Rating: T
Warnings: Character death and tiny mentions of gore. Oh, and much hinting of things to the point of it being rather obvious. ;P
Disclaimer: I assure you, random lawyer surfing the web for copyright infringement, that this fan fiction is in no way intended to violate anyone's license. The works this story is derived from remain the sole property of their respective owners.

Seraphinus

The temper that burned inside the boy was no secret thing.

It rose from deep down in his chest, clawing its way up his rib cage, and projected through chilling eyes as the inferno set the gears of his brilliant mind to work.

(Father Above…)

As a young boy at the orphanage, his temper had earned him quite the reputation. The other orphaned geniuses avoided him, afraid to add fuel to his ever-burning fire; Roger bemoaned his disposition, declaring the youth and the entirety of his constitution to be the bane of his existence; and Matt…

Matt, his only companion, merely met his pyre with calm waves of indifference.

Needless to say, this never failed to quell his flames – if only for a moment – as curiosity made his fingers twitch and bottom lip quiver; brought on by that odd look in his friend's deep blue eyes that he could never seem to place.

A silent question would hang in the air, neither one sure who would dare to ask it.

(I have a question to ask you…)

As the years went by, and the children ran head first into the brick wall of adolescence, the blond's temper had seemed to worsen. Testosterone coursed through the veins in a body that once had felt so familiar, turning him into a hurricane of frustration and misplaced anger without the courtesy of reason.

Each test score that lacked the one percentile needed to surpass his rival, every careless comment made by an ignorant girl, and the frequent looks from his redheaded roommate that he could never seem to decipher despite all the sleep lost upon pondering them – always ended in a hole in the wall, or cracked goggle lenses, or ugly bruises smattered across too porcelain skin as that eternally blank gaze burned into him from under snow white locks.

No matter what he did, however, it was inevitable that these incidences also ended in a trip to the caretaker's office.

It was when he was nearly fifteen, barely a shadow of the man he was to become, that the news of his idol's death threatened to snuff out his flame.

(Is heaven real?)

White puzzle pieces scattered on the floor, the ticking of the clock, and obsidian eyes burning into his back. He hadn't chosen – and he left without a single word of warning to Matt.

The world was harsh – but Mello learned quickly to be meaner. Tongue running suggestively across teeth and leather stretched across falsely feminine hips; the threat of danger glinting in his eyes was a promise meant to be kept.

(I promise to be good…)

Each and every unsavoury thought he had had in his youth was played out. No injustice was beneath him, and the crime bosses standing in the way of his goal were only insignificant pawns made to be tipped over. The underworld was his playground; deep bass lines and back allies reminiscent of the pendulum swing of a blood red rosary and the distant scent of smoke.

(Mother Mary…)

Flashes of memories of his old life plagued his sleep and danced behind every sharp look he sent his underlings. The end was speeding towards him with each second, further beckoned on by the tap of a button and the supernova that followed.

His nerves were ignited with pain with every movement, his surroundings reduced to a desolate wasteland of ash and crackling flame as Hell raged on all around him, and in desperation he had called upon the only soul that had dared to look into his eyes and see the person beneath the façade.

There was never any doubt; Matt had broken every traffic law to be there within fifteen minutes.

(Keep him safe…)

Mello couldn't help the laugh that had escaped his lips as he saw his friend standing above him in the gutted out warehouse, fuzzy vest and striped shirt still present, and looking no different from the day he had left him. The fact that Matt had gotten there so quickly asserted the blond's assumptions that his friend had indeed tagged along just as in the old days.

The car ride back to the redhead's apartment was slow with Matt doing his best to drive carefully now that he had a passenger. Light from street lamps reflected off the surface of orange lenses and gloved fingers tensed around the wheel as hums and giggles drifted from the backseat, singing siren songs of fate and lapping at his blood as if it were wine.

(I've done my best…)

The recovery time was a hellish, feverish dream accented by peeled wallpaper and the occasional creak of couch springs. Matt was no doctor – forcing pain killers down his throat at regular intervals throughout the day and picking the pieces of charred leather out of his wounds with tweezers.

Mello was not conscious for the things Matt would whisper to him in the night; innocent promises that the redhead would make sure would come true if he would just get better.

(God knows I've tried… Dear Mello;)

Promises that would never be kept as months later they died in a hail of bullets and the chaos of a burning church.

It was ironic that Mello would understand what those glances from so long ago had meant only as he watched the corpse of his best friend lying on the pavement, blood streaked across his lifeless features through the grainy images shown on a small television set.

(While you burn, I will bleed…)

What had they died for in the end?

It had been a race; a contest with his oldest rival. He would see Near at the finish line, Kira's head in his hand – and demons tacked to the soles of his feet.

Mortality caught up with him that day.

(And if I die before I wake…)

For all his fire, the rain that fell the night Matt died was enough to put out his flames as if they had never burned in the first place.

(Please know that my soul is yours to keep.)