Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mello can feel his hand shaking against the armrest of the chair. His breath is hitched, and his heart is racing, adrenaline coursing through his veins with his foot tapping rapidly against the enclosed carpeted foot space.

Mello doesn’t like turbulence. He doesn’t like planes, as a matter of fact. He hates the way the plane shakes, how the lights sometimes flicker, and how he must remain seated despite his need to get up and walk around the private cabin to calm his nerves. He doesn’t like how the stale food sits in his stomach after a fourteen-hour flight, or how his mind is still set in Tokyo time but his physical being is nearly in Boston, Massachusetts. He wishes he could sleep, but knowing that he’s so up high and that anything could happen (despite the slim chance of anything happening) keeps him awake and fueled. He’s been awake for nearly the entire seventeen hours it’s taken to get here.

The thing is, Mello knows that turbulence is normal. Pilots fly in it every day. They know how to handle nearly any given situation while in the air. Plus, these pilots are the highest class possible, hired by Near specifically for Mello to relieve him of his anxieties. He did so seeing that perhaps Mello would be able to trust them to get him to his location safely, without worrying.

How wrong he was.

Strapped into his comfortable leather seat, he braces for the next round of turbulence. The wind pockets have been acting this way for nearly ten minutes, bouncing the plane and making it shake to no end. He tries to look outside, but the darkness that engulfs the sky makes him feel dizzy, with nausea building up in his stomach.

The plane rattles its metal shell once more, and Mello gasps, clutching onto the rosary that hangs from his neck, rolling the crystal beads in between his fingers.

It’s fine, I’m fine, we’re not far, Mello thinks to himself. “I’m fine, it’s fine, there’s no reason for you to be like this.”

He leans back into his chair and strokes the beads. He shuts his eyes and lets his hand wander down the long chain to the carved metal Jesus Christ that stands out on a cross, crucified; the cold metal warms quickly underneath his touch, but in the meantime, it’s refreshing.

“Attention,” one of the pilots says, “We’ll be landing in Boston in less than ten minutes. Please remain seated until we have pulled into the gate. In the meantime, the weather is comfortable down there, with a temperature of forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, with a mostly clear sky.”

Mello breathes out a sigh of relief.

He’s flown plenty of times for Near before, but every flight is similar to this. It begins with a drowsy feeling of waking up in the morning and ends with him whispering prayers into his rosary, shaking with fear and panic. He’s hyperaware of every noise around him, every feeling, even his sight is heightened to an extent where his vision goes blurry trying to focus on something. Nausea will build, but he’s only ever vomited once while on a plane, and that was when he had been through a storm and thought for sure the plane would not make it.

So far, the nausea has subsided. His heartbeat is slowing down, his muscles relaxing with weakness. Heat drifts through his body in relief.

Every single time.

Although, on the good side of things, Mello is in the City on a Hill, with busy people and clubs galore, with its separate sections of Italians and Irishmen. It’s a place he likes to be, stationed along the harbor with the city lights glaring against the salty ocean. It brings about a nostalgic feeling, even though he’s only been to the bright city a handful of times.

“All clear for landing.”

Mello turns his slackened form towards the window again. He sees the Bunker Hill bridge next to TD Garden, cars travelling down the spread out highway, traffic coming in from Saugus and out through Quincy. Lights line the harbor magnificently, shining down and reflecting off of the deep pool of ocean.

It’s breathtaking.

The plane jerks forward onto its landing gear, and Mello braces himself for impact. It slows as it rolls further down the runway, pulling into one of the private gates at BOS. The engines begin to calm, the whirring of the blades on the wings coming to a stop. The ding of the button light tells Mello that it’s time to finally get off of the plane.

The first thing he does is check his phone, which has been charging nearly the entire flight. The time reads two thirty in the morning. He turns off airplane mode to find that he’s received a few texts from Near about the case and a missed alarm for something that he had forgotten to write in the description. He assumes it was just to notify him of how much longer of the flight was left.

With a sigh of exasperation, the blonde unbuckles the lap belt and stands up, stretching his long and slender body from its slouched position. His legs had fallen asleep, and he stumbles out of his seat ungracefully into the center of the cabin. He rubs at his tired eyes. The lights are bright in the nicely furnished cabin, yet show how tired he really is, the purple bags under his eyes betraying his pride of still being awake.

He grabs his backpack from the seat that was across from him and throws it on his back, his entire body clad in black. His hair is mussed from the endless tossing of attempted sleep and slouching.

He walks out of the plane, thanking the pilots briefly on his way out into the airport. It’s stuffy and warm and not bustling as it would be during the day, yet there are still people waiting at certain gates for early flights. He feels the phone in his pocket vibrate.

Near.

With a groan, Mello unlocks the phone and answers. “Yeah?”

“Oh, good. You made it.”

“Haha. It’d be a slight problem if I hadn’t.”

“I think it’d be more on a major scale,” Near says seriously. “How was the flight?”

Mello sighs. “Just the same as it always is. Long. Smoother than last time, I suppose.”

Near makes a noise of affirmation on the other end of the line. “I’m assuming turbulence still affects you?”

Mello takes a moment to step onto the moving escalator to go down to the baggage claim. “As much as I hate to admit it, yes. I would honestly rather take a boat than a plane.”

“Boats are more likely to sink, you know.” Near contributes. “At least on a plane you won’t feel anything if it goes down.”

He takes a quick step off of the escalator stairs and continues walking into the direction of where his suitcases should be. “I suppose that’s true.”

“Hmm. Anyways, did you get a chance to look at what I sent you?”

“Near, you called me as soon as I left the gate.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then.”

Mello can feel himself growing annoyed, and fairly quickly.

“Well, it doesn’t look like my baggage will be here anytime soon, care to explain what you sent me?”

He hears the sound of papers shuffling around the other teen, who’s making a small humming noise as he attempts to find the papers. Speaker phone. “Ah. I sent you a photo of the most recently collected piece of evidence, a hair found at the scene and another riddle. Care to hear it?”

Mello slyly grins into the phone. “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“’When is a man drowned, but is still not wet?’”

This causes Mello to pause for a moment. “Shit.”

“What?” Near asks inquisitively.

“These riddles are just- “

“Morbid?”

“Yeah.”

He can practically hear Near shrugging on the other side of the line. “In any case, we have to solve it. From what it appears, the murders are simply occurring more and more frequently; with less time between them, the less time we have to solve the riddles and get to the next victim.”

“This makes four now.” Mello affirms.

“Indeed. Moving on from the case, I have your hotel reservations and a car waiting for you. If you’d like there’s also an apartment owned under L’s name downtown, if you’d prefer that.”

“I’m all set with a hotel, but thanks anyways.”

“You’re welcome. I’m going to figure out this riddle. I’ll send you more information when the time comes. Stand by.”

There’s a final click of the phone, and the call ends.

The case they’ve been working on has been ongoing for the last two weeks. It’s a string of murders with a completely unknown suspect, and only purposely left evidence to lead them to the next murder. These include riddles, which Mello has connected to how the victims die.

While morbid, Mello can still unfortunately say he’s seen worse than the photos that are on the case. The photos that are printed out are sitting in a folder in his backpack in case he needed to look over them at any time on the plane.

Snapped out of thought, Mello hears his alias called out to the desk next to the baggage claim, where his suitcases reside, black and hard shelled so nothing would get damaged. A quick thank you said, he takes the two bags that are his, knowing that all of his other resources will be shipped to him at the hotel room later today.

He walks outside and to the blacked out Lexus, where someone is waiting to drive him.

Someone who’s not Wammy.

The man takes his bags and places them in the trunk as Mello steps into the car, clad in black leather. Near really knows how to work around his tastes. Then again, it’s the two of them splitting L’s budget, so they have to share what is owned and what they need to buy.

The drive only takes about ten minutes, considering the time and there not being any traffic and where the hotel is. Near messages him a final time in the car to tell him his details for check in at the hotel. It’s called the Boston Harbor hotel, and after looking it up, Mello finds that this place is also quite nice, especially its rooms and its views.

To think he was once a grimy little kid living on the streets, now attending to some of the hardest criminal cases on the earth in complete luxury.

It’s weird to believe that he hit such a low and ran away to join the mafia. All because he once found that trying to work with someone as his equal was his downfall. While it still stings his pride, even the smallest bits of it, he can still say that he’s somewhat proud of working with Near now, even if he never wanted to. He wanted to beat the little shit. He wanted nothing to do with the white haired boy who would sit in the corner, his ego large enough to par Mello’s own. But, as he looks out the window into the darkened sky, he realizes that he was stupid. He could never be L, nor could Near. Near would make the same mistakes, but Mello would make others, because of who he is. They would both fail as independents.

Even if Mello wanted to be on his own to be a detective on his own, he still would not succeed. And lately, he’s been thinking. He’s been thinking about how he and Near were groomed to be these perfect little successors, with IQs higher than Albert Einstein. All that mattered were stupid letter grades, and all that did was make the pressure of succeeding harder. That orphanage was for prodigies, but to Near and him, it was all for L. Every class, every grade, their entire lives have led up to the present. To be the next L.

But they’re not L.

He wonders what they would be doing had it not been for their shitty childhoods. He’s extremely unsure about Near, and where he would be. Perhaps he’d be something of a professor.

The thought of it makes a small laugh come from the back of his throat.

 He wouldn’t mind being an author. While it’s stupid, he also wouldn’t mind modelling. He’s starting to mature, and he’s practically twenty-two now. He wants to explore what the world has to offer for him, besides what he’s already gone through. He’s only two decades through his life and he’s somehow already become, a detective, an ex-mafia leader, and a criminal. He’s killed, has almost been killed, has known killers. He’s found killers. He’s stopped murders from happening and has been the cause of a few. He’s been beaten and has beaten. He’s been abandoned, and has abandoned before. His years on this planet have tainted him as a person. He’s no saint, and the weight of his sins drag behind him like metal chains, the rosary he bears on his neck a symbol of who he was to be; it’s impossible to be pure on this earth.

The car begins to pull into the parking of the hotel. Mello can see the moon peering out, a glimpse of the waning crescent shining down into the city below. The blonde stretches out his muscles before opening the door and walking out and into the lobby, and straight to the check in desk.

“Welcome to the Boston Harbor Hotel, are you checking in?” The woman at the front desk-Leanne, her nametag reads-says to him.

“Yes, I have a reservation for Ell Sato?”

“Ell Sato…ah, yes, here it is.” The woman stands up and locates the key card for the room.

Mello realizes how out of place he must look, compared to the grandeur lobby in a golden color and marble that surrounds him. He looks disgruntled, the hair in the back of his head a knotted mess, his black clothes wrinkled from sitting for so long, with the only neatness that can be seen is the rosary that he grasps out of habit.

“Here’s your key. You have the admiral suite, and there is no check out date, would you like to set one?”

Mello shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

The woman collects herself and sits back down on the chair. “Alright then, I just need your card.”

Digging into his pocket, he finds his beat up wallet and takes out a credit card given to him from Near, placing it onto the desk.

“Your accent is very thick, it’s quite nice for a change. Where are you from?” She asks him, swiping the card through the system and handing him a keypad for the pin.

“Ah, Russia, originally. I’ve moved a lot though.” He says. It’s half true, he supposes.

“Oh, that’s interesting. I grew up in Braintree, which is about twenty minutes from here. Anyways, here’s your card back. Enjoy your stay.”

“Right, thanks.” Retrieving his card, he slides it carelessly back into one of the pockets of his jeans and keeps the key card in his hand. He takes the elevator all the way up to the room, and walks down the hall, where only a few rooms are.

He finds the room that he will be staying in, the title on the outside of the door clearly saying “The Admiral Suite.” As he walks in, he notices it’s very spacious. The walls are blue and the curtains are still wide open for him to see the harbor in the living space. He even finds that there’s a balcony behind one of the lounge chairs in the back of the room where he walks in.

Deciding to skip the view for now, he walks quickly to the back of the room and to the left, where the bedroom is. There’s a king sized bed with large windows that face the balcony. The room is light and cream colored, and his things have already arrived into the room, tucked neatly into the corner. He checks the time on his phone, which reads three-oh-one.

The first thing he unpacks is the photos of the victims.

The killings started two weeks ago, on October twelfth. There have been four total murders, all occurring according to a riddle written on what appears to be a slip of Chinese fortune paper. The riddles have everything-lucky numbers, how to say a word in mandarin, and the riddle, rather than the fortune, typed on the other side. The ink is in red and the font is Times New Roman. The riddles lead to the next victim. It seems like a relatively ‘normal’ serial case for Near and Mello.

Except, it’s not.

Ever since the first murder, there has not been a single leading clue for the murder. Even if they had a suspect, even if they knew who was doing the killings, they would still need evidence, and this person isn’t providing anything except for what’s purposely placed there. So far they’ve collected a shoe with initials carved into the worn leather, a book with all but two pages ripped out, a wallet featuring six dollars and nothing more inside, and according to Near, a hair. The killer also carves roman numerals into the foreheads of the victims, which come in series of twos, and translate into a code. A form of communication.

Mello’s informally named the case the Rip Off of LABB, but Near simply calls it the Boston Riddler; the two of them still manage to lack creativity, unfortunately.

Mello looks over the photos. He reads over the case files. The most recent murder’s crime scene is still set up, and he has a warrant that will let him onto the scene.

He decides he will do that tomorrow.

Yawning with the might of a lion, he lies his head down on the comforter to rest his eyes.

No more than five minutes later, and the blonde is drooling on the blanket with the light still on and the photos underneath him.

Chapter Text

Mello finds himself stirring to the sound of his cell phone ringing loudly beside his head, the faint glow of the screen visible through his closed eyelids.

Grogginess fills his body as he becomes more alert. He feels like he’s barely even slept. He would love nothing more but to ignore the distressing ringing in his ear, to simply shut the phone off and roll over, to go back to sleep.

It could be important. It could be about the case.

Grumbling, the blonde fumbles for his phone and forces his eyelids to look at the brightly lit screen. He can barely make out the contact name ‘Near,’ and begrudgingly, he answers the call.

“Chto?” He asks, accidentally slipping into his native tongue.

“You’re awake.” The voice on the other end bluntly states in English.

“Only because you called. What do you want?”

“If you could try enunciating your words so I could hear you, that would be the first thing.” Near remarks.

“Poshel na khuy.” Mello retorts harshly.

There’s something of a noise - a laugh, perhaps? - that comes from the phone. “I’m all set, thanks.”

Mello lets a deep breath of air exit through his nose to calm his annoyance. He didn’t think it was possible to be annoyed this close to waking up. “I’m being serious, Near.” He tries again.

“As am I.”

“Now you’re just pissing me off. Get to the point of this call already.”

“You can hack into databases, right?”

Mello is hesitant to answer. “I’m not the best-”

“But you can?”

Mello sits up from his stomach, the blood flowing quickly to his head and causing spotty vision and dizziness for a brief moment. “If you’d let me finish, I’m not the best, I can only get through basic security levels and the like. Where do you need to hack into?”

“Boston Police Department,” Near replies casually.

This causes suspicion to arise in Mello. The police department? “Why?”

“According to the case reports that they most recently updated, there was footage caught at the last murder that showed someone at the scene. Completing the placement of the entire thing.”

Already, something sounds off about this evidence. This criminal has avoided being caught for three murders, and it doesn’t seem like these are going to end soon; the fact that even the police won’t allow examination of the evidence leads Mello to think that the police think they can get to him sooner than they can. No, something sounds completely and utterly off about this entire situation, considering the complexity of the murders and the purposeful lack of evidence at the scenes. Not even fingerprints on the individual's belongings were found. Why, all of a sudden, would the criminal, with his intricacy, pull something as careless as this?

It was intended.

“That…there’s no way.”

“I feel the same. I think it’s an attention caller, I think the criminal knows that we’re after him.”

Mello stands up from the bed and walks over to the window, where darkness still stands, but a faint glimpse of the sun can be seen crossing the horizon. “I was starting to get the same feeling. He meant to do this, to try and see if we’re really paying attention. Even so, do the police really think they can reach him quicker than us? They were the ones to call for help, and now they’re simply going to battle us.”

“It’s ridiculous. Anyway, I need it.”

He hesitates to reply. “Near, trust me, I know that you need the footage, and I need it as well to look at, but it’s not one of my skills.”

“Alright then, what about Matt?”

Mello nearly drops the phone.

“What about Matt?”

“We can ask him.” Near says.

“Near, what the hell are you talking about? I thought he was completely out of reach. The last time I heard from him was a year ago…I’m not even sure he’s alive, I could never find him after that day.”

There’s a silence. A cognizance.

“Don’t even fucking tell me. He’s been working with us this entire time.” Mello states.

“Yes, well, at least the SPK.” Answers Near.

“Give me his location.” He says hastily.

“Sixty-two Boylston Street.”

Quickly, Mello pulls the phone away from his ear and turns it onto speaker phone, typing in the address into his search engine. “It’s too far away to walk, the railway would be easier.”

“You’d have to walk down to State Street Station and take the orange line all the way down to Chinatown, and then continue down Boylston. It’s in an apartment building.” Near tells him quickly.

“Isn’t it a bit early for this?”

“No. I need it now. In fact, I could have used it a day ago. The station should be open by the time you get there.”

Mello makes a noise of confirmation. “Right then, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll tell him a member is coming to visit him soon.” Before Mello can say anything else, he hears a click.

Energy plagues his jet-lagged body as he moves about the lit room, which he never bothered to turn off from previous hours before. He never even checked the time, in fact, which is just about five a.m.-at least, that’s what the digital clock says on the nightstand. As gross as he may feel, this is more important.

He digs into his backpack and finds a stick of deodorant and grabs his toothbrush. He uses whatever is in the bathroom for toothpaste, and scrubs furiously at the white pearls set in his mouth; he combs through his tangled hair with his fingers.

Finally, he takes the coat laying down on the bed, and starts to head out the door.

-

The walk down to the station is quiet. There are few cars on the streets, and the moon is still out, with the pinks of the sun starting to take over the sky more and more as the time passes by.

By the time Mello is sitting on the train underground, the time is five twenty-eight, and the line has just arrived. The line will take about three minutes total, with two stops inbound to Chinatown.

He feels scared. Terrified. He doesn’t know what Matt will think, or how he’ll react. He’s nervous to see Matt, because he thought he was dead.

It was obvious he wasn’t.

After that day, he was positive that he’d never see Matt again. He thought that somehow, the two of them were going to die, not that either of them wanted to. It was going to happen in due course, after all. Eventually, the two were going to die, regardless of whether or not they wanted to. It’s just the way life plays out.

Mello was simply expecting it sooner than later.

Mello had had this suspicion that Matt was still alive before. Perhaps that’s the one thing that is making him nervous-the fact that he is aware that he didn’t bother to look for Matt at all. Not hours after, not days after, not even after the Kira case had officially ended. He never bothered looking, never bothered searching for his friend.

He went by judgement, not fact. His care had completely turned away from him.

It’s like a turning feeling in his stomach, the closer he gets. As the train cart speeds on, he can only help but wonder what’s happened.

For once, in a long while, Mello is actually scared of the possible outcome. He is unable to predict Matt’s reaction, given the sudden behavior of Mello. He doesn’t know if he wants to confront Matt at all.

I don’t really have a choice.

The train’s wheels suddenly brake at the approaching Chinatown station, nearly tossing him out of his seat. The train comes to a complete stop, and people begin to pile in, and rush out. It’s getting to be rush hour now, with everyone trying to get to their work, and soon traffic will be backed up, trains will be overfilled, and all of the coffee shops will be completely flooded with businessmen who just need their cup of java to start them off for the day.

Mello rushes out of the station. He walks down the narrow corridor that leads to the stairwell above ground, swiping the card along the machine so he can go through the moving gate. He walks above ground to find that dawn still continues to break, and Boylston lies to the far right of him at the intersection, which is practically behind him.

He sees a Dunkin Donuts. He notices the street name changes to Essex as it continues forward, and that the street is a one way. He calculates that the walk should only take him about four minutes or so. He walks along the empty sidewalk, and passes a pharmacy. He walks across a break, that leads into a small alleyway. He can see yet another Dunkin Donuts across an intersection, right next to the apartment building.

He rushes across the street to get to the other side, where the large brown and red corner building sits. His eyes, tired as they are, do not expose his racing heart, his fidgety behavior, his hurried thoughts.

 Mello finally reaches the apartment complex, which is lit brightly inside. He walks in and up a set of stairs, up to a small board on the painted white drywall.

He’d have to be using an alias.

He pulls out his phone quickly to see if there is any message from Near. Fortunately, there is a text from him, with a simply number on it.

302.

Mello rushes to get to the end of the hall, where he assumes there are a set of stairs. He reaches the end, and looks to the left. Nothing, really, except for a laundry room and an ice machine at the end. He looks to the right, and finds a door that leads to a stairwell.

He starts up to the third floor. He takes two steps at a time, trying his hardest to scale the steps as fast as he possibly can. It feels like weeks just trying to get up all of the stairs, and by the time he reaches the top, he’s practically out of breath.

Apprehension settles in the pit of his stomach. What if Matt doesn’t even want to see him? He wouldn’t put it against him, honestly. If anything, Mello deserves to be hated, to never be seen again by Matt after all those years without seeing him, including the previous year.

His feet can’t seem to move as he leans against the wall.

It doesn’t make a difference if he wants to see me or not. It’s not as though I’m going because I want to. I have to go. I have to get that footage for Near and I, and he’s the only one who can do it properly. I have no choice but to face him.

It was only a matter of time anyways,

Slowly, Mello begins to open the metal door to the hall, and slink down the carpeted and quiet corridor. 310. 308. 306. 304.

302 is at the end.

With as much intrepidity as he can muster, he takes a deep breath, and raps at the door with his knuckles.

He taps his foot against the floor patiently.

He can hear faint footsteps from the other side of the door, and feels his heart speed up again.

The door opens, revealing a half asleep brunette with tired, grey eyes and a t-shirt and boxers on.

They stare at each other. It’s all they can do.

“Hey.”

Suddenly, Mello feels a warmth around him, the weight of another being on him as Matt wraps his arms around his neck. He’s shocked at the fact. A ball begins to form at the bottom of his throat, threatening to escape as a cry into the thin air between them, and he wraps his own arms around the shorter figure, embracing him with all of his might.

A wetness begins to form on his shirt from where Matt is resting his head. Tears.

He’s crying.

And, abruptly, Mello can feel his own tears pinprick his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. Not now, not even in a vulnerable moment such as this would he let his dignity fall.

“Mello.”

Matt pulls away from him slowly, staring up into Mello’s blue eyes, shining with the teardrops that fail to fall.

He watches as his face contorts with varying emotions, flashing from gladness to anger to pure confusion.

There’s a sudden sensation of stinging that spreads up the left side of his cheek, the sound of skin colliding with skin echoing within the empty hallway.

“Where the hell have you been?” Matt shouts.

I was not expecting that.

Mello struggles to form words in his mouth. “I’ve-I’m-”

“Just-fuck. Just come inside.” Matt manages to sputter out, practically dragging the blonde inside of the apartment.

Rather than the cream colored walls that adorn the hallway, the walls inside are pure white. He walks in to a small area where there is a variety of shoes and two coats hanging on the wall. To his left, there is a bathroom, and directly ahead, a conventional sized kitchen. In an odd position that leads off of the entrance to the kitchen, there is another door, which Mello can see is a bedroom, and to the right, there is a hallway and a closet. The entire apartment smells of static guard, cigarettes, and oddly of mints.

It smells like Matt.

The door shuts behind him, startling him out of his observations. Matt walks in front of him, flicking on the light for the foyer area.

“You’re the agent Near sent?”

Mello nods. “Yeah, sorry for the inconvenience.”

Matt scoffs. “It’s not an inconvenience. It’s just…not what I was expecting.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t what I was expecting to have to do.”

There’s a beat.

“I thought you didn’t want to work with Near.” Matt states.

“We actually work alright as a team.”

Matt acknowledges his response, yet he still looks bewildered. “Okay then. Sorry, I’m being an ass, but I thought you were dead. I thought you were dead this entire time, and all of a sudden you just show up, and you’re working with Near. It’s a fucking joke, honestly.”

“This isn’t what I’m here for.” Mello remarks. “I need your help.”

Matt laughs. It makes his stomach turn. “Of course you do. We don’t have the time to talk about this anyways. Follow me.”

He’s pissed, Mello thinks.

There are two couches in the room, one against the wall closest to them, and another that sits against the next wall. A row of windows lines the wall farthest from them, and a fireplace sits in the corner of the room. A coffee table with a mug on it stands in the center of the room, a laptop sitting on the surface of it.

“So I’m assuming Near needs me to hack into something.”

“Yes.” Mello answers. “The police aren’t giving us footage from one of the scenes. Apparently they’ve reported it to us, but we’re not allowed to look at it. It’s stupid. They were the ones who sent the case to L because it was too hard, but now they want to do it on their own.”

Matt snorts. “That’s just dumb, honestly. Anyways, where was it at?” He asks, walking over to the coffee table and picking up his laptop.

“The most recent one occurred over by the aquarium.” Mello says.

“Okay, and the police have the footage?”

“Yes. We need to break into the police files and extract the information.”

“Got it.” Matt confirms, and starts up his laptop. Mello walks over to where Matt has sat down, and sits beside him to look at the screen.

“So, what’s going on? What’s the case?”

“There’s been a string of murders. So far there have been four, and we don’t think the killer is going to stop anytime soon. All of the victims are being found outside of bars, and they all have some form of extraneous evidence, and a riddle, which we’ve come to the conclusion that the answer leads to the next form of how the victim is going to die. They look like those little slips of paper you get in a fortune cookie.” He explains. “So far we’ve found a wallet without any ID, a hair, a book with nearly every page torn out of it, and a shoe.”

“Huh. Perplexing. No fingerprints then?”

“Nothing direct to lead to a suspect, anyways. The riddles also have the same concept of a fortune cookie-you know, the ‘learn mandarin’ thing and the lucky numbers at the bottom.”

“Do you think the numbers mean something? It could be a numerical method,” Matt suggests.

“We’ve tried to standardize the coding into the forms that we know, but so far it’s simply unreadable.” Mello says. “Especially since there is not any form of a number nine in the mix, which leaves out the letters ‘r’ and ‘i’. English doesn’t work, and it’s not the Abjad system either, considering the numbers aren't in Arabic.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s odd. The mandarin seems to be a countdown. The first murder started at the number eight and has only gone down with each murder.”

“Weird. Okay, I’ve pulled up the website, so I need to hack into…”

“Hack into their computers. Case file is one-seven-three-seven-four-nine-eight.” He recites.

“Right.”

Matt begins to furiously type on his laptop, opening a website and creating a fake email. He opens another tab and goes onto the department website, looking for a contact email address.

“Fuck. Do you have the email?”

“You can get in using any, they all lead to a department, and they all share the same database.”

“Right.” Matt starts to write an email in the compose section, typing in a link he’s seemed to memorize, and a small message saying that there are reports of an attack on a certain website that are going to happen in Chinatown. He sends the message, and opens another private window.

“We’re going to have to wait for them to click on the link. My IP is already blocked from their view, and the website is mine, so it’ll notify me when the link it clicked so I can hack work through their firewall and access one of their computers.”

“Okay then, how long will it take?”

A noise comes from the computer.

“Apparently, not long.” Matt begins to work on breaking down the wall, and Mello watches with interest as he tries to locate the point of access in which he can get in.

“Right…there.” Matt clicks on the point and begins to type in the code.

 At this point, Mello leans back onto the couch, and its cushions engulf him in warmth. It makes him begin to feel drowsy, and his eyes slowly begin to close, sending the blonde into a hazy sleep.

Chapter Text

“Hey.”

Mello opens his eyes for the second time today, waking from his light doze. The sun shows bright through the windows, making the white-walled room glow brightly. His clothing feels wrinkled and disgustingly warm underneath him, having not changed in nearly two days now. He notices Matt standing above him, dressed in a worn black t-shirt and jeans.

He sits up from his crease in the couch, yawning and stretching his tight and hurting muscles. The smell of bacon and toast invades his nostrils as he becomes more aware of the apartment around him. Tired eyes attempt to adjust to his surroundings, but his body still feels as though it needs more sleep, from jet lag.

“I figured I’d let you sleep, since you look like death.” Matt says.

“What time is it?” Mello asks, his voice groggy and throat stinging with dryness.

“Like one, but it’s fine.”

“One? That’s it?”

Matt nods. “Go ahead and continue sleeping, if you want to. I don’t mind. Just don’t drool.”

Mello rolls his eyes. “It’s fine. I really didn’t even mean to fall asleep.”

Matt walks to the edge of the couch and sits down next to the blonde. “I got that video for you, by the way. It’s pretty sketchy.”

“Great. It’d be helpful if I could see it, you know.”

Matt lets out a small laugh. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll pull it up for you.” He leans his slender frame over to reach the laptop placed on the coffee table, its charger plugged in to the side of it. He opens the screen and types in his password in a fluid motion, enters his files, and clicks on a video.

There’s a time marker in the corner of the screen, marking the date and exact time at which the event occurred. It looks like there’s nothing happening at first to Mello, who observes the screen with great concentration.

It just looks like an empty sidewalk.

Indeed, it does. Pitch black in the dark, the pavement glows orange underneath the street lamp, with nothing being seen at all from just a glance. A movement, however, catches his eye in the distance.

A person, dressed in a black sweatshirt too big, brings a bag down the road, where the camera cuts off.

The person-thin in form from what Mello can see-opens the bag and dumps out a broken figure against the brick building, then wraps the bag up and starts to walk towards the camera. There’s no mask on the figure whatsoever as they come into view of the street light. It makes Mello’s heart pound in his chest, and lean forward into the screen.

He should have known better, honestly, because as the figure comes more into view, directly into light, he can see that the person’s face is completely covered in paint to match the sweatshirt. Their eyes glisten black underneath the orange light, contacts, scleras, and they walk away, staring at the camera the entire time.

“God dammit.” Mello whispers underneath his breath.

Matt shuts the laptop and turns to Mello. “Whoever they are, they must be pretty confident in feeling like they won’t get caught.”

“Very.” He mumbles.

There’s a silence between them. Mello, respectively, feels that he doesn’t need to talk to Matt. He doesn’t need to be here. He doesn’t need anything to do with him right now, as just looking at him causes him to want to cringe at all of his past decisions. He knows that it’s all past now, and it shouldn’t affect him as it does, but it’s hard. It’s hard because Matt is acting as though nothing is wrong, and it’s all the same as it had been when they were investigating for the Kira case. For Mello, he feels as though an eternity has passed since he’s last seen Matt, even though it’s only been a year. No, it’s been nearly two years now, he registers.

Two years without Matt.

“I don’t know what to say.”

There’s a nervous laugh that comes from the brunette. “What do you mean?”

“You. The way you’re acting. Like nothing’s happened at all. Like we’ve been together this entire time. I don’t know what to say to it.”

Matt’s face hardens. "I could say the same for you. I don't see why it matters.”

Mello looks at him, confusion written all over his face. “It’s just strange. I-do you know how long it’s felt? How long I’ve spent waiting for some sort of communication from you?”

“Oh, believe me." He says, laughing. "I’ve been waiting just as long for you. And you know, I was pissed when I saw you standing at my door. I was so pissed off because I thought you would at least try and call me, or email me, or even have Near say something to me. ‘Oh yeah, by the way, Mello is alive, no need to worry.’ But nope. I got nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was under the assumption that you were dead the entire time. For an entire year and a half. Yet here you are, sitting next to me, and you don’t look like a ghost of any sort.”

Mello’s thoughts race. “Near is such a piece of shit.”

“And why do you say that?”

“Because!” Mello exclaims. “He fucking knew you were still alive, he knew that I was alive, and he never bothered to mention anything to either of us. I get it, Matt. I completely understand. I thought you were dead this entire time too. And unknowingly we’ve been working together this entire time, and I’m just…the idea of it makes me feel like such an idiot.” Mello takes a deep breath.

“What even happened on that day anyways?” Mello asks.

Matt runs a hand over his face. “I don’t even know. I thought I was going to die, but I didn’t. They cornered me, you know, after I set off that smoke grenade and drove away. Right in the middle of Shibuya crossing.” He lets out another laugh, and Mello raises his eyebrow. “I nearly stepped out of the car. They all got out of their cars. They had guns. Of course, I had one too. They kept telling me to step out of the car.”

“And you did?”

“Fuck no. I thought about it, yeah, but I just leaned over and opened my window, shot another smoke bomb, and sped out of there. There are still bullet holes in my car. They just kept chasing after me, and I kept driving. All the way to Narita, and then they turned back.” He pauses. “I kept driving to Choshi, just in case they had some others waiting there, or planned to stay there. Near set me up with a plane ticket, and I drove back to Narita and went from there.

It really hasn’t been the same.” He continues. “That scared me. It scared me to the point where I didn’t leave the house for three months. I stayed at Wammy’s, just in case, as much as I wanted to not be there. I needed to feel like-”

“You were home.” Mello finishes for him.

Matt nods. “Yeah. Exactly. It’s the only place I’ve known as home.”

Mello thinks for a moment, unsure of what to say again. “I know the feeling. I was thinking of returning to Wammy’s too, but thought it best not to hide in fear.”

“You’re too proud to return there.”

He shakes his head. “No, as a matter of fact. I just feel like I can’t go back there. Too much shit started there, and look where it’s led to. I’m a fucking criminal. I was in the mafia, and for what? It did me no good. Leaving Wammy’s did me no good whatsoever.”

“You’ve changed.”

A harsh laugh escapes his throat. “I think my head is a lot clearer than it once was. I was so stupid back then.”

“You sure you aren’t now?” Matt smirks, and Mello can feel a smile of his own grow on his lips as he smacks the other in the shoulder.

“Ouch.”

“You’re such a wuss.” Mello says through a grin.

“Says the kid who would cry after stubbing his toe on the door frame.”

Mello rolls his eyes. “That was once, and I was eight. And I broke my toe, I had a reason.”

“You weren’t looking where you were going at all. Don’t try and play the cool kid when you were walking down the hallway with your face buried in a file.”

Mello starts laughing. “Shut up.”

Matt lets out his own laughter.

It feels like old times, and in a brief moment, Mello is nostalgic. He is reminded of those dark wooded walls of the large mansion, the one that once housed two together. How they would always argue over meticulous things, like whose turn it was to strip the beds, or what they were going to do outside. He remembers the fresh smelling hallways and how they were always so clean, polished to perfection and filled with warmth. He remembers how he and Matt would sit at lunch together, or just lounge around and play his stupid little video games, or sit underneath that one tree in the courtyard and look up through the shadowy leaves as the summer’s sun gazed down on them, a light breeze sweeping through the small enclosed area. The tickle of grass blades against his neck, and the heat warming his body through his black clothing. Those were feelings he had become so used to. They were comforting.

Mello’s childhood was taken too soon, at his own fault, and he would take it back any day.

He doesn’t doubt that Matt feels the same about it, however. After all, they have plenty more to worry about than simply homework and who will get the snacks in the middle of the night without being caught. Now they have to worry about their identities. Their lives. One mess up in anything they do and suddenly, they’re done for. It’s a terrifying thought, once Mello puts it into perspective, but he knew that one day he’d have to do this anyways. No matter what, he’d have to protect his identity. The name ‘Mello’ feels tainted, as it’s a reminder of who he’s become. The name Mihael Keehl, his real name, he is unsure about.

He used to not like it. He used to hate his name. Mihael never felt a connection to it; the name given to him by his alcoholic mother and abusive father, having to carry around the weight of the name ‘Keehl’ for as long as he lived. It hurt him. Through all he has been through though, through what he isn’t sure can even be called hell, he feels as though Mello is unacceptable. Mello is the name of a little boy who ran away, to escape his childhood. Mello was the person who didn’t know what he was doing, and joined the mafia, and helped them thrive. Mello killed people. Mello murdered people he didn’t even know, at the thought of doing business.

Mello isn’t Mihael Keehl.

Mello looks aside, a thin lipped smile plastered on his face as he looks over to Matt. His stomach rumbles with hunger, the continuous smell of brunch still invading his nose.

“I have some lunch leftover if you want it. Or I could just make you toast, since the only thing left is microwave bacon.”

“I can just make toast.” Mello says, and begins to walk towards the kitchen through the sterile apartment.

“So was this apartment courtesy of Near?”

“No, I actually saved up enough from working at bars to pay for it.” He hears from behind.

“Bars, huh?”

A noise of confirmation. “Yep. I’m a fairly good mixer, if you ever need a drink.”

As Mello enters the kitchen, he begins to search for the loaf of bread, which he finds in a cabinet. “I told you before that the murders were happening outside of bars. At least, everything related to them happened outside. It’s probably not a coincidence, but it might be.”

“What are you implying?” Matt says defensively, leaning against the frame of the entryway.

Mello presses the button on the toaster down and wraps the loaf of bread back up in its plastic wrap. “I’m not implying anything. It’s just something to look at. If the bars line up with those you’ve worked at previously or recently, then it would be a good idea to investigate.”

“Ah. What if you were just to come to one of the bars with me? You could walk around then. It would be sketchy of the bartender to walk around.”

“That’s true. So you do still work at the bars?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s really just something to do now. If I’m not working on a case with Near, or hacking into shit when I’m bored, I like to go around and see if any bars need temporary bartenders.” Matt divulges.

“Have you noticed anyone frequent to where you go?”

This causes Matt to pause once more. The toast pops up, and Mello searches the drawers for a butter knife, and grabs the tray of it from the corner.

“Not really, unfortunately. I mean, I have a few friends who stop buy when I tell them I’ll be at a certain place, but they’re all too dim to commit murder.”

“Okay then. When do you next have a job?”

“Tomorrow night, actually.” He replies.

“I’ll tag along for the hell of it. Even if I find one person, it wouldn’t be a bad thing. It may just give us a lead.”

“Right. At least a lead will get you started.”

Mello takes a bite of the crisped toast, the grain savory to his hunger. He swallows the large bite.

“Why weren’t you mad at me when I woke up?”

The question leaves his mouth faster than he can process it.

Matt hesitates. He laughs.

“I mean, it’s in the past. It did piss me off. But, you know…it is what it is. You just have to get over it sometimes, faster rather than sooner. Besides, this is what we’re supposed to do. It’s what we’ve always done, Mello.”

It’s what we’ve always done.

Mello finds himself back at his hotel room at around five o’clock. Matt had sent him the footage in a private file, so it couldn’t be tracked.

He feels as though they’re getting closer to cracking this case, despite not having a lead. Mello knows that with crime comes significant time, but Mello is impatient, and these are people that they are talking about. People who are being killed due to their inability of finding someone who could be the murderer.

As much as he hates to think of it, There’s a possibility of Matt being the killer.

It’s too coincidental. Of course, Mello has no sufficient evidence to prove Matt of anything. The only thing he has is the news that he works at bars. He’s simply waiting for a list of them to compare the murders.

Mello sighs. He was able to take a shower when he reached the hotel, and is now standing out on the balcony in grey sweats and a black shirt. His rosary, hanging from his neck, dangles over the edge, threatening to fall over and down to the busy street below. A light breeze passes through the open area.

The sun is starting to set.

The colors, made up of pinks and blues and purple hues, array the sky like an ombré on a canvas. A reflection of the silver sliver in the sky radiates off of a large building.

Mello feels content.

Chapter Text

It’s been a long morning.

If Mello were to be quite honest, the first things he shouldn’t have done was pulled out the case and started working on it merely five minutes after he woke up from his very-needed slumber. If he were to be honest, he doesn’t have the capacity right now to do anything with the heap of information scattered in his head and in the file. But Mello isn’t honest, no, he was too sure that he’d be able to easily focus while he yawned a little bit.

Mello was also entirely convinced it’d take him only a few minutes to figure out the coding system too.

Mello lied.

Sat on the floor surrounded by photos of the cookie slips, Mello groans in frustration. The time is about eight in the morning, a bit early to focus on anything; the latest his body could sleep was six-thirty. His stomach feels sick with from a lack of food, he’s cold, and he can’t figure out this goddamn system. He’s tried Caesar cipher, homophonic, AMSCO, everything he can possibly think of, but absolutely none of them are working to decipher the message. He’s even tried a few numerology techniques, which he wasn’t going to get into.

He needs some fucking coffee.

He leans back against the hard chair, the heavy blanket he’s wrapped in getting tangled underneath him. The numbers barely make any sense, and they’re just numbers, swirling across the photos in what seems like no order-51651 76813 62541 46415…

There aren’t any teens, so far there haven’t been any 0’s or 9’s yet, and he wants to assume there won’t be anymore. Think, Mello scolds himself lazily, just think. What systems don’t have any nines or zeros?

His phone starts to ring. With much reluctance, he answers.

“I’m getting really tired of these calls.”

“Good morning.” Near. Of course. “I figured out the next riddle.”

Straight to business then. “What is it?” He asks hastily.

“Quicksand.”

When is a man drowned, but not wet? “It makes sense, but I doubt there’s quicksand in the middle of a city.”

“There is a gravel and sand company there.”

Mello thinks for a minute. “That doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t stick to his pattern, and it wouldn’t make sense for him to break it when he’s been so consistent.”

“Are there any bars around that area?” Near inquires.

Mello stands and walks over to his laptop, quickly searching for a map of the area. “Ah…Not really. There are some close by, but not close enough. I don’t think it’s a location indicator. If it were, being in the middle of a highway loop is a little too public.”

“It’s the method of the killing.”

“Exactly.”

So much for that.

“That doesn’t exactly help us, does it?”

“On the contrary,” Near says, “we’ll know what to expect when it happens.”

“These are people, Near. Isn’t it out job to prevent these from continuing?”

“We don’t have enough information to know where the exact location is going to be, so there’s little we can do prevent it. If we had anything else to work with, it there may be something we can do, but otherwise none of this evidence is going to give away place. Or time, for that matter.”

Mello begins to pace up and down the small walking area he’s allowed himself. “I know that, Near.”

“I can set up cameras and people to the closest locations around the area and have them wait it out, but like you said, it’s not an indication in position.” Near pauses for a moment. “Aside from that, he doesn’t kill right out in front of the bars. He brings them postmortem.”

“That-okay. Fine.” Mello stares at the map on the screen. “If that’s the case then it’s still possible for the victim to be dragged from the place of death to somewhere more suitable for his code. I’d offer to do it, but I’m investigating a separate location.”

He can almost hear Near’s eyebrow raising in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

“Well, thanks to the oh-so kind reintroduction of Matt into my life, I’ve found out that he works as a bouncing bartender.”

“So you’re investigating Matt?”

“What? No.” Mello shakes his head, despite the little voice in the back of his head saying that he has no choice to. “Maybe I am. I wanted to see if there was any correlation between location and the places he works.”

“That’s reasonable.” Near says. “I wouldn’t have suspected him, but I suppose it’s something to look in to. Are you still adjusting to the time difference?”

“I’m adjusting to a lot of things, Near, including your lack of consideration for people.”

Near is silent for a few seconds. “I don’t see how that relates to the case.”

“Why didn’t you tell me Matt was alive?”

There’s an uncomfortable quietness setting in. Mello decides to push him into the corner a little more. “Do you realize how damaging that was to the both of us? You could have told me all these years, and you didn’t. Were you waiting for me to figure it out?”

“I didn’t want to cause anything.”

“Cause what? More damage? It’s a bit too late for that.” Mello lets the blanket slide off him and into a heap on the floor.

“I hadn’t considered it, Mello. I thought the two of you would eventually figure it out.”

Mello wants to laugh. “That’s a load of bullshit.”

“I can assure you it isn’t.” Near’s tone drops, voice sharp as icicles.

“Why would you just assume we’d find each other?”

“I don’t know, Mello. I don’t want to fight about this.”

“You could have told me.” Mello repeats.

“We need to be civil if we’re going to be working together.” Near says.

“Civil? Civil? You want us to be civil when you’re the one who started this issue?” Mello’s anger is growing with every word.

“It’s not as though I’m not taking ownership for what I did. If you want an apology, just ask.”

That stops Mello short in his tracks. Mello doesn’t want an apology. I’m sorry won’t do anything to resolve the two years of utter loneliness he felt. A simple apology for not considering either of their feelings won’t do anything. He wants Near to take ownership, because what he did isn’t okay. What he did to him and Matt isn’t acceptable. The fact that Near thinks apologizing can solve the solution-

But he does have a point. As much as Mello hates to think he’s right, he is. If they’re going to work together for as long as their lives allow them to, they need to have a mutual respect for another. They’re going to make mistakes. Big ones. Ones like this that do matter, that do make the other upset, but they won’t be able to get any work done if a grudge is in their way. As much as Mello wants to be pissed at Near, he knows that he can’t let his anger get in the way.

Not this time.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“…okay,” Near replies, confusion coating his voice.  “Can we move on then?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright. The hair was taken by forensics, results from the analysis should be in tonight. I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Mello breathes in deep, and starts trekking across the floor to a small table with a coffee pot lying on top of it. “I’ll let you know when I figure out this cipher.”

“It’s a plan then.” With those words, there’s a click on the other end of the line.

Mello puts the phone down and starts scooping the grounds in the filter.

He won’t get anything accomplished if he goes to the bar for the purpose of finding a lead. It’ll be damn near impossible to do that. Anyone is bound to look shady enough if they’re intoxicated anyway. But if he’s investigating Matt…

No. He doesn’t want to investigate Matt. It’s been two years-Mello has no doubt he’s changed, but he also can’t believe he’d be the cause of a few complicated murders. He has the knowledge to make a challenge like this though. He knows what he’s doing. The question is, would Matt think of doing it? Can Matt even be a suspect?

Mello looks over to the evidence lying on the floor. Those fucking codes-

H-A-V-E-Y

Indian numerology.

He’s got it.

The walk to the bar isn’t the best thing in the world.

It’s cold, that’s for damn sure. Not the same kind of cold he was so used to in England-not the wet and windy air that would brush at his skin and dampen his face. This air is almost stale, dry, and burns the surfaces of his cheeks; the scar on his face, even more sensitive, feels completely numb. His hands are shoved far into the pockets of his heavy jacket, warmth radiating close to his chest. He can see the gelid air with every breath he takes. Matt doesn’t seem to mind it. Then again, he’s dressed in way more comfortable clothes, and he even has gloves. And layers.

He’s been here for a while then.

He’d honestly expected to be much more adapted to the freezing temperatures, remembering how chilly it was in Russia when he was younger. Apparently he’s outgrown it, because it’s only just below freezing and he’s fucking cold.

Mello also notes it’s quite dark. It’s barely past dinnertime and the sun is completely gone, leaving a black sky above them, empty looking from the light pollution that emits from the city. The only things lighting their way are the yellow street lamps that line the sidewalk, ornately decorated and old looking and the hidden light that peeps out from the windows of people’s houses.

It must be nice to be somewhere permanently, Mello thinks with a certain bitterness. The longest he’s ever stayed in one place was when he was in Winchester, which was seven years; eight previous bouncing around in Russia, and then going back and forth from Los Angeles to New York to Tokyo and back again. The people in these houses are so innocent-they’re so lucky they have a place to return to every night. A place that’s theirs.

But nowhere seems like home to him. Maybe it’s because he’s been raised to be this way, or maybe it’s just how he feels, but nowhere can be home. He couldn’t settle down for that long in one spot. Only on the occasion does he wish to settle, just for a split moment, but he’d never be able to do it. He knows he wouldn’t be able to do it. He has too much energy at any given moment, too much of a need to get out of any routine and live. If there’s one good thing to take from the mafia-besides the knowledge of how to get what he wants, when he wants-it’s to just live. Be wary, but conduct your business as you wish.

He wants to do this job. It’s all he’s ever wanted. He finally has it, and it’s so rewarding-but how rewarding of a feeling would it be to also move on? To live, well, normally?

Pah. He could never live normally. It’s nice to imagine he could, though.

Mello looks to his side at Matt. He’s smoking.

“You really shouldn’t do that.” Mello breaks the silence; Matt takes a drag off his cigarette, the tip’s embers glowing orange.

“You have not changed a bit, my friend.”

Mello rolls his eyes and nudges him, in hopes that maybe it would fall on the pavement. It doesn’t work. “You’re literally killing yourself from the inside out.”

That makes Matt pause for a moment. “It’s more of a habit than anything now, if I’m honest.”

Honesty keeps popping up today.

As he’s about to put it up to his lips, Mello takes a hand from his pocket snatches the rolled tobacco away from him. “No more.”

Matt groans. “Come on. I’ll be a bitch to deal with if I don’t have it.”

“I’d rather you be a bitch than become a victim of lung cancer.”

Mello flicks the cigarette into the street.

Matt pulls out the carton and a lighter from his pocket.

“Really?”

Matt shrugs noncommittally. “My lungs are probably charred as fuck already.”

“Ugh.” His hand is cold. The brisk air sends a chill up through his arm, and he shivers.

“You should’ve worn more layers.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to be so cold. It’s only mid-October.”

“Exactly.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Matt holds the cigarette between his teeth as he lights it. “I’ve learned to not expect anything with the weather. The leaves change, it gets cold-sometimes it won’t drop below freezing until mid-November. One time it snowed a few days before Halloween.”

“Ah.”

They stop at a crosswalk, where the light for walking is red. Cars are bustling along the highway, and the honking of horns can be heard in the distance.

“We could have taken the T.”

“Exercise is important. It also warms you up.”

“Sure it does.” Mello mumbles.

“At least I’m healthy in that aspect.” Matt takes a heavy drag from his cigarette. “Self-care is important.”

Mello gawks. Did he really just say that?

He flashes a grin at Mello. The stopped hand fades away into the walking symbol, and the two proceed across the street together.

Nothing seems out of the norm. With Matt, that is. Quite frankly, there is doesn’t seem to be any norm or stability anywhere with Mello’s life, but Matt doesn’t seem like he’s changed a bit from when he last saw him-perhaps the only thing is now he has some stubble that splotches across his chin and cheeks, and, of course, he still smokes. His hair has lost the red metallic tint it once had from dyeing it. His personality, though, feels the same as it always has. It makes Mello feel like they’re younger again, if only by a few years.

Matt has always been good at hiding his emotions, though. Matt cares too much about people that he tends to put himself aside, so he’s noticed; he always listens, and if he gets mad, he’s mad for very serious reasons. It makes Mello feel bad for the times he never regarded Matt because he was too involved with himself.

He notices this as he watches from across the room, sat at his own high table in the corner. Matt has taken up talking to a girl who’s on her third or fourth drink. He doesn’t display any outward interest-his body language is relaxed, engaged in whatever she’s sharing with him. It’s not small talk, no, it’s a full, in depth conversation that looks mostly one-sided. Matt only nods his head on the occasion. He’s listening. He’s so patient, too, nodding along with the things she says, making small remarks, even giving her a napkin to blot her makeup-covered eyes when she starts to tear up. He even makes a drink for another customer at one point, still listening, giving advice.

It’s hard to think that Matt would have the heart to commit any of these crimes, but he is entirely capable.

Mello sips at the glass of water on the table. Matt isn’t stupid. He’s stealthy, and he knows how to hide himself; he can read others like they’re open books. This is what scares Mello the most-Matt could easily hide from him and only pretend to be himself, the self that Mello knew, and still be able to commit these crimes. The only drawback of this is Mello knows Matt. He thinks he does, at least.

He knows that Matt could never even think of taking the life of another so easily. He didn’t like it when Mello was in the mafia, conducting business, killing the occasional person like it was just a menial task. If he were so opposed to someone else doing it, then why would he try and take it into his own hands? This is what doesn’t add up-this is why Mello doesn’t want to investigate. Capability is always something to keep in mind, but humanity is another topic that entirely can affect the outcome entirely.

Mello looks up from the table. The bar isn’t grand, but it does have an appealing look to it-the ceilings are high and old, red in color and squares dipping up into itself. Single lights hang down at each seat at the bar, which is rustic looking and old. The rest of the area is dotted with long, high standing tables with a similar look to the bar, and a few small ones; Two-seaters line the edges of opposite walls, where he’s sitting, over by the staircase he’d walked up to get in here. There are columns that hold the building up that are white, with the paint flaking with age. It’s a bit fancy, if he’s to be quite honest. It’s definitely not a bar to come to when you’re alone and needing an escape. He classifies it as an in between social place, where it’s too quiet and restaurant-like to be a club, but too relaxed and at ease to be an eatery of any sorts.

He’s still listening to that girl.  Mello’s beginning to grow somewhat anxious. He’s bored, and observing his surroundings for anyone suspicious is starting to become tedious. Everyone in this room is suspicious to him. He’s broken down all the repeated traits of the people who have come in, seen how they act, and there’s honestly no point in looking for anyone in particular. Anyone could own a black hoodie. At this point, it’s class evidence-just like the shoe, just like the wallet. There isn’t anything special about what the suspect was wearing. Absolutely nothing is special about the suspect caught on tape-who knows? He could’ve used someone as a simply decoy as well.

Mello hops down from the tall seat, leaving the sweaty glass on the table. He feels like a child waiting for his parent, more or less. Stuck in the corner with a glass of water, surveying the area around him, waiting on whoever to be finished with their job and hoping they’d walk over to check in on him. Hell, all he needs is a pack of crayons and a piece of paper and he’s there. Matt has his back turned to the girl, who’s gone to answer her phone. As he approaches closer, he can see her cheeks are flushed red. She’s tipsy, if not flat out drunk. That explains the crying.

“Psst.” Mello makes a noise to try and catch Matt’s attention. It’s so strange to see him dressed up as much as he is.

Matt turns around, a margarita in his hand. He’s put a sliced lime on the salt-lined rim. “What’s up?”

Mello groans. “There isn’t anything to do.”

Matt shrugs, exchanging a customer’s empty glass for the margarita. “It was your idea.”

“Trust me, I know.” He watches as Matt walks over to the sink, dumping out the ice and placing it at the bottom of the metal tub. “It’s taking too much time.”

“Well, what were you expecting? The ki-him to just show up and, ‘Hi, I’m the one you’ve been after!’ in the middle of a bar?”

Mello murmurs something in Russian.

“Sorry. Do you want anything?”

“…Whisky. If you have any.”

“Sure thing.” Matt picks a bottle of the alcohol from underneath the counter, pulling a glass from the shelf behind him. “Anything new with the…?”

“We shouldn’t be talking about it here.” Mello says quietly. “Especially not in front of her.” His eyes glance over at the babbling drunk brunette Matt had been talking to earlier. He sees a smirk grow across Matt’s lip.

“You jealous?”

“What? I-No!” Matt chuckles. “Shut up.”

“Aw, you want attention.”

Mello rolls his eyes. “Anyway…”

His phone buzzes at the sound of a text message. He fishes for it in his coat pockets. The girl on the other side starts whistling at Matt. He rolls his eyes and opens the text.

-The hair has been identified. Cecilio De Luca. Italian Mafia syndicate. We might have him.

“Holy shit.”

No, no, this is to easy, there is absolutely no way. Mello thinks.

This doesn’t add up. Why would they be going against us? Why would they-? There’s no possible way they’re after us. We never had affiliations with a group in this area. Someone’s trying to frame this guy. Someone’s trying to make an obvious criminal look like he’s doing it.

He knows. He knows I was a part of the mafia. He’s trying to scare us into believing this is some sort of revenge. That I or Near will be next. Dirty work in the mafia covers with much more work and care than the actual business. Letting a piece of hair fall into the wrong hands, at the wrong time? Not plausible in this case. That’s too much of a coincidence. This person knows the mafia, knows my own association. Could this be a lead? Could someone who was temporarily working for the mafia here be-

“-ells.”

“Huh?”

“Your drink is ready, and you look confused.” The noise of the area comes into focus once again. Matt is sliding the drink closer towards him, the glass clinking against it.

“I…sorry Matt.”

“What’s going on?”

Mello starts to type up a message to Near. “…Tell you later,” he says distractedly.

-Too easy. Not our guy. Don’t go after him.

“You owe me from yesterday, you know-“

“Matt, now really isn’t the time.” Mello barks. A message appears on his phone.

-I wasn’t going to. What do you propose we do?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

-I’m out right now. Talk later

“Mells?”

Mello lifts the alcohol to his lips. “We think we’ve found a lead.”