#growing pp

Now, sitting at a small table, a long queue stood before him with people holding hardback copies of his first novel to their chest in anticipation. He had written it under the letter M, but his publishers had managed to miss the memorandum that Mihael requested anonymity due to the nature of his identity, and it was excitedly disclosed that the new book taking the world by storm was written by none other than a former Wammy’s boy. It was too good of an opportunity to avoid capitalising on, and thus followed lengthy reviews in various broadsheets about how the narrative would have most certainly been informed by the trauma inflicted on a young Keehl. The reader can sense the lingering pain of the author’s tragedy through his protagonist, and it serves as a harrowing reminder of how we as a society must take responsibility for our gifted youths.

Wammy’s House closed down in 2003, after a lengthy legal battle between social services and Interpol over the actual necessity for an L successor, at risk of harming the wellbeing of the children who resided at the orphanage. After the courts ruled that the House’s practices were technically abusive, all fourteen boys and girls were quickly relocated into foster care homes across the country. It was believed at the time that many of these prodigies had been so isolated from one another within the House that there was no real concern in separating them from one another – for the most part, many were young enough to forget their aliases and grow up into well-adjusted members of society as anticipated, the pressure of successorship a burden they were no longer required to withstand.

Many, but certainly not all.

As one of the oldest, Mihael struggled to hear himself being referred to by his real name, spoken by strangers in suits who would smile widely and slowly explain to him that he would be placed in a home with many new friends waiting to meet him. Even at the time, he had little expectation that moving from one house full of orphans to another would provide any respite, other than the fact that he lost his sense of purpose almost immediately. His whole identity revolved around the need to fight for his position as L's successor, and at a time in which the detective had yet to choose between himself and Near, having his singular ambition torn away from him by people who simply didn’t understand the culture at the House broke him. He dropped out of the local state school at sixteen soon after completing his exams. Despite his results being ridiculously good, a promising future in academia often projected by his teachers, he had no interest in pursuing further education. What was the point? There was no goal anymore, his life’s purpose was completely unfulfilled.

It was only a matter of months before he had found himself caught up in gangs, selling drugs and adopting the habit of carrying a blade whenever he stalked the streets at night. During those years Mihael – or Mello, as chose to reclaim – took solace in the few quiet moments he was afforded to write in a scrappy notebook that he had managed to hold on to from Wammy’s. It was nothing special, a throwaway birthday present from a friend who he still thought about too often, but upon being caught by police for the fourth time, it was taken away from him. Without it, he had nothing left from that time in his life, and despite everything he had gone through as a child, such a thought that he could lose that part of himself sent him into a panic.

“Your writing is brilliant.” His court appointed lawyer had told him as he flicked through the pages in front of the eighteen year old, “You’re wasting yourself with all this shit, you know? Practically begging for Kira to catch up with you, is that really what you want?” He sighed, passing the notebook back to Mello who snatched it eagerly, “Listen. I’ll get you in touch with a friend I know on the condition that you stay out of trouble, got it? I know you’ve been through a fair amount of crap in your life, but it really isn't an excuse to have become involved with the people you consider acquaintances now.”

Apprehensive at first, Mello did not understand what motivation someone might have to offer such an incentive. Perhaps the publicity surrounding the Wammy’s House scandal had given those in positions of authority an unfounded obligation of charitability to extend towards these traumatised orphans. Mello was smart enough to know he ought to take an opportunity when it presented itself, as undeserved as it might be.

Within a matter of a year, he had his work published to unprecedented success.

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“Name?” Two hours had passed already and Mihael had given up with the facade of smiling at every person who emerged in front of him, ready to gush about his book, or ask questions that he had either answered several hundred times in interviews and panels. Sometimes, they were too invasive about his “terrible past”. Was he abused, beaten up, sexually assaulted? Did they torture children who failed exams? Did he meet L, and was he as evil as the tabloids made him out to be? His face ached as he scribbled ‘M’ over and over again, until the letter resembled little more to him than a wonky line of no distinct meaning or connection to himself. He kept his head lowered as another fresh copy of his book slid across the table towards him. He opened the front cover, and his pen hovered above the title page.

“Matt.”

No way. Matt was such a common name that when Mihael looked up, he expected a stranger to be staring back at him with a dopey smile and a remark about how the book really affected him. Instead, a lanky red haired teenager wearing a replica of the striped shirt he was so fond of as a child grinned, a slight colour tinting his cheeks.

“Found you, Mello.”

“Fuck, Matt… Wait, give me a moment.” Mihael scrambled up from his chair, alerting his manager who quickly appeared by his side, “I need a break – ten minutes?”

“Mihael, you still have a couple of hundred people waiting.”

“I can see that, Andrew, I need ten minutes and I will be back, okay?” In another world, he would have enjoyed the ability to order people around in such a manner, but such opportunities were rare to him in this line of work. Regardless, Andrew sighed and began telling those who had congregated to please wait for author Mihael Keehl to take a quick break. Yes, he will be more than excited to continue signing books once he has returned which, as a reminder, must be purchased from the tills over there.

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“You’re becoming quite the celebrity, aren’t you, Mihael?” Matt teased gently as he lit up a cigarette. They had managed to find a small space just behind the back of the bookstore, where Mihael silently inspected every slight change his childhood best friend had undergone in the past five years. He was taller, of course, and the manner in which he spoke was significantly more relaxed, deeper than it had been the last time they spoke. Yet he still retained the familiarity of a boy who Mihael still said a prayer for every once in a while. “I’m surprised. I expected that you would lay low. No judgement – the book is really good.”

“You read it?”

“Of course I did. I was going to buy it anyway because I wanted that fucking sexy author’s photo they published on the sleeve, but yeah, I actually read it as well. Was it inspired by the House then?”

Mihael folded his arms across his chest and averted his gaze towards his feet. There was something surreal about meeting Matt again like this. He was happy to see him, no question about it, but there was a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite shift. With Matt came memories unfolding and spilling out that he had subconsciously repressed, feelings of inadequacy and anxiety, but so too surfaced the reminders of comfort that Matt had provided in those moments.

“I suppose so.”

A silence descended between the two as Matt took a long drag, smoke unfurling from between his lips. Was this a new habit of his, or had he picked it up soon after the two were separated? Mihael had experimented with all sorts of things to try and block the feeling of perpetual emptiness in those first few months after the move, only progressing onto the harder stuff as he grew older, more weary of the world around him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Matt developing the same bad habits. Mihael looked up.

“What do you do now, anyway?”

“Nothing exciting – IT consultancy. A few big companies like the idea of having a Wammy’s kid on their rota, but none of it is exactly complex stuff. I get my kicks from doing other shit.” Mihael was not about to interrogate Matt about what he meant by that, but he could imagine the redhead getting bored easily with something so goddamn corporate. It felt like it went against everything the two had grown up anticipating for themselves.

As if reading his mind, Matt continued, “I miss the House, in a weird way. I think while I was reading your book, I realised that, as fucked up as it was, there was a structure to it, you know? We were there for a reason.”

Mihael nodded, “Yeah, we were.”

“I missed you.”

“Same, Matt.”

It felt so natural to be back in one another’s arms again, clinging on as the world compressed to nothing but the heat and smell of each other. Mihael wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever, to make up for the lost years by exploring Matt, examining the man he had developed into so that he could adapt himself to his body once again. He kissed Matt’s neck and felt his hand rub his back in response. I’m here now.

“Mihael! We need you back now!”

“I’ll see you later, Mello, okay?” Matt gently eased himself out of the other’s grip, smiling at him, “You still need to sign my book after all. I paid a good fifteen quid for the hardback copy.”

Mihael smiled – hearing himself being called Mello felt right, even if he could never truly go back to being that boy again. He brushed his fingers through Matt’s hair, away from his goggles, and slipped through the side door back into the bookstore. He could manage a few more hours of this, he told himself.

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Matt had been moved to a small foster home in Northern Ireland, and had only settled down in London within the past year. His flat was rather large, to Mihael’s surprise, but when Matt disclosed how much money he earned from his legitimate endeavours alone, Mihael understood how he could afford living somewhere a little more spacious. It was probably just as well given how much shit he had managed to hoard.

“Make yourself at home.” Matt began busying himself with cleaning away loose wires and crisp packets hurriedly, taking Mihael back in time to their shared room at the House. He was not overly tidy himself, but kept his possessions relatively organised compared to Matt, whose clothes and consoles always had a habit of encroaching on his space anyway. At the time, he would moan about it, tossing Matt’s striped shirts back at him when he would stroll into the room. Now he was in the midst of the mess once again, Mihael suddenly did feel at home in a sense that he had not experienced for quite some time. He threw himself down on the sofa, a loud crinkling sound alerting him that the space was already occupied.

“Since when do you read newspapers?” He asked jokingly, pulling the page from beneath him. He glanced over it, and smiled, “Don’t tell me you’re fucking clipping my reviews, idiot.”

“Give me that.” Matt seized it away from him, “Well I have to frame it now that it's got Keehl’s arseprint on it, don’t I? How much would that go for on eBay?”

Mihael laughed and Matt sat down beside him, his hand tentatively resting on the other’s thigh. A small intimacy Mihael leant into. He had developed a strong disdain towards people touching him, tensing up as prospective foster parents would try to embrace him, knowing he would only be rejected yet again, or forcing himself to shake hands with men in suits who saw his writing as nothing more than a nice bonus to their massive bank balances. It was the punches, the slaps, that were Mihael’s only real opportunity to be touched in a manner he considered more genuine, from those who threatened him over drug deals and gang loyalty. Matt reminded him that people could want to place their hands on him gently, to make him feel good.

“I knew I’d find you again, eventually,” Matt said, “I was worried you wouldn't want anything to do with me, I don’t know. You were always destined for some kind of greatness, and I admired that about you.”

Mihael shook his head, “Don’t be ridiculous, Matt. You were on my mind every day, I wouldn’t have got to where I am now without you.” He tilted his face, angled just shy of Matt’s lips, “You have always been home to me.”

They kissed with the softness that lovesick teenagers engage in with one another for the first time. Mihael gently pushed Matt back sprawled atop of him while their hands ran across each other’s chests. As if there was still an inherent fear that they would be torn apart again, they traced each other to commit their features to memory. In another life, maybe their anxieties of separation would be valid, the early deaths of Wammy’s boys forever a haunting persistence in the back of their minds. Now, however, there was an experimental promise of stability. A life together that could be pursued. Whatever the headlines had made them out to be, abused prodigies whose collective trauma of their childhood would define them, they had the chance to defy it. They were a testament to their own survival.

“Call me Mello, again.”

“Mello?”

“Yeah.”

Matt hummed behind a wide smile. He cupped the blonde’s face between his hands, admiring those gorgeous blue eyes that now appeared alight with genuine promise of something better. A life worth living. They owed it to themselves to make the most of the future that presented itself to them, trusting in their ability to navigate it together. They had managed to get this far already.