His hair was grey, badly cut, and I could see his face in the rear-view mirror, marked by years, emotionless. Roger. I remembered the man introducing himself as he picked me up at the airport. And the name of the place where we were heading: Wammy's.
He almost pulled me out of the car as we arrived and I took too much time to his liking to pull myself together. Home for gifted children.
What a beautiful way to call an orphanage breeding geniuses to be the next L, as Mr Wammy explained to me a while later in his office. Old man, old face, old mahogany desk... everything seemed old and set in stone here. Schedules, ranks, classes, and the aim set for every child here. Being a detective. I've never wanted to be one.
I wanted to be a novelist, I just wanted to use words, turn them into sentences that would mean something. Taking all these thoughts out of my mind and create a world out of them. My father used to say that my mother was telling me too many fairytales and that she was turning me into a princess instead of a knight. He began, one day, to bring me comics like Spiderman, Dare Devil, Ghost Rider... It was just stupid comics to me, who would believe in such supernatural powers? The only one that appealed to me was Ghost Rider, I thought that the bike and the leather were cool, but that was about all.
But even if my father would have liked me to be stronger, taller, more masculine, he loved me and accepted me. That got him and my mother killed by an aspiring mob, because my father had made it clear I would replace him one day, and part of the mob refused to be led by a fag-looking boss.
I stayed silent as Mr Wammy explained to me once again why I was here and what I was expected to do. He gave me a new name, or rather nickname, which I hated immediately. I stood up when he dismissed me, and followed Roger to what would be my room. As much as my brain was working, my mouth stayed shut. Even if I had wanted, I couldn't utter a word. The lump in my throat was so thick that I would have broken down and cried on the first syllable.
Roger shoved me in a bedroom upstairs, barely introduced me to my room mate who didn't even take his eyes off what he was doing at the moment, and left me there. I almost cried as the other boy ignored me, and I quickly unpacked to focus my mind on something else before the tears that were threatening to fall passed the corner of my eyes. I then grabbed a chocolate bar, the only thing that could calm my nerves, and ate it standing next to the window.
The dinner bell rang an hour later. The boy, Matt, which was probably not his real name although it sounded more like a normal name than mine, stood up, and left his game reluctantly. "Mello, are you coming?" he asked me.
I was surprised that he had registered my name when he seemed totally oblivious of my and Roger's presence a little earlier, but I didn't reply and ignored him just like he did before. "Ok, as you wish." Matt left the room, leaving me alone.
Now that I was alone, I could finally grab my rosary, that I was itching to hold in my hands since I had arrived there.
This was the only thing I had been allowed to keep from my previous life, this little necklace and cross that my mother had offered me on my 5th birthday, when I had been old enough to understand the concept of God.
The rain was pouring outside, and as the night fell on Wammy's gardens, slowly erasing the shape of leafless trees and bushes from my sight, I began reciting the Pater Noster in my native tongue, rather than in latin like the priest of the religion classes I attended to in Berlin always wanted us to do. In the language I heard first in the morning as my father said hello to me with his beautiful smile, and last before going to bed, when my mother would tell me a story and kiss me goodnight.
"Vater unser, der Du bist in dem Himmel geheiligt werde Dein Name, Dein Reich komme, Dein Wille geschehe wie im Himmel so auf Erden..."