#maildt

Mello looked out the window. He’d been sitting still in this chair for too long. When he was finally allowed to get up, the instructor pulled him aside as the others left. He didn’t really listen to what was said. Something about staying on track with the class, paying attention when his peers were contributing, making an effort to volunteer and ask questions. It was a deafening ring in his ears. It was stupid.

Really stupid because everyone knew he didn’t need to. The boy was like a sponge. He only needed to learn about a new topic once; he would remember it. He didn’t need to keep reviewing like all the others. He found no point in contributing to the lessons, as he could conceptualize scenarios and find the answers to his questions on his own or in his text. He noticed listening was of more use than speaking, and to be quite honest, it was more fun anyway. He spent much of class time listening to the rises and falls in the voices of the others, paying careful mind to their eye movement and body language. He tried to come up with his own answers for why the people around him acted in the way they did. Everyone here was really strange—some stranger than others.

He supposed everyone thought he was the strange one, but he couldn’t see the fulfillment in the things they did or talked about. He liked to read and he liked to play sports sometimes, but mostly he liked to problem-solve, whether that be equations or people.

He should have been in calculus solving real equations now coincidentally. Instead he was out of the building, a little ways across the courtyard, and seated on a frosty tree branch. The helicopter security staff had yet to locate this refuge like they had his others, so until that time, a few times a week he would come here for a breath. He was a newly-turned fourteen year old, but even as a child he felt suffocated.

          Mello throws Matt’s words back at him, and they’re drenched in venom despite the lowness of his voice.

          He’s already frustrated with himself beyond goddamn belief. It’s not often—if ever— that Mello doesn’t accomplish something he sets out to do. In fact, he can’t remember the last time that it happened. Yes, of course this was due to circumstances out of his control, but that’d never suffice for Mello. Excuses don’t suffice. He doesn’t make them. So, he takes full responsibility for the shortcoming.

          And Matt dares to rub that in his face. He wonders if Matt’s just trying to get a rise out of him, or if he’s out for blood. There’s just... Something about the way that Matt says it rubs Mello way fucking wrong. He doesn’t find it cute. At all.

          Whatever it is Matt’s looking for, he’s going to get it, and then some.

          Tick.

          Mello’s a bomb.

          The extent of his anger isn’t shown in his demeanor. He looks irritated, sure, but is that any different from how he always looks? The fire flickering to life in his gut right now has the potential to become much deadlier than mere irritation. His hand is resting at his hip, where his pistol is strapped. It was there before Matt spoke.

          “Think that over one more time. Then, say it again, if you want.”

“But Mello!”

“Don’t waste your breath!”

Roger didn’t. No one did, not even as one of their own walked out the doors for the final time and disappeared into darkness. Um, hello? Child protective services much? Since when was fourteen years old an acceptable time to start “living my own life?”

Wammy’s House: the orphanage, the institution, the asylum. It cranked out little monsters, but perhaps if one of those monsters could escape early, he would be okay. Alternate tried. He wasn’t. But Mello wasn’t Alternate. Mello was, well, Mello.

So clearly, he wouldn’t be okay either.

The first month was the hardest. He had nothing. Not a home, nor family, nor money. The boy had never truly felt like an orphan until then. Countless times he found himself locked in public bathrooms in tears, wanting out. Eventually, the gaps between breakdowns grew wider and wider, and Mello found himself gradually building a wall, day by day, brick by brick. Each individual brick was made of pride, and the mortar used to hold them together was purpose. His construct would have been seamless, if he hadn’t built it in sand. Rage is not a stable foundation.

Still, his castle hadn’t fallen yet, and he was a king.

Blood, sweat, and tears were all it took to put himself at the front of the Mafia—well, those amongst other things. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was afraid the first time he held a gun. Afraid the first time he shot someone. Afraid the first time he was in a room with a bunch of men older and bigger than him. He was afraid the first time he had sex, and maybe a little afraid the next few times after that too. He tried some drugs and those scared him. He didn’t like to get drunk, and whenever he was the focus of a shootout, he felt a bit of a rush. That was a good thing.

Mello liked the rush. He loved it, really. It turned his fear into his strength. With a hit of adrenaline and coke, there was nothing he couldn’t do. Although the details of what lead up to his encounter with Rod Ross are insignificant, know that the boy-to-man-grown-up-too-fast had to accomplish a great deal of despicable deeds to earn the mountain of a man’s respect. As a certain God of Mischief would say, his ledger is gushing red.  

His passport says twenty-four, but little did anyone know that an eighteen year old was at the head of the Mafia. It was the natural choice. Other than the good guys (if you can really call L, Near, and his group of blind monkeys that), who else wanted Kira dead? Together with the bad guys, Mello had an army.

Did that make him the bad guy?

Duh.

He coughed. He has a bloody nose and sinus infection from all the dust in this place. “Damn,” his voice rasped, pulling a tissue out of his pocket to wipe up the blood and throw it on the ground like a world-class champion. The sooner they can get out of here, the better.

These days, it’s weapons deal after weapons deal, and it always ends with someone else’s blood dried up under his fingernails. Disgusting. Taking another wet tissue, our blond princess wiped his hands clean and gently shoved his gloves back on each perfectly-manicured hand, one by one. His ego was inflated now.

He looked up from behind his men and grinned as he observed his plan approaching fruition. Whatever gold mine of a trade agreement they had just struck with a subset of the Syrian Military Council was enough to get his men the power they wanted, in addition to the support of an old enemy. It was a ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ type of situation. Look at that, Kira. Criminals all over the world working together because they want you dead. How touching.

That goal, however, disguised his real reasons for coming here. Unfortunately and in case the following information is somehow unbeknownst to you, though it is albeit the most obvious information in possibility the entire universe, Mello is a little bitch.

Meaning that he is a liar, and the one thing he does not yet have is insurance. Though he may have his own army, pissing off people all over the world and some even in his own vicinity casts a bit of a death warrant on his head, and that isn’t even including the man, the myth, the legend: Kira. He couldn’t even begin to keep track of all the people that would love to have his sexy-ass head on a stick in their living room. Although, maybe those people should just stick to the normal ways of assassination and stop binge-watching Game of Thrones.

Nonetheless, he needs insurance. Mello talks a lot of shit about wanting to be the best and not letting anyone get in his way, but none of his Mafia associates are actually aware of what that entails. Surely, if they were to see how truly childish his desires were, and what’s more, the predicted outcome of what he is trying to achieve, his own army might even turn around and strike him down. Not to mention, he knows they will try to strike him down when Mello finally betrays every single one of them once he’s gotten everything he wanted. That is something that will not do, but let them try.

Mello makes perfect plans. They’re flawless, and he won’t account for things spinning out of turn, which is a problem. No good detective needs a back-up plan, do they? Near certainly doesn’t have one. L didn’t, but that is why Mello and Near were dragged into this situation in the first place. L was supposed to find Kira and execute him, but he got killed, and L didn’t prepare for that. The one fucking job that so-called genius detective had was to pick a successor and he couldn’t even fucking do that. Just how competent was he then? That institution had kids literally killing themselves over the push to be the next L. Mello might as well have done the same fucking thing. God, it infuriated him just thinking about it, but he couldn’t have that, because it shook his castle.

So then, L, is this enough? Have I proved myself yet? By seeking help and having a backup plan in case things go wrong, am I capable yet?!

Mello grit his teeth, staring out the darkened window of the car that was taking his team to their hotel. He noticed that one of the other guys was staring at him before quickly looking away when Mello met eye contact. Damn, he needed to swallow down his anger. 

When the car stopped and everyone departed, Mello collected himself and retired to his room. It wasn’t until late that night that he made a run for it, fully disguised in a completely inconspicuous (cue the eyeroll) feathery black coat in the heat of Syrian summer. He was sweating. It was hot as balls. But he needs someone to trust. Someone who knows the depth of his will and will aid him in the fight, at least, to take down Kira. No one saw him though. He knew they wouldn’t because he knew these men all too well and what they would be doing right about now. Alcohol, drugs, and orgies. Fun, fun, fun in the Syrian sun!

His nose was starting to bleed again. He was high on coke, but hell, he needed the energy for what he was about to do. Swearing to himself, he took a rolled up cotton swab and stuck it in his nose like the little kid in Wammy’s school that always has a nose bleed. Super attractive male right there. Wet with sweat and what looks like a tampon hanging out of his nose. And he probably smells great too.

But he supposed Matt was that kid. He used to get nosebleeds a lot from what Mello could remember. The two were never very close but Mello considered him tolerable. Maybe Matt felt stronger about him though, because Mello was a pretty self-centered child. He didn’t tell anyone other than Roger and Near that he was leaving before he vanished. He supposed that Matt was the closest thing he had to a friend back then, but then again, he didn’t really consider anyone to be his friend. Though perhaps he was just playing the role of the victim. The child arrived at Wammy’s when he was very young, and he was always a tantrum-y child, excelling at playing up the “poor me I’m second” card.

Good memories were sparse, but he did have some with Matt. The other made him laugh a few times. They shared a few classes, especially the high-level ones, because Matt was supposed to be a successor too. It was clear he didn’t want it though. Mello never understood how Matt could be so carefree in that environment. The kid would rant about the government and anarchy, and Mello thought it was all bullshit. How could the world run peacefully without government?  Impossible, he thought, but Mello was all black and white. It was like Matt was

Grey.

There was always a part of Mello that was wary of Matt. He was thankful the other never applied himself as much as Mello did, but he knew that if he had, then there was a good chance that Mello wouldn’t have been in the running to be L in the first place. But then again, maybe not. How smart could he really be if he believed all the shit he would spew in their political science classes? To Mello, he seemed backwards.

That was alright though. If he was still the same person as he remembered, then the Mafioso was sure that he would be down to pursue Kira—or in other words, be his backup plan. And even if he wasn’t, Mello was ready to persuade him by any means necessary. Surely the boy could live with a missing finger or toe. Who knows! Whatever it may be, he surely wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Also, he didn’t really have any other choices.

As disgusting as ever, the pile of sweat and clogged nostrils carried on through the night. He managed hail down a taxi that would take him to his hopefully-correct destination, his Arabic wasn’t perfect though so it was a bit of a hassle. If his sources were correct, and they always were, then Matt was exactly where he always said he’d be. Now, it was just a matter of tracking him down and getting him alone to reveal his grand-ole plan like a stereotypical villain in a superhero movie. Would that make Matt the hero?

After about a two hour ride, the car slowed down as it pulled up to a nightclub. It was hidden, behind what appeared to be a store selling ceramics and other craft-work. Mello had conned someone earlier that week into giving him the proper knock and password so that when he was questioned, he could spit some Kurdish sentence out with ease. It was quite funny actually. He sold off one of his own men’s oxycodone for the intelligence, and then accused the same man of deceitful drug trade in exchange for the exact same information. Both men involved are dead.

The best way to tie your loose ends is to just cut them off.