Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You count the flickers of the fluorescent light above your head. One, two, three, four. 

One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war. 

The carpet beneath your dress shoes is a dark, muted green, compressed and flattened from people marching up and down the aisle. Funny, you remember your floors being hardwood. The light fixture flickers. 

Five, six, seven, eight, try to keep your thumbs straight . 

You’re clutching your kitten plush in your fist, his whiskers singed and frayed. You think he might’ve been stepped on. You don’t remember grabbing him this morning, and figure Mom must’ve stuffed him in your backpack.

I want a rematch! Rematch, rematch! 

You hear her voice, but you can’t see her. A crowd hovers behind you, silent and hunched. One begins to weep. 

Through the crowd, between their legs and behind their backs you spot a glimpse of her dress, her polished mary janes and frilly white socks. As you push through the crowd to reach her, she darts back down the aisle. You squeeze between people’s backs, try to crawl under their legs. 

“Where are you going? What about our rematch?” 

Her face remains hidden in the throng of people. You reach out your hand when someone calls your name from behind you, garbled and distant. 

“____.”

A lightbulb flickers overhead. 

“Where are you going?”

“____.”

“Where are you going?” 

Your fingers are just about to meet the back of her dress when you blink, and suddenly you’re back in your room, your comforter tangled around your ankles. 

“____.” 

You roll over to see Gigi leaning on the doorframe, arms folded and one leg crossed in front of the other, brows furrowed. Sunlight streams into the hall behind her, and you hear the house coming to life - yelling, giggling, yawning, feet thumping against the floor and down the stairs. Her chestnut hair is mussed and pulled in a bundle of curls atop her head - you figure her morning duties ramp up so fast she doesn’t have time to tame it until later. She pushes her glasses up her nose.  

“You okay? You were grinding your teeth pretty hard.”

“Mmm,” you nod as you sit up. You kick off your blankets and swing your feet over the side of your bed. Hardwood floors. 

“You sure? I can set up a dentist appointment if you want.”

“I’m fine,” you mumble. Her eyes soften and she shrugs. 

“Alright, well. Breakfast time, c’mon.” She snaps a finger and points down the hall, spinning on her heel. You hop off the bed and plod after her, trying to keep up as she raps on each door.

“What’s for breakfast?” 

She smirks down at you. 

“Pancakes,” and before she can even finish, you’ve already bolted down the stairs. 

“What do you mean, no?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean? You can’t have one of my pancakes. Go away.” 

Mello huffs from his seat across the table. 

“I hate you,” he mumbles and sinks back onto his seat. “You never eat all of them anyway. What’s four instead of five?”

You have your five mini pancakes organized in a little honeycomb on your plate, each with its own dribble of syrup. You’ve already gone through your scrambled eggs, which Mello also tried to con you out of. 

“There has to be an odd number. If you take one of my pancakes, there’s only four left.”

“So?”

“I don’t like four. It’s weird.”

“ You’re weird.” 

“You’re ugly.”

“Yeah, well you’re stupid.”

“Better than being ugly!” 

Matt plops down beside Mello, “who’s ugly?” 

“____-” “Mello-” you both say in unison. 

Matt stabs his fork through one of Mello’s pancakes and hums before taking a bite, and you watch as Mello’s face grows red, brow twitching and scowl forming. 

“Well! I think you’re both ugly.” 

You stifle a laugh and wait for Mello’s reaction - a smack upside the head, a return insult maybe? But instead, Mello’s sneer cracks and gives way to a snicker, and the three of you laugh and laugh, trying not to cough pancake out of your mouth or shoot milk out of your nose. Light pours in from the windows spanning from floor to ceiling as you and other gaggles of kids tear through your breakfasts, and though you can't remember much else, you do remember how you got here.

♱ ♱ ♱

Gigi rocked back on her heels, crouched down to meet your height. 

“Okay, so tell me exactly what happened.”

Mello pointed at you. 

“She pushed me!” 

Sure enough, his knees were scuffed and the little cartoon dog on his shirt was stained green with grass. Gigi looked at you to explain. You jabbed your finger back at him.

“Only after he pulled my hair!” 

Gigi raised her brows and turned to Mello. 

“Mello, is that true? Did you pull ____’s hair?” 

Mello huffed and turned his head, eyes cast at the ground. She sighed. 

“Why’d you pull ____’s hair, Mello?” 

“‘Cause she kicked me.” 

Gigi snapped back to you, mouth hanging open.

“You kicked him? Why’d you kick him, ____?”

You folded your arms, kicking your foot and rolling your ankle in the dirt, watching it stick to the velcro of your tennies. 

“He told me I couldn’t play rodeo with them.”

“Okay, he told you you couldn’t play rodeo with them, and you..?”

“Kicked him,” you nodded, eyes closed and clearly proud of yourself. 

Gigi nodded, “right, you kicked him,” she turned to Mello, “and then you pulled her hair, and then she pushed you.”

“Yeah,” Mello nodded. Gigi sighed again.

“Ho-kay,” she slapped her palms against her knees, “both of you - you can’t just hit people when you’re upset, or when you don’t get your way. You can say to each other, ‘hey, that hurt my feelings,’ but you can’t hit them, no matter how upset you are. You get me?” 

You nodded, huffed and uncrossed your arms. Mello turned his head to you and stuck out his tongue. 

“And Mello, it’s not cool to exclude people for no reason. If someone wants to play with you, don’t be a jerk and let them join.”

“ Yeah Mello, don’t be a jerk,” and it was your turn to stick your tongue out. 

“Alright, don’t get excited. Are you two straight?”

You both nodded, though you couldn’t help but want to pout just a little bit more. 

“Not gonna push each other? Pull hair, kick each other, any of that? 

You both shook your head.

“Good! See? Easy,” Gigi grinned at the two of you and ruffled your hair before straightening up. 

“Go on, get outta here,” she waved a hand and turned her attention to the rest of the kids before quickening her pace and shouting across the playground, “Near, don’t put that caterpillar in your mouth.”

Her footsteps receded and you turned to face Mello, hand over your forehead to shade your eyes from the late afternoon sun. A soft breeze rustled your hair, mussed and fluffed up from playing (and kicking). A moment beat by, then two. 

“Thanks for letting me play. You’re not a jerk.”

Mello kicked the ground with his sneaker and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his shorts. 

“Yeah, well, you’re a bad kicker anyway. Didn’t even hurt.” 

“Pff! I bet you were gonna cry.” 

Mello turned and stepped back over the little tire fence that separated the playground mulch from the grass. 

“Yeah, whatever. Are we gonna play rodeo or what?” 

“Yes!” You bounced on your heels and trailed after him. 

“Alright, don’t get excited,” he parroted Gigi as he toddled through the mulch. The setting sun was a deep orange, the cicadas just beginning to drone as he yelled across the playground. 

“Matt, come be rodeo clown!” 

♱ ♱ ♱

“____, your turn. Come on down,” he calls from down the hall.  

You hand off the dish you were scrubbing to Matt and wipe your hands on your pjs, debating running up to your room to put on proper day clothes before your meeting. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve attended before really being ready for the day, but lately you’ve been wondering if you shouldn’t look a little more put together for these. As you pass Mello on your way out of the dining room, he raises his brows at you. You shrug -  same old, same old. He’ll probably have his by the end of the day.  

You pad down the hall to the second door on the left and take a deep breath, trying to stave off the growing tension knotting in your chest. You can’t put your finger on it, but these meetings always seem to put you on the slightest sliver of an edge. You’re glad to get them out of the way early. 

He’s waiting for you by the threshold, a pen tucked behind his ear. Though it’s Friday, he’s still done up in his usual dress shirt and tie, round eyeglasses tucked neatly away in his breast pocket. You take your seat in the leather chair on the right side of the office. The door creaks as he pulls it shut behind him. 

“Good morning, ____,” he greets you pleasantly as he takes his seat behind his desk. 

“Good morning, Dr. Vanger,” you greet him back just as pleasantly, belying your nerves. You pull your knees up to your chest. Dr. Vanger shuffles what you assume is your file on his desk, straightening out the pages before setting it gently on the desk and plucking his glasses out of his pocket. They sit low on his nose, wrinkled and just a little bit gray from age and (again, you assume) years of being somewhat responsible for a house stuffed to the brim with orphans. You fancy a guess his thinning gray hair is stress induced. Honestly, it’s always shocked you that he’s the only counselor in the place.  

“Alrighty, let’s see here. Our last visit was about a month ago - how have you been doing since then?” 

“Mm, fine I guess,” you shrug. 

“Roger tells me you’ve been doing well in your classes, and that you’re interested in languages. Serbian! Very cool,” he nods. You temper a proud smirk - it is kinda cool. You relax a little, let your feet fall back down toward the ground. 

“It’s fun,” you muse, kicking your feet a bit. You’re not yet tall enough for them to touch the ground. 

“Are there any subjects that aren’t that fun for you? Any you’re having some trouble with?” You mull it over, hum. 

“I don’t like chemistry,” you squint and stick your tongue out. Dr. Vanger makes a brief note. 

“Chemistry,” he repeats quietly, “that was my least favorite subject, too. Can you think of why you might not enjoy it?” 

“I…don’t know,” you shrug, “I’d have to think about it. There’s so many rules. And numbers. And letters! It gets confusing. I dunno, maybe it’s just the chapter we’re on.” He makes another quick mark. 

“Well, maybe think a little about that for when we meet next and we can talk about it some more.”

“Okay,” you say, bracing your hands on the armrests in preparation to get up. 

“Ope, just one more thing before you go,” he stops you, holding up a finger. Your heartbeat quickens just so. “I do want to ask you about something.”

Your eyes dart around the room as you sit back down. Are you in trouble? You try to recall what, if any, mischief you’ve wreaked in the past two weeks, but come up short. You, Mello, Matt, and Linda have been pretty tame these past few weeks. Something must be in the air. 

“Nothing’s wrong, ____. You can relax,” Dr. Vanger takes a quick glance at your file. “Now, I just want to check in. Gigi tells me you’ve been grinding your teeth in your sleep, so I wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.” 

Dangit, Gigi. You can’t blame her since you suppose it is her job, but still. Dangit. 

“I mean, I guess so! If Gigi says so. I can’t really tell, ‘cause I’m asleep. So…” You shrug, looking from the window to the baubles on his desk, to your socks, back to the window. 

“Have you noticed anything that might be causing that? Bad dreams, maybe you’re nervous about exams coming soon? Anything like that?”

You think of your dream from this morning, which has recurred almost exactly the same way for months now. You shrug again.

“I guess I have nightmares sometimes.” Dr. Vanger blinks up at you.

“Oh? What kind of nightmares?”

“I dunno, like…the boogeyman and stuff. I guess. I dunno. Sometimes I forget,” you lie. You remember every second. 

Dr. Vanger lets out a small sigh, as if he can sense you floundering, but doesn’t want to accuse you.

“Well, how about this - can you keep some paper and a pen next to your nightstand? Maybe a little notebook? And if you can, when you wake up, try your hardest to jot down your dream, even if you think it doesn’t make sense. Can you try to do that when you have another nightmare?” 

You don’t want to, but you will, since he’s nice. 

“Yeah, okay,” you nod, and when you push yourself up from the chair this time, he doesn’t stop you. 

“Thank you, ____. I’ll see you next time?”

“Yup, bye bye, Dr. Vanger,” you give a small wave as you head out the door. As you cross the threshold, your heart knots up again with nerves. The source is still unknown.

Chapter Text

You mull over the chicken scratch you jotted down overnight. You don’t remember waking up and writing the words, but there they are in the same pink glitter ink you write your diary entries and valentines in.

ruffles 

warm 

counting 

cry

You don’t really get how this is supposed to help, (or even what it’s supposed to help), but then again Dr. Vanger was under the impression you don’t remember anything at all when he asked you to do this. Though you do remember, it frustrates you how little you actually understand, how little you can actually make of it. Who are those people and why are they weeping? Who is that girl you keep chasing, but can’t catch? Where did she go, and why didn’t you go with her?

As you look down at your writing, you think maybe it’d be better to write how the dreams make you feel instead of their objective facts. So you pull the cap off your pen with your teeth, tap it against your notepad, and think. And think. And think.  

You scribble the word down in a flurry and shove the notepad under your mattress. You’ve thought enough, and you’d rather stop before your chest does that weird tightening thing again. From beneath your mattress it follows you, long after you close your door and sit for breakfast downstairs, as if calling out to you. It’s written onto your brain with pink glitter ink. 

shatter 

“Uno!” Matt slaps down a blue 7 atop the stack of cards before you. 

“Yeah right,” you pout, “I know you’ve got cards hidden somewhere, you had a bunch five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, cheater!” Linda says, craning her head to peer behind Matt. You know you’ve got him pegged when he leans back to block her, smiling sheepishly.

“Get ‘im!” You scoot across the hardwood toward Matt. 

“I’ll hold his arms!” Linda chirps, and the two of you circle in as Matt tries to wiggle away, kicking and squeaking against the polished wood and bracing for impact. This would definitely be easier if Mello was here to hold his legs like usual, but he’s been in his Dr. Vanger meeting. The three of you have been waiting on him in the foyer for the past forty-five minutes, half tasked with stoking the fire in the hearth while some of the younger kids played. What could be taking so long? 

Your little stint of frustration from this morning has mostly dissipated, but you’re still a bit on edge from starting off the day on such a sour note. You’ve been trying to push it out of your head in between your lessons and uno games. You’ve won twice, so that helps. 

Over the cacophony of your and Linda’s laughter, your accosting of Matt – “Where’d you put ‘em, huh cheater?!” – his laughter and his pleas for you to stop, you don’t hear the door to Dr. Vanger’s office creak open, but you do hear the sharp crack when it slams shut. 

The three of you stop, the air in the foyer suddenly tense. You look at each other with wide eyes. Wasn’t Mello supposed to be having his meeting? 

You were used to constant sound in this house, but now you can only hear the crack of the fire, the murmur of the younger kids amongst themselves. You say nothing, but strain to hear footsteps retreating up to your rooms. Another door slams, and you take that as your sign that Mello’s made it back to his room.

The three of you look at each other in turn before touching your finger to your nose.

“Not it.” 

Turns out it’s Matt that was a moment too slow, and for that you’re a little grateful. Whatever’s got Mello riled up, at least you won’t be the first to take the brunt of it. Still, you feel guilty - how would he feel knowing you just drew lots to deal with him? 

“You’re up, Matt.” 

He sighs, hanging his head between his knees. “Why me?”

“Them’s the rules,” Linda shrugs, “go see what’s bothering him. You’re like, his best friend.” 

Matt huffs and pulls himself off the floor, heading down the hall. As he turns the corner, you turn back to Linda and gather your uno cards. You say it softly, without looking up from your hand. 

“I’m his best friend too, ya know.”

“Huh?” 

“Mello,” you say as you put down a green seven, “I’m his best friend too.” And you ask yourself why it stings a bit, having to clarify.

“Oh.” She nods, “yeah, I guess you’re right. Sorry.”

“S’okay,” you shrug. The feeling lingers for a moment more, until she puts down a wild +4. Dangit.   

What couldn’t be more than ten minutes later, Matt rejoins you in the foyer, downcast. You and Linda gaze up at him expectantly. 

“Soo?” 

Matt plops down on the couch you migrated to. 

“Well, he’s pissed, that’s for sure.”

“Did you ask him why?”

“Of course I asked him why.”

“Did he tell you?”

Matt slowly, deliberately rolls his eyes to look at you, “do you think he told me?” 

You purse your lips. “...No?”

“No,” Matt confirms. “He won’t even open his door.” 

Linda folds her legs up to her chest, rests her chin on her knees. “What should we do?”

“I dunno, maybe one of you should try to talk to him. I tried my best, but..”

Linda quirks her brows at you. “____?”

“Me? Why me?” 

“Aren’t you also his best friend?”

“Ugh, fine. God I shouldn’t have said that,” you huff and push yourself off the couch. You’re happy for the acknowledgement, but still, you’re hoping Mello doesn’t yell at you or something. 

You cross the foyer, pad down the hall, up the stairs and down your hall, dragging your fingertips lightly against the wood paneled wall. Mello’s room is further down than yours, closer to the end of the hall near the linen closets and pantries that allow some space between you all and Gigi’s room. 

You arrive at Mello’s room - you can tell it’s his by the “NO ADULTS ALLOWED” paper he taped to it - and take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. 

You knock on his door, one, two, three, four . For a reason you can’t place, that feels strange to you, so you knock one more time. You feel better, and briefly wonder why that is. 

“Mello?” You press your ear against the door. Nothin’. You knock twice more. 

“Mello, I know you’re in there. What’s wrong?” 

The silence persists, so you try the doorknob. Locked, obviously, why wouldn’t it be. You roll your eyes and sigh. 

“Mello, open up, quit being a baby.” That seems to get him, and you hear his muffled shout from within. 

“Go away!”

You soften your tone, thinking maybe a softer approach will yield better results. “Mello, come on, please? It’s just me. Just tell me what’s wrong, please?” 

“I said go away!” 

You press your ear against the door again, and after a beat of silence, you hear what you think might be a sniffle. What the - is Mello..? Now you’re worried - you’ve only seen Mello cry once, when the monarch caterpillars he’d worked so hard to raise for your science class didn’t make it through their metamorphosis. Not a single one. You remember how he’d clenched his fists and smeared the tears off his face, blonde hair stuck to his reddening cheeks, trying so, so hard to summon his usual bravado through his hiccups. Like now, he’d stormed off, wanting nothing more than to just not be seen. 

You try not to panic, but your heart’s beating that much faster. No way, right? You don’t want to choose the nuclear option, but you need to see him. Whatever it is, he has to tell you, so you can fix it, so it can be fine, so it can metamorphosize.  

“Are you crying?” 

“ No! Go away.”

“Mello, open the door or I’m gonna tell Gigi.” You worry your lip. You wouldn’t, but he just has to think you would, and that would be enough. Soft footsteps, a moment, then two, and you hear the lock unlatch. It opens just a crack, through which you see just his eye, puffy, red, and sure enough, blinking away tears. He squints. 

“What.” 

“What happened?” 

“Nothing. Just go away. I’ll be out in a minute.” 

“Tell me,” you press, “please?”

“It’s fine. Leave me alone, I’m tired.”

“I know you had your Dr. Vanger meeting, did something happen? Please just tell me. I won’t tell Gigi, promise.” His gaze drops to the floor, then back to you.

“Promise?” 

“Promise. I just said that to get you to open the door.” In a show of goodwill, you hold up your pinky. For a moment he just stares at it, then finally snakes his hand through the door and interlocks his pinky with yours. His hand is soft, cold. He opens his door the rest of the way and you step in, surveying. 

His desk is in disarray, primers and leaflets and workbooks scattered about, pages folding and the spines cracking. Pencils and highlighters roll on the floor beneath, the cup he usually stores them in has fallen on its side. More clothes than usual litter the floor, and his alarm clock is upside down in the corner, blinking 12:00 am. 

Mello swipes at his face before shuffling to his bed and planting himself face down on his plaid maroon comforter. One of the legs of his stuffed lion, Kurt, (who he’s never allowed anyone to touch) is poking out from beneath his pillow. 

“What happened?” 

He says nothing, just sighs, sniffs. You sit down in his rolling chair and scoot towards the bed. 

“Mello.” You debate reaching out to poke his side, but you can already envision him snapping away, retreating. “Please talk to me. Speak. Anything.” 

He turns his head to face you, and for a moment you simply watch his back, rising and falling with each breath. Finally, he blinks and meets your gaze. 

“Do you ever just feel so stupid ?” 

He looks so tired, his eyes heavy with tears, and he says the word with such disdain that it makes your heart hurt. He continues, looking back at the floor.

“Like, no matter what you do, you can’t get it to work.”

“It?” 

“Anything. You try and you try, but nothing’s good enough. You’re not good enough. You’re stupid, and everything you do is stupid.” 

“Well…yeah, sometimes.” Maybe not in the same way, but you do. “But why do you feel stupid? Did something happen?”

“No, but…I just try so hard,” and you know he does. You see him pore over equations in the library, watch him as he begs Gigi to point to a country on the globe so he can tell her its capital. You know how late he stays up sometimes, reciting and memorizing and theorizing, why he blows you off so he can study when you know he’d rather not. You know you’re all special, and you know great things are expected of you. You’ve heard the older kids talking about how what you manage to do here either carries you through life or crushes you underneath it. You watch them as they sabotage one another, lament over how there can only be one successor, how you’re all gifted, but only one is gifted enough and you better be ready to prove it. You know how important it is to him, how much just being enough consumes him.

“And there’s always going to be someone better. Always.” And you instantly know who that someone is - Near. 

Robotic, silent, solitary Near, to whom everything comes naturally. Whose intuitive understanding of the extraordinary infuriates Mello, whose nonchalant ease is the exact opposite of Mello’s explosive temper, his constant efforts, his gnawing shame. Near, who doesn’t have to try, Near, who simply is. 

Mello sighs again, and you try to think of what to say that wouldn’t sound…well, stupid. Mello will shut down anything he deems hokey, or contrived. Whatever you say, you need to mean it, or he’ll see right through you. 

“Do you remember when we had field day? And we had to play sports and stuff and compete for ribbons, and whoever had the most ribbons at the end of the day got a prize.” 

He grunts. 

“And everybody in the world thought Near was going to get the most and win, because he’s so good at everything else without even trying. But he could barely run without getting tired, he couldn’t balance for the three legged race, and he dropped the frisbee every time he tried to catch it. If he could even make it to it.” 

“Mmph.” 

“Everyone was so shocked because he’s so good at everything else. But even though he was bad at it, nobody cared. Nobody went around saying ‘look at what a wimp Near is. He’s so stupid he can’t figure out a good play for flag football. Mello won the most ribbons, so Mello’s better than Near and always will be.’”

“Yeah, but who cares about some stupid field day? We don’t need to be good at sports. We need to be smart.”  

“And you’re not smart? Gigi says you and Near are first in line.” 

“We can’t both be first. Someone has to be the best. I don’t think like Near. I can’t.” 

“So? You’re different people. He’s good at stuff and you’re good at stuff. Besides, if you thought like Near, I wouldn’t be friends with you. I’m friends with you because you’re Mello, who thinks like Mello.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and he meets your eyes, searching. 

“Really?”

“Mm,” you nod. “We never played rodeo with Near, did we?”

Mello’s lip quirks up in the closest he can get to a smile, exhales what can maybe be excused for a chuckle. 

“I guess,” and there’s a hint of light back in his voice, if only a little. You doubt your little pep talk will have a lasting effect on his outlook, but you hope if you can make him feel better for even a moment, that he’ll take some of it to heart. 

He drags Kurt out from under the pillow by his paw and pulls him to his chest. Inhale, exhale. He sits up. 

“Do you feel better?” 

“A little,” he nods, and wipes the tear tracks off his cheeks with the heel of his palm, snorting. 

“Thanks. And, sorry,” he kicks his legs over the bed, “for being all…like that, or whatever.” 

“S’okay,” you shake your head. “I’m just glad you feel a bit better.” 

Mello draws in one more deep breath. 

“Are you guys still playing uno?” 

You smile, nod your head. 

“Yup! Why, tryin’ to lose some more?” You grin, and he chuckles again, giving your chair a light push that rolls you lazily across the floor. 

“Yeah, whatever. Don’t get excited. I’ve had a lot of time to strategize.” 

“Uh huh.” And the two of you meander downstairs to a table, where Matt and Linda smile up at you, having saved you a seat. 

You can tell you’re dreaming by the way your shoulders tremble with the cold, the way your damp socks squelch in the grass beneath your feet, the way your breath is visible in tiny puffs in the night air. Maybe standing in the street would be warmer - you didn’t put your shoes on before you came out here? 

The air is heavy, congested, foul. It hurts to breathe in, and your chest aches with every inhale, your throat burns with every exhale. From all around you you hear shouting, metal scraping against asphalt, and someone barking commands, but you don’t have it in you to lift your head. It’s as if the world around you is muffled, smothered by a steady, throbbing hum.

You watch the blades of grass beneath you twitch in the night air, watch little ants and beetles scurry past you, out of the grass and towards the curb, when what looks like a little black feather floats gently towards you and lands on your sock. You reach down and pluck it up, smearing it between your fingers. Down falls another, and then another, and another, down into the grass and your hair and your cheeks. You wipe them away and they leave streaks of black on your skin - mom’s not gonna like that, you reckon. 

After a moment of dusting you raise your head, hoping maybe she’s around here somewhere, but as you look around, you see only darkness save for a glow in the distance. Warm, orange, undulating. Could she be over there? 

You turn towards the glow and begin walking towards it, its shape growing closer, larger in size but no clearer in form. As you get closer and closer, the hum around you grows louder, more constant, and more like a billowing wind or a rushing current. More little black feathers sprinkle around you, more footsteps and yelling and clanking and motion erupt around you. 

You’re closer now, the writhing yellow glow is slowly coming into focus. Your eyes sting, forming tears. The glow becomes defined by doorways and walls, by monstrous plumes of smoke filling corners and pushing up into the air, and it’s just coming into focus. Something big’s got to be burning, and if you could just get a little closer-

A hand slaps down in front of your eyes, an arm wrapping around your waist and snatching you up, turning you away and walking back down the street. Whoever they are, you wrap your arms around their neck so you don’t fall as they carry you. They hiss to someone you can’t see.

“Jesus, don’t let her see that. What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got…distracted.”

They readjust you in their arms as they keep walking. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re gonna be alright, okay?”

You say nothing, just keep peering over their shoulder, watching what you understand now are flames. You’re placed on the bumper of a car, van, something , and someone with blue gloves and a backpack stoops in front of you, pen flashlight poised before your eyes. 

“Can you follow the light for me, buddy?” 

You can, but instead you watch an orange halo form around them, as whatever is back there continues to burn. 

Chapter Text

Linda holds her thumb out, eyebrows furrowed and tongue poking out between her lips. She chides you gently.

“You’re gonna have to stop moving if you want me to sketch you, ___.” 

You put your hand down from massaging your jaw - you woke up with it tensed and your teeth aching. It felt wired shut, like you needed pliers to get your mouth open, and all morning you’ve been mindlessly rubbing it, pressing your fingers into the joints and letting it hang open. You must’ve been grinding them pretty bad last night. Maybe you oughta take Gigi up on that dentist visit before you grind them into a fine powder or something.

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s up with it.” 

You adjust your posture and face Linda, who’s perched behind her easel with a drawing pad and one of those rainbow magic pencils. The room is quiet, save for the small rustling as she begins to sketch and the soft patter of rain on the windows - every once in a while you’ll hear a low rumble of thunder. Linda’s been on a portrait kick lately, and you’re the only one of your group she hasn’t drawn yet. She keeps telling you she’s practicing for when you’re all famous and need fancy paintings of you hung up. It’s a moment before she responds, glancing up at you between pencil strokes.

“It’s bothering you?”

“Mm,” you give the slightest nod.   

“Maybe your wisdom teeth are coming in. Er well, actually I don’t think that happens ‘til you’re older…Maybe you’ve got cavities or something?”

“Ew!” You balk. “I take good care of my teeth, thank you very much.” 

She hums, her arms gliding across the page.“I wonder what it could be then.”

Of course, you know what it actually is, but you debate telling her. Linda’s probably got her own stuff to worry about, and what good is bringing it up if you don’t know exactly what’s happening anyway? Surely if you don’t think about it, it’ll go away. 

Still, there isn’t much you don’t tell Linda. Over sleepovers and under pillow forts in her room, you’ve told each other your favorite colors, biggest fears (hers being either going blind or getting lice), your favorite songs. You’ve shared your clothes, your favorite CDs, your clumpy lip gloss that always gets all over her teeth whenever she tries to wear it. You’ve held each other screaming when you tried to watch Poltergeist by yourselves, wiped each other’s tears when Princess Diana died. You doubt there’s much you could tell her that she wouldn’t understand. 

You sigh, about to fidget before stopping yourself. Hold still. 

“Gigi’s been telling me I grind my teeth,” you admit. She peeks up at you from the easel. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Like, in my sleep, I’ll grind my teeth and then my jaw will hurt the next day.” You try to answer without moving too much, but Linda doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe she’s finished with your head or something. 

“Ow,” she frowns. “Are you having like, nightmares or something?”

You shrug. “I don’t know if I’d call them nightmares, like they’re not scary or anything. I just don’t know what they mean, and it makes me feel kind of weird.” 

“What are they about?”

And now you really don’t know if you should go on. Your face grows the slightest bit warm - you’ve already lied about this to Dr. Vanger, but you don’t know if you can stand lying to Linda. As far as you know, she’s never lied to you besides that one time she tried to convince you she was Tony Hawk’s illegitimate child and that’s how she ended up here. 

“It’s hard to tell,” and at least that’s not a lie. “I’m watching things happen, and I kind of understand what’s going on? But it’s like…” You try and think of a comparison. Not like a film over your eyes, no…not like you’re watching yourself from outside your own body, no…

“It’s like…It’s like I’m watching a movie that I’ve seen before, but fell asleep during.” It’s not perfect, but that’s about as close as you can get it. “So I kind of understand what’s going on like, as I’m seeing it, but I don’t get the whole story, even though I should.”

Linda peeks up again, now shading in larger areas.  

“Like a recurring dream?” 

“Yeah, sort of, but it feels more-” you pause, “-more concrete than that.”

“Like a memory, then.”

“I guess. I feel like the people in it, I should know who they are. Like, somehow I both know and I also don’t know. You know?” 

She nods from behind the easel. She’s quiet for some time as she continues to shade, only the scratching over her pencil and the occasional roll of thunder between the two of you, each perched on your little stools. Her shading slows. 

“Can I ask you something?” Her voice is quieter now, almost careful. 

“What?” 

“Do you remember anything from like…before you got here?” 

You blink. You and Linda have had your fair share of talk about Big Things, but usually where - or who - you were before is the Biggest Thing, and you’ve found that people don’t usually tell. Word spreads fast. 

“Uh-uh. I know I had parents, but I don’t know what happened to them. In my dream, my mom is like…someone who exists, but I don’t know what happened to her. There’s this little girl, too. It’s like I know them, but I don’t,” you repeat. It’s not any clearer the second time, but you feel you need to drive the point home. 

“Maybe you guys are related,” she posits. 

“Maybe…”   

It’s quiet for a moment. Not awkward, but you’re both just thinking. The rain splats on the windows. 

“Do you?” 

“Hm?” 

“Remember,” you clarify. “How you got here.” 

For a moment she says nothing, just continues shading. 

“Not at first, no. Now I do though, but I had to jog my memory.” 

Your ears perk up, your heartbeat quickens. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I read my stuff."

You look at her, blank.

"In Dr. Vanger’s office?” She looks up at you like it should be obvious. “He has all our stuff in there.” 

You’re stunned - how could you not know this? Stuff? What kind of stuff? And why don’t you get to know your stuff? Linda’s look softens at your reaction. 

“Not like, you know, readily accessible. We’re not allowed to look.” 

“Then how did you find out? It’s locked up when he leaves for the day.” 

“Mello snuck us in once. He taught himself how to pick the lock.”

Christ, of course he did. Your stomach constricts. Why didn’t he tell you? Has Matt seen his Stuff? Obviously Mello has. Has anyone seen your Stuff? Your throat feels tight thinking someone knows something about you not even you know. Does Matt? Does Mello? 

“You didn’t look at my stuff, did you? Don’t tell me you know more about me than I do.” 

“Of course not! I would never do that,” she stops shading and meets your eyes. Her brows are pushed together, and you regret asking. 

“I’m sorry, I just thought you would’ve known already. I assumed Mello showed you on your own. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. I just freaked out for a second, I didn’t mean to accuse you.” 

She gets back to shading, and you wonder if you even want to know the answer of what you’re about to ask.

“Do you think Mello would help me get in there?” 

She shrugs, “I don’t see why not, if you ask him. It’s pretty easy as long as you’re quiet, but you can still get in trouble.” 

You nod, contemplating. You want to know, but the thought terrifies you at the same time. What if it’s horrible? What if it breaks you, unmakes you? Maybe you should leave it alone - clearly you don’t remember for a reason, so maybe it’s not meant to be. That being said, what you don’t know is literally hurting you. 

You watch the raindrops glide down the windows. In the tree outside, two mourning doves are huddled beneath a branch, drenched and shivering. You watch them nuzzle into one another for warmth and preen the other’s feathers. They look so small, dwarfed by the tree’s trunk and buffeted by the wind. You wonder if they have a nest to fly back to when the rain subsides, or if the other is all they got. The quiet continues on for a few more minutes while you stare.

“Done!” She chirps. You look back at Linda, who’s made the final stroke with a flourish. You shove the idea of Dr. Vanger’s office and family and pain and memory deep within you. You’ll reopen that can of worms later, probably while lying in bed trying to sleep. 

“I wanna see!” You hop off your stool and step behind the easel. 

“Behold,” she throws out her hands to frame the page. 

There you are, your torso, shoulders, and head sketched in variegating lines, caught in a moment, captured as Linda sees you. The magic pencil has made your body a glass prism, reflecting and refracting as if bands of light were shone through you. You’re looking off towards the side, out the window, face pensive, but at ease. 

“Holy shit.”

Linda giggles, then scratches her initials in the bottom left corner. “Do you like it?”

“Are you kidding? It’s amazing!” You throw your arms around her shoulders and squeeze. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” you rock the two of you back and forth, and she holds your arms, laughing. 

Eventually you let go, and she tears the paper from the pad. 

“Let’s go show Gigi,” you suggest, and she nods, stepping off her stool and stretching. 

You follow her towards the hall, stealing a glance at the tree outside before you leave the room. You want to see your doves and wish them luck in the storm, but they’re gone. 

You do, in fact, agonize over it later, and thus, the next afternoon, you’re planted behind Mello and Matt, who are sitting crossed legged on the sofa. They’ve been playing Mortal Kombat for the past like, hour, and for all intents and purposes they’re dead to the world.

“Mello,” you call out, but neither of them answer. 

Their eyes are glued to the screen, Matt playing Raiden and Mello playing Johnny Cage. Having watched for thirty seconds, you’ve learned he kinda sucks at it. 

“Mello,” you repeat, louder this time. Again, no response. 

“Mello!” 

“Huh?” He spares what could barely be considered a glance over his shoulder at you before locking back in, fingers furiously stabbing at the controller.

“I need your help with something.” 

“What? Sorry, hold on.” 

“Yeah, ____, wait your turn,” Matt tuts and pokes his tongue out in focus. You huff and roll your eyes, planting your hands on your hips. You ponder - what could break him out of this? After bouncing around a few ideas, you hunch your shoulders and fold your arms together, trying to summon your most pathetic, bewildered, voice.

“Mello, Near bit me.”

“He what?!” Mello whips around to face you, mouth agape. Matt takes the opportunity to unleash a devastating combo, K.O. flashing across the screen.

You nod, “Me, Linda, and Loyal were doing crafts when he just came up, grabbed my arm and bit me. Then he just left!”

“What the hell? Show me,” he motions to your arm, beckoning you over, and you realize you have nary a bite mark to show for your fib. 

“Uuhh, well, come into the kitchen first so you can help me wash it off and stuff,” you whirl around - maybe if you walk fast enough, you can give yourself a chomp without him noticing. Mello hops off the couch to follow you, leaving Matt to set up for another match. One of the younger kids dashes for the controller in his stead, and as you walk away you hear Matt’s somber warning to them, “I’m not liable for whatever happens to you going forward.”

You and Mello pad towards the kitchen. 

“He seriously bit you?" He shakes his head, "man, what a dick.”

“Yeah, it was crazy.” 

You arrive in the kitchen - large, lots of counter space, two ovens and two islands, an extra long gas stove topped with range hoods and warming lights. And somehow, thankfully, empty. You turn to face Mello, who shrugs. 

“Okay? So show me, where’d he getcha?” He moves in to grab at your arm, but you move it behind your back. He frowns. “Lemme see.” He swipes at you again, and again you dodge. “What the hell, ____?”

“I have to ask you something first.” 

“No, I don’t think whatever he has is contagious. But we have to act fast so you don’t turn into one of those guys from Evil Dead or whatever.” He continues reaching out to you.

“Listen!”

He starts at your tone, bringing his arms back to his sides. 

“Jeez, what’s up with you?”

“I need your help with something,” you repeat. “But you can’t tell anybody.” You pause. “Okay maybe you can tell Matt.” 

“Tell him what?” 

You take a deep breath. 

“I need you to help me get into Dr. Vanger’s office.”  

Mello raises his brows. “Dr. Vanger’s office? Why?”

There’s a tiny, brief flicker of fear in your chest. What if he won’t help you once he knows why you want in? But then again, why would he do it for Linda (and you assume, Matt) and not you? You decide you can’t lie to him - if you’re gonna ask him to do something Against the Rules for you, you might as well be honest about why. 

“I wanna see my Stuff.” 

“Your…stuff,” he echos. 

“Yeahp,” you nod, “Linda told me you can get in there and look at your files and all that. See what’s all happened to you.” 

“I mean…yeah, I can, but are you sure? I know you don’t know much about back then, but I dunno, it’s not always cool knowing. Linda cried for days after. She probably still cries,” Mello looks down at his socks, then back. Guilty, you assume.

“I don’t know anything about back then.”

You don’t snap, but there’s a new edge in your voice that wasn’t present before, maybe ever. It startles you, and you regret it almost immediately. You lower your voice, hope it's gone. “And I think…I think I need to know.”  

Again, Mello looks to the floor, picking at the skin of his lip with his fingernails. It looks like it hurts. After a moment, he stops picking, his bottom lip now red and inflamed. He sighs. 

“Fine, I’ll do it."

“Yes!” You bounce on your heels and clasp his hands in yours, “thank you Mello, thank you, thank you, thank you.” He lets his hand flop, limp as you shake it around.

“Don’t blame me if you learn something you would’ve been better off not knowing.” 

You stop bouncing at that, or maybe more at his grave tone. Was he like this with the others?

“Well…thanks, Mello. Seriously,” you let his hands fall. He shoves them in his pockets.

“Yeah, whatever.” He nods at you. “So you gonna show me where Near bit you or what?”

“Oh! Yeah, he didn’t bite me, I just said that.” 

“What! And I believed you, you slime.” 

“What can I say, I’m pretty convincing,” you grin, and the two of you mosey back into the living room. As you fold yourself into the couch, satisfied with the outcome of your ask, you feel an odd twang in your chest, a murmur of anxiety in your brain that tells you maybe you should leave this alone after all. That maybe this is the first step of many, towards the beginning of the end. 

Chapter Text

It’s not until 12:36 am that you hear a small psst from outside your door. Mello had told you he wasn’t going to knock - it’s way past your bedtime - and to keep your ears open for when he came to get you. You’ve been pacing along each of your walls while you wait, antsy and attuned to any change in the midnight quiet, any disruption of the stillness in the air. You don’t remember when, but after a while you started counting each completed lap around your room - so far you’ve got 26, which (ironically), feels odd to you, so you walk around your room one more time, just in case. In case of what exactly, you haven’t really parsed out yet. 

Before your pacing, you’d tried to take a quick nap so you’d be ready for your little escapade, but another dream, nightmare, whatever you want to call it, woke you up, kept you up, and will probably continue to keep you up. 

Neither of you are tall enough for your feet to touch the ground, and the soles of your shoes just barely graze the weeds sprouting up from the grass below you as you swing. The swingset’s metal chains groan above you. 

Seated beside you, she flexes her foot, and the leather of her mary janes squeak. She never liked them because they gave her blisters - your mom said they gave her blisters because she didn’t wear them, and so it goes. Self fulfilling prophecy. 

She turns to you.

“Do you miss me?”

“Hm?” You turn to her, and you know you should recognize her, you want to so badly it hurts. But you can’t. Her darling red bows affixed to her half-up pigtails, her peter pan collar over her green and red plaid dress. The ruffled edges, the tulle of her underskirt, the frill of her socks, the brown of her eyes. It all means nothing. You hum. 

“Maybe…do I know you?” 

She nods, “mm-hmm.” You look her up and down from bouncy curls atop her head, to her round cheeks, to her soft hands, to her bowed knees. 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yuh-huh.” 

“Nuh-uh,” you shake your head. 

“Yuh- huh ,” she insists, swinging sideways towards you. You chuckle as she softly knocks into you, and now you’re both swinging left, right, left, right. Your shoulders bump against each other. 

“Pff, whatever.” 

You keep swinging, rustling the grass. You figure you must be at the edge of a park or something - before you is an open field, waving in the light breeze, in the distance a small creek. Maybe you can hunt for frogs if you can find a way down there. The sky is a massive, crisp dome above you. No sun, no sound but the whine of the swingset chains. You don’t necessarily dislike being here, but it still feels strange. Like you’ve been plucked out of time and left here. 

When you look back at her, she’s holding out her hand. You take it, and she entwines her fingers with yours, thumb sticking up. Her palm slots perfectly against yours, warm, familiar, like something you misplaced ending up right where you left it. You smile. 

“One, two, three, four,” she starts. 

“I declare a thumb war,” you finish. And now the other way. “Five, six, seven, eight.” 

You feel her trip tighten just so, watch her grin worm onto her face.

“Try to keep your thumbs straight.” 

Instantly, your hands constrict around each other, tugging yourselves towards one another and you laugh, kicking your legs and wiggling in your swings. She’s fast, and she actually almost gets you a few times, but ultimately you’re stronger and manage to pin her down. You hold her hand firmly, and she squeals and thrashes in your grip. 

“That’s not fair,” she laughs, “rematch, rematch!”  

“Just because you lost doesn’t mean it’s not fair,” you laugh, but hold your hand out again anyway. Her hand is warm still, almost clammy when it grabs yours. You watch her smiling face, serene, but growing red. Is she embarrassed? Why would she be? Your brows tilt together and you tilt your head, titter nervously.  

“Your cheeks are red,” you tell her. 

She touches a hand to her face, and the one holding yours grows warmer still, almost uncomfortably so. You hold tight. Despite the heat, you don’t want to let go yet. 

There’s a soft hiss where her fingers graze her cheek, and under her fingers something swells. A blister, bulbous and raw, inflates on her cheek, and another under her eye, and down her arms. Your heart pounds, and now you're tugging your hand away, but as much as you pull, you can’t let go. 

Where there aren’t blisters there are wounds, skin splitting open and trickling clear ooze. The skin of her hand sloughs and shifts under yours, like saran wrap. Her lips are peeling, cracked and yellowed, and you imagine how much it must sting with the breeze cutting against them. An acrid smell, coarse, overpowering. You whimper. 

“Please let me go.”  

Around the edges of her wounds, the skin grows black, small drops of flame spark to life over her and crackle up her body, around her eyes. She cries, and her tears sizzle into steam, her eyelashes crinkle up.

“It’ll hurt,” she tells you. Black smoke puffs out of her mouth, making your eyes water. You’re sweating, still fighting to wrench your hand away as the fire ebbs towards you. You think you might be crying. 

“What?” 

Dread, overwhelming. 

By now, there’s no part of her body unscathed - what isn’t a festering blister has flaked off and floated away in the breeze. She lets go of your hand as the flames overtake her. 

“It’ll hurt, I promise you.”

You woke with a sharp exhale, as if choking on the smoke, and that was that. You’ve been awake since, and now Mello’s here, to shepherd you to knowledge, to the waterfront, to your doom. 

“ Pssst, open up!” Mello sticks his fingers under your door and wiggles them. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” you whisper. You turn the knob quietly as you can, inching your door open. The hallway’s dark save for the moonlight pouring in, until a beam from his flashlight erupts under his chin. 

“Boo.” 

“Golly, I’m so scared,” you roll your eyes, slip out of your door, and soundlessly close it behind you. The two of you slink down the hall in silence, shoeless, just like Mello instructed. 

As you walk, your stomach churns and you once again agonize over whether this is truly a good idea, but you’re downstairs and at Dr. Vanger’s door before you even realize. Mello turns to you and whispers.

“Welp, here we are. Are you sure you want to do this?”

You think so. At least, you hope so. You could always just turn around, pad back upstairs, and forget this ever happened. But are you really content not knowing? You think back to what that girl said. It’ll hurt, I promise you . How much, and for how long? When you fall back asleep, will her charred remains be waiting for you? Will someone else’s? 

You nod your head, and Mello raises his brows at you. He wants you to say it. 

“I’m sure.” 

There’s a flash of something in his eyes, like pity or pain, and he sighs before crouching for the doorknob. 

“Alright,” he shrugs. He fishes some junk out of his pockets and gets to work. The moonlight makes his blonde hair shimmer white. You watch him concentrate, his tongue poking out. 

“Thanks for doing this, dude. I owe you one.” 

There’s a small click , and the doorknob turns with ease. He gently pushes the door open. 

“I don’t know about that.”

Dr. Vanger’s office is totally different at night - somber, still, almost ominous. Waiting, like it knows you. Like it always has. 

Mello closes the door behind you, but doesn’t shut it, and puts the flashlight on the floor, pointing towards the wall. Dust floats in the yellow beam. 

“They’re all in the filing cabinets, by last name,” he whispers, cocking his head toward Dr. Vanger’s desk. 

There’s still time to turn back, you tell yourself, but it compels you, dragging you across the floor. You stand in front of it, hand poised over the pull. Your heart is racing. Mello joins at your side. 

“Do you want to see mine? Maybe it’ll help,” he offers. 

If he’s offering, then fine, you guess. It’s one of the few things about Mello you don’t know, and maybe he’s right that it’ll gear you up a little. 

"Are you sure?"

“Yeah, I don’t care,” he shrugs. You doubt that, but what the hell. Sure. 

“Okay,” you nod, and the filing cabinet rattles open. Red case folders, some thin, some an inch thick stuff the drawer. He walks his fingers to the Ks and yanks his from the cabinet easily, you suppose on account of him having done this before. Your eyes dart to the letter of your last name. Your hand twitches at your side.

Mello feigns putting glasses on, tongues at his thumb and flips it open. He opens it up to his dossier and flattens it, handing it off to you. You can just make out the letters in the moonlight. Pasted inside is a polaroid of him among the bushes in the courtyard.

NAME: KEEHL, MIHAEL 

DOB: 13 DECEMBER 1989

DATE OF INTAKE: 14 DECEMBER 1996

SIBLINGS: NONE (0)

You scan the page - there’s things listed like his height and weight at intake, his eye color, yada yada. Not exactly what you’re looking for. You want the Stuff, and so you flip through the pages, through therapy notes, clinical charts, immunization records, and aha . Newspaper clippings. Mello looks over your shoulder as you read, gauging your reactions. 

7 YEAR OLD PATRICIDE SUSPECT TO TRANSITION TO FOSTER CARE

BATTERED CHILD SYNDROME: UNDERSTANDING PARRICIDE

SLAIN FATHER HAD HISTORY OF DOMESTIC VIOLENCE, DEFENSE SAYS

Okay, that’s enough, you think, your stomach sinking. No more. You flip the file closed and hand it to him. You don’t know exactly what patricide means, but you can surmise a guess. But what of his mother? You decide it best not to ask, and instead just watch him as he stuffs the file back in place. 

“Is that really true?” 

“Yup.”

“Jeez. I’m sorry, Mello.” You don’t know whether to call him Mello or Mihael. He doesn’t correct you. 

“I’m not. Fuck that guy.” He pats the file flush to the others. “Say it with me, fuck that guy.” 

You hesitate - you’d said your first curse word a year ago, and you cried out of guilt, but that dissipated after the first three times Mello called you a baby over it. Still, as much as you try, you don’t know if you can bring yourself to say the f word. That might just be too much. But when he's looking at you, you have to  try, for him. He starts, and waits for you to join.

“F..fuck that guy.” 

“There you go,” he smiles. “And that’s that.” 

You take a deep breath. Okay, now your turn. You find your letter and sift through the last names. You kind of want to vomit. 

You find it and pull it out slowly. It’s heavy in your hand, pulling you down into the dark, and just like before, you want to let go, but you can’t. On second thought, maybe you don’t need to do this after all. But it calls to you. Counting. Cry. Shatter. 

You flip it open. A polaroid smiles up at you. 

NAME: ____, _____

DOB: _/_/1989

DATE OF INTAKE: 4 JANUARY 1995

Okay, okay, so far so good. This is all making sense. Your file isn’t as thick as Mello’s but it contains more or less the same things: immunizations, birth certificates, therapy notes. You flip through them. Newspaper clippings. Before you turn the page, you take a final glance at your dossier. 

SIBLINGS: ONE (1), DECEASED

A ringing whirrs in your ears. Your stomach has dropped somewhere in the basement. Fear is a molten sphere in your chest, writhing and expanding, suffocating you and crushing your bones, and though you know what you’ll see before you turn the page, you do it anyway. 

Of course, just like your dream, there she is, smiling next to you as you tear open Christmas presents in your cuffed pjs. Wrapping paper everywhere. Curly hair, brown eyes, small hands. You look so happy. There’s a caption written on masking tape.

____, ELISABETH PILAR (LEFT)

Paper clipped in is another photo, this one of your whole family. You’re both in your frilly, festive dresses, your father tall and dignified in a knit sweater, your mother beautiful and bright, hair poofed up in a coiffe, big gold earrings dangling from her ears. You guess it was taken to be a Christmas card judging by the vases of poinsettias on either side of you. Your breathing quickens; Mello tears his eyes away to glance at you, but says nothing. You think he might be holding his breath.

Against all better judgement, you look at the newspaper clippings. 

HOUSE FIRE LEAVES 3 DEAD, SEVERAL INJURED IN HOLIDAY TRAGEDY

The tips of your fingers feel numb, you feel saliva pooling in your cheeks. You keep reading.

RENOWNED MUSEUM CURATOR, HUSBAND, DAUGHTER AMONG THOSE KILLED IN HOUSE FIRE

Your face contorts on its own accord, bile gurgles in your stomach and threatens to spill out of your mouth, but you force it down. 

NO EVIDENCE OF FOUL PLAY IN DEADLY NEW YEAR’S HOUSE FIRE 

If he weren’t right beside you, you’d think I need to tell Mello . But he’s right here, watching silently as you process what’s in front of you, the ringing in your ears droning steady and loud. If he’s said anything, you wouldn’t know anyway. Your heart is pounding, and you feel both full of fear, vomit, confusion, and completely empty. There’s a picture of your parents, younger, standing in your front yard, posing by a “SOLD” sign. They have the smiles of people who have everything they ever wanted.

Her - your sister’s, Elisabeth’s, your dead sister’s - voice echoes over the ringing in your head.

It’ll hurt, I promise you. 

And it does, more than you could have ever imagined. 

Chapter Text

It’s been one week since then, and you wish you could say the memories come flooding back, but they don’t. Instead they simmer and spark, revealed to you bit by bit in daydreams and flashes. 

You finally remember your sister, Elisabeth, trying so hard to stay awake to ring in the new year and eat her 12 grapes for good luck. You’d had a feeling she wasn’t going to make it past 11:30, so you popped your smaller fireworks in the street out front while your parents toasted champagne. You remember the shine of mortar fireworks bursting behind the roofs around you; looking up was like watching a galaxy being birthed. You spelt your names with sparklers, squealed with glee as your dad popped snapdragons with his fingers, ran while your mom chased the two of you in circles. 

You now remember the weeks after, the crying, the screaming - where did everybody go? What happened to your house, your things? The searching, the clawing through the rubble and detritus for any belongings that remained. Only your stuffed kitten, mangled and burnt. The bureaucracy of death, the investigations and the selecting of dates, caskets, flowers. Absolutely no one knowing what in the world to do with you, exhausted and alone, afraid. 

You remember how there were four of you, and now there is only one. All traces of them annihilated, burnt to cinders, swept away, lost, and for nothing. No arson, no malice, just the wind carrying an ember to land in just the wrong spot to spark a blaze. No heroic rescue or selfless sacrifice - you’d wanted to sleep in the foyer with the Christmas tree one more time before it was put away for the season, and you being so close to the front door was the only reason you were taken outside before the whole house was engulfed. Meaningless, random, stupid. 

You can hardly focus during the day, on account of you hardly sleeping at night, thinking and crying and pacing. You waft from place to place, trying to picture your old house’s interior, your room, your life, saying nothing. You remember the yard and its hedges and rhododendrons, the curb where you tripped over your roller skates and scraped your elbow. You remember the street signs, your neighbor’s house, the park down the road, your house’s chimney and the swingset in the backyard. How the walls sounded when they crumbled, the pop of glass bursting from the heat. You now remember that house, and you remember its skeleton, how brittle the bones. 

You’re nestled under your covers, counting each word you think on your fingertips - one, two, three, four, five - when there’s a soft series of knocks at your door. 

“____?” 

You roll over, cover your ears. You’ve barely been functioning this past week, just eat, class, eat, sleep, repeat. Linda has tried to drag you out of your room for movie night, Matt has tried to tempt you with Mortal Kombat, Mello has tried to lure you out by going for a walk around the grounds. You’ve been stuck in there all week, he’d said. But you deny, deny, deny them. You just want to be alone. There are other places you think you’d rather be, but you’ve been trying not to entertain that. By now, the pain has left your chest and settled behind your eyes, and there’s rarely been a moment you haven’t been on the verge of tears. 

There’s another few knocks, and you can tell it’s Mello by the rhythm. 

“No, Mello. Go away.” One, two, three, four.

“Come on, ____, please? You’ve been acting like a…like a ghost.” 

You bristle at his choice of words - of all the things to compare you to. As if sensing your ire, he stutters. 

“N-not like that, okay, I’m sorry. We’re just all worried about you.” 

The springs of your bed squeak as you roll back over, peeking out from under your comforter. 

“Come on now, ____. I opened the door for you, now open the door for me.” 

He does have a point, and you can tell he’s starting to get frustrated, but you stay silent. After a moment, you hear him sigh, then the thump of his footsteps receding up the hallway. Go on, then, you think. One, two, three. 

You’re about to start Thinking again, when the footsteps return, and there’s another knock. You frown. 

“Mello?” 

“Someone wants to see you.” 

Your heart jumps - there’s no way he’d go nuclear without warning you. Gigi? Dr. Vanger? Roger? You don’t think you can handle being in trouble after all this - your brain is hardly functioning, plus its nonfunctioning is a result of you already Breaking the Rules to begin with. You figure there must be a consequence for that, aside from the mental anguish you’ve already put yourself through. You swallow. 

“Who?” 

“Someone real important.”

Oh god. You don’t love the implications of that, nor the implications of ignoring them, so you swing your legs out of bed and hobble to the door. 

You open it, and to your shock, it’s still just Mello. Mello, slight, but not frail, in a black long  sleeve and jeans. Mello, holding something behind his back, looking hopeful, yet stricken. Mello, your best friend, orphaned, like you. What you each carry, you’ve carried alone. 

You shrug, shaking your head. 

“Who’s here?” 

Slowly, carefully, he brings around what’s behind his back. Yellow, frayed, soft. What in the…

“You brought…Kurt?”

And indeed, held in Mello’s hands is his stuffed lion, his dumb little face looking up at you surrounded by scraggly mane, his stumpy little legs sticking straight out. Mello lifts a paw to wave at you.

“Kurt…came to see me.” 

It’s not a question, despite your confusion. Mello’s cheeks burn, his lips pursed. You never thought you’d see the day where Mello, proud and stubborn and always trying to be one of the Big Kids, would dare bring Kurt out of his room, much less present him to you for comfort or mime him waving at you. It’s kind of sweet, and you soften as you look at him. The urge to cry is ever-present, and you idly wonder if it’ll last your whole life, until you die.

“He heard you were sad and needed cheering up.” 

A small smile breaks through, probably the first one in a week. You wheel around and let him - them? - in. 

“And he heard that from you, I’m guessing?” Mello pads in after you. 

“Yes.”

You sit on the bed, and Mello joins you. For a moment, neither of you say anything, until Mello shifts and does the unthinkable. Carefully, delicately, he stretches out his arm, and offers Kurt to you. You almost don’t understand what’s happening - Mello has never, ever, let anyone take Kurt. He must really mean business. The seconds drag as you stare, dumbfounded. 

Finally, you reach back and gently wrap your hand around him. He’s heavier than he looks, weighted with what might be little beads inside, floppy and so soft. His mane is matted in places. Your hand brushes Mello’s as you take him. 

“I should’ve never let you in there,” Mello murmurs, head hung. “I’m…I’m sorry.” 

You look down at Kurt and stroke his fur, meet his little button eyes. You shrug, stiff. 

“It’s not your fault. I asked you to.”

“I know, but I shouldn’t have. It wasn’t cool.”

You snicker - if there’s anything Mello’s has to be, it’s cool. His head snaps up, his brows pulled together, fraught.

“Seriously! Doing that…it only ever hurts people. I should’ve known better.”  You know what he’s thinking, the guilt that’s bubbling within him. A good friend wouldn’t do this. No good deed goes unpunished.

You fiddle with Kurt’s ears while the two of you sit in silence for a moment. Everything hurts, and you marinate in the pain, the grief, the agony. Even with your best friend next to you, it smothers you. 

“Now that I know their faces, I don’t know what to do.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Like…I can’t get them out of my head. I can’t stop thinking about them.” 

You see them when you close your eyes, when you stare at the wall, when you try to read. You hear your sister’s laugh, your father’s soothing baritone. You hear them like they’re here with you, sat round your floor playing cards or a board game. Pieces that form the whole. But they’re gone, and you’re alone, left to wonder. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes, and you dab them away, cheeks growing red. You take a deep breath.  

“I keep thinking what things could’ve been like.” 

“You mean like - ”

“Like, if they were still around. What things would be like.”

Mello hums, nodding just so. 

“You probably wouldn’t be here, I guess. Like at Wammy’s.”

You nod. “Yup. Probably not.” 

Mello bumps his shoulder against yours. 

“I’d miss you, if that helps.”

“Really?”

He smirks. “Well, maybe just a little.”

You snort, nudge him back. It does help, if only slightly, but there’s still a cavern somewhere in your chest, hollow, aching. 

“Some part of me thinks it would’ve happened either way. Like, if I could’ve stopped it,” and you don’t know how you would’ve done that exactly - counting? Pacing? Thinking? “ - something else would’ve happened anyway. Like punishment for even trying.” 

“Punishment from who?” 

You shrug. 

“I dunno, the universe? Fate? Whatever is out there, I dunno.” And you really don’t - you hardly know where half of this is even coming from, if you’re being honest. Normally quite self-assured, since that night you’ve felt thrust into chaos. No control over anything, only spinning and tripping and falling, a person without choice, to whom things just happen. You need that control back somehow. You've got some ideas, but you will them away. You turn to Mello.

“Do you miss your family?”

You think you feel Mello stiffen, but you’re not sure, too focused on the feeling of Kurt’s puffball tail between your fingers. It’s a moment before he answers, and you wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have asked. 

“Yes..? No..? I don’t know, it’s complicated. I think so.” 

You recall the text of his file. 

“Your dad…” You swallow. You’re hesitant - is this really any of your business? He did offer you a look, but that was just a look, not 20 questions. 

“So you…” 

You don’t know how to ask this, if Mello will even allow it. Drag your finger across your neck? Mime shooting yourself in the head? Crook your neck and stick your tongue out? You don’t want to be a dick about it, so you just ask. 

“You…killed him?” 

A brief moment of silence stretches between you, Mello staring at the hardwood. He nods. 

“Like, on accident?” 

He shakes his head. 

“On purpose,” you say. He nods his head. You meet his eyes, blue, muted, and pensive. 

“I’m sorry, Mello. That must’ve been awful.” 

You offer him one of Kurt’s paws, and he takes it between his thumb and pointer finger, like they’re shaking hands, closing a tiny, tiny deal.  

“I don’t regret it, but it sucked. It still sucks.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” you nod, not too sure what else to say. “You don’t have to tell me, but can I ask what happened to your mom?” You wave your hands in front of you and reiterate, “you don’t have to tell me.”

“She died not long after he did. I didn’t kill her, though.” 

He says no more, and so you don’t press it. He takes Kurt from you fully and holds him to his chest. He really does make you feel better.

“You know…if you want, you can tell me about your family. That way you’re not the only one who remembers.”

You hum. Maybe that would be nice…You could tell him about the games you’d play, how your sister was ambidextrous, how your mother was so smart, smarter than you could probably ever hope to be, even in this place. How your dad taught himself to juggle, how he wanted to pick the family dog. 

“Might hurt a little less,” Mello adds. 

You surely don’t know how it could hurt any more , but he might be right. It might loosen some of the sludge corded around your ribs, might staunch the tears for just a moment. But it also might make everything so, so much worse, reliving the laughter and the stories and the love that’s now gone. But maybe, if you and Mello go downstairs, and you hold Linda’s warm hand and meet Matt’s steady smile, and you tell them about that love, maybe it can be redirected. 

“That would be nice,” you smile. 

You miss them. Though it’s only been a week, you miss them, and you miss the person you were before you knew. Free, light, ignorant. Now you’re burdened with this terrible knowledge, trampled underfoot, brittle, and you doubt you’ll ever be the same. But watching Mello pop up from your bed, holding out his hand to you to lead you downstairs, you feel a little bit better. 

Sat before the fireplace, you tell them your favorite memories. Your walks through Mom's curations before her exhibits opened, Dad letting the handlebars of your bike go, glitter tassels streaming as you pedaled, braiding Elisabeth's hair because she couldn't figure out how to do it herself. Your friends listen happily, throwing in their own memories from Back Then. Even Mello, who says the word "mama" like it's sacred, holy and enshrined. Later that evening, he'll tell you what happened and make you pinky promise not to tell. You do, of course, and by the end of the night you crawl into bed, having felt so held and cherished and loved by your friends - your family? - that you feel just a little bit better. Certainly not good, but better. 

Chapter Text

The first dead thing Mello ever saw was his beloved goldfish, Guppy, held dangling over the toilet bowl by a delicate hand, waiting to be flushed. He sniffled and peered into the toilet water, imagining poor Guppy tossed about in all the cold water with the sewage and the trash, scrapped. 

“Shouldn’t we bury him instead?”

A warm hand on his head, smoothing down blonde flyaways. 

“You want to bury him, honey?” 

He nodded. 

“Okay,” she said softly, and pecked the side of his head before leading him to the backyard. 

Knelt before a patch of lilacs, they interred Guppy in the cool dirt, pressing it into a mound atop which they placed a tiny stone and a cross made of toothpicks and rubber bands. They bowed their heads. 

“Guppy was a great fish, and I will miss him so much. May he rest in peace. I love you, Guppy.”

“That was beautiful, honey,” she murmured as she patted his back. The tears were threatening to fall again, and she pulled him in close before the dam breached. She hushed him as he hiccuped, rubbing his back and rocking them back and forth. 

“Shh, it’s okay, my love. I know, I know.” A few stray tears trickled down Mello’s cheeks, and he wrapped his arms around her neck. 

“I love you, Mama.”

“Oh, my baby, I love you too,” she said, still rocking them. She pulled away, swept a lock of hair behind his ear and looked him over. His cheeks were puffy, his blue eyes - his father’s - shimmering with tears. She chuckled, smiled a small smile. So many tears for such a little thing, a tiny little creature her son won at the fair that didn’t have a voice, couldn’t even pet, and he loved him still. 

“Don’t cry, my love. It hurts now, but you’ll be okay. You’re a tough cookie,” and she squeezed his shoulders. She hugged him one more time and sighed that loving, exasperated sigh she used to squeeze out of her own mother. Again, they rocked side to side. 

“Oh, Mihael..You’re my boy, huh? My sweet boy.” He nodded against her clavicle. 

From inside, she heard the front door slam. Aleksej was home - she’d need to get dinner going. Soon, ideally, lest the evening turn…not ideal. She stood, scooped him up and sat him on her hip. She winced - there was a bruise there, fresh and blooming green and purple. She’d have to take a look at it before bed, maybe ice it or toss back some painkillers. 

“Come on, sweet boy. Let’s go inside.” 

Mello clung tight to her as she carried him. Sad as he was about Guppy, he felt better knowing he had a final resting place that wasn’t the cistern down the road. 

Inside, his father was waiting - now that he was home, the evening could go one of three ways. One, Mello would sneak up to his room and not come out until morning, playing connect four against himself or reading until he fell asleep. That would be the most ideal option: no yelling, no contact, just him and his room, cocooned until morning. He did feel bad for leaving Mama out there, but now that Dad pried the locks off all the doors in the house, it was the only place left where he didn’t feel as exposed. At least the things in there were his, however fragile.

Two, Dad would catch him by the wrist before he could make his dash upstairs, then force him to sit in the living room with him while he blared the TV too loud, ranting about whatever slight his coworkers, wife, or the world at large had committed against him that day. Depending on how many drinks he’d have, Mello trying to leave would only prompt his father to pull him by the hair, sit him back down on the couch, and spit and curse at how ungrateful of a son he is, how he has no respect for his father and Everything He Does. If he cried, that spawned a rant how Only Bitches Cry, from there devolving into a slap, a shove, and finally a belt whipping so Mello would Really Have Something to Cry About. His mother would rush in and try to stop him, Mello would slip away, run to his room and place a chair against the door and try to go to sleep. When he’d leave his room in the morning, a pillow and blanket would be strewn before his door where his mother had stayed watch through the night. Not ideal. 

Three, the least ideal, was Dad wouldn’t like Mama’s tone, regardless of what she actually said, which devolved into a screaming match, then Mello running upstairs and hiding under his bed, hands covering his ears, trying to drown out the fear, the agony, the pain he knew Mama was about to endure. He couldn’t see it, but after a few years, he’d learned the sound of a connecting punch, shattering glass, a plea for mercy. He wanted so badly to help her, to get him to stop, but his last attempt ended in a kick in the ribs that left a bruise that was very hard to explain at school. He did not, in fact, fly over the handlebars of his bike. 

And of course, more than anything, he was scared. The bruising, the shouting, the threatening, the breaking, he couldn’t stand it. Terror, condensed and injected. By all accounts, Mello was not made for this world, nor it for him.

♱ ♱ ♱ 

The second dead thing Mello ever saw was a rat that had scurried into the foyer from the backyard. He and Mama were playing checkers, and his dad was…somewhere upstairs, doing whatever he did when he was alone - festering, seething, decaying, maybe. He hadn’t come down all evening. Sometimes, Mello would creep upstairs and peer through the crack in the door, trying to catch a glimpse of him, what he was doing. But every time, as quiet as he thought he was, somehow his father would always catch him, like he could feel him lurking - “ I can see you, Mihael,” and his voice alone would be enough to send him back downstairs. 

The rat was frantic, panicking at the angular forms and straight lines around it, the cold of the tile where there should be plush ground. Mama was not about to touch that thing, and so Mello was chasing it around the house with a broom and a bucket, hoping to catch it and release it outside. Poor thing was just in the wrong place, and just needed help back to its home, though he did want to pretend to toss it at Mama, just for a laugh. 

It squeaked and tittered as it ran about the kitchen, darting under the island and weaving around the legs of their barstools. It backed itself into a corner, and Mello tiptoed up to it, bucket poised over its little head.

“Gotcha.”

This close, it was actually kind of cute - small round ears, gray fur, tiny pink fist-like paws. It would probably make a good pet, if Mama wasn’t terrified of it. Both she and the rat were trembling. Couldn’t hurt to ask, though. 

“Mama, if I catch it, can we keep him?” 

“Abso lutely not,” she called from her perch behind the couch. 

“Well, sorry buddy. Back outside you go,” and Mello slowly brought down the bucket. The rat watched its descent, still, and Mello was shocked it didn’t try to escape, throw itself against the plastic. 

“I got him!” 

With a proud grin, Mello whirled around to show Mama, but it was not her leaning on the door jamb. It was Dad, watching. The tension pinballed around them as they stared at one another - Mama from the couch, Mello from the kitchen, Dad from the doorway, arms crossed.

“I heard a commotion.” 

Mello shook his head, but only slightly - no sudden movements, like an animal. The cornered rat. 

“Mama and I were just hanging out.” 

Dad jerked his head. 

“Why do you have our bucket?” 

“A rat,” Mello swallowed. His throat was dry, swelling with nerves. “A rat got in. I was gonna put him back outside.”

Mello watched him push off the wall, unfold his arms and cross the kitchen in three strides. His shadow came over Mello, eclipsing the kitchen light behind him. His eyes bore down on him, searing. He crouched to Mello’s height, turned towards the bucket. Mama took his place in the threshold. In the silence, Mello saw she’d put her shoes on. 

“And you were going to let it outside.” 

Mello nodded, and again his father’s eyes met his. Cold and empty, waiting. He looked at him like he hated him, and Mello could never understand why, despite how desperately he wanted to. Maybe there was no reason, and it was just hate, begotten of hate, begotten of hate, begotten of hate. 

“Yes, Dad.”

Dad sighed, and reached towards the bucket. 

“I was gonna find some paper or cardboard to trap him in there,” Mello added quietly. 

“You will not,” and he shot his hand under the bucket, and after a brief scuffle, he pulled out the rat, fingers tight around its neck. Its tail flailed, its little legs kicking and scratching at his father’s cracked hand. It thrashed in his hand, and Mello thought of Guppy, how gently Mama cradled him, even as a corpse. 

“Rats are filthy, Mihael. They carry disease.” 

Mello watched it squirm. 

“You didn’t touch it, did you?”

He shook his head. “No, Dad.” 

His father nodded, straightened up. Both Mello and his mother watched him as he walked out from behind the island and held it by the tail. Her lip was trembling, eyes welling with tears. Carefully, he bent down and lifted his heel, placed its tail under his shoe. He held it there, and more and more the rat panicked, clawing at the tile and squeaking. 

“Aleksej-” Mama moved to stop him.

“It’s disgusting, Vera.”

They both watched as Dad lifted his other foot, hovered it over the rat. 

“Daddy-”

Only in truly desperate times did he call him that, and never, ever had it worked. It certainly didn’t work now, and his Dad slammed down his boot.

At the crunch, Mama spun away with a shriek muffled with her hand. Mello watched the rat burst, blood and intestines oozing from where its skin had split. It twitched. Dad lifted his boot, dribbling blood and fluids and fur, and stomped once more, killing it. A speck of blood flew at Mello, landing just under his eye. 

The smell hit him as Dad was peeling the rat’s body - what was left of it - from under his boot. Gore lined the treads, and as he watched he had to stifle his vomit. It was more like a pelt now, and he dropped it on the kitchen floor with a wet slap. He bent one last time to unlace his boots and toed them off. 

Mama was dry heaving and bent at the waist, the smell having now snaked around the kitchen and seeping into the vinyl. His father stepped around the pooling blood, the matter, and washed his hands in the sink. 

“You’ll thank me one day, Mihael.”

Mello watched his back as he hunched over the sink, nauseated, crying. No, he didn’t think he ever would. 

“It’s hard being a man in this world,” he turned as he toweled off his hands. 

“But you’ll learn, because Dad will teach you.” Mello sniffled, looked at the ground. Not at the rat - he couldn’t. He grit his teeth.

“Thank you, Dad.” 

“You’re welcome, son.” 

As Mello watched him ascend the stairs, he decided that he hated him. He hated his voice, his hands, the eyes they shared. He hated his gait, his mind, and the way he held himself. He hated that he was his son, ill begotten. 

He and Mama said nothing, only stared at the remains. Later, they will have buried this, too. 

♱ ♱ ♱ 

The third dead thing Mello ever saw was Aleksej Keehl. His father, hated, draining blood in the middle of the kitchen floor. 

Before Dad came home, Mama had told him to pack some things - they were going on a vacation. A reward for reading so many books last year, and because she just loved him so much. When he asked where, she didn’t say. He dragged his little hardshell suitcase downstairs, where Mama was flitting from corner to corner, picking things up and putting things away. 

“What about Dad?”

She didn’t even stop when she answered. “He’s gonna meet us there.”

“Can I help?”

“No, honey, just sit on the couch. We’ll get going here in a second, okay?”

“Okay,” and he sat on the couch, bewildered, watching her run from the linen closet to the kitchen drawer, to the refrigerator. From behind one of Mello’s class drawings, she removed a square of paper, ran to the phone, and dialed. 

“Yes, yes, we’re leaving now. I have all our documents and the deposit. You’ll be waiting at the station?” 

Mello’s ears perked up - he hoped she meant the train station. If they were vacationing out in the country, they could watch the scenery go by, play cards, play I Spy. 

Mama nodded, exhaled a hard breath. “Thank you, thank you. Yes, okay. We’ll see you there. It’ll be me and my son.” 

Her voice was shaking - this must be one heck of a vacation. She hung up and turned to Mello, clapped her hands together and moved towards him. 

“Okay! You ready, baby? Let’s get-”

The front door unlocked, open, shut. 

“I thought you said-”

Mama put a finger to Mello’s mouth. Her eyes darted from one place to the next. She called out to him. 

“Aleksej?”

They heard Dad’s work bag fall in the entryway, a dull thud. He wasn’t usually home this early.  

“Go upstairs, go upstairs, go upstairs,” she repeated, whispering now. She put the handle of his suitcase in his palm and closed his fingers around it. Mello was confused - why was Mama so frantic all of a sudden? Why were her hands so balmy? As much as he didn’t like it, now they could take the train together. They just had to wait for Dad to get his things, and they could be off. But before Mello could even make it off the couch, Dad was in the living room, watching them. 

“Vera.” 

His mama stifled a sob, tears now streaming down her face and neck. Whatever this was, it was over before it began. 

“What are you doing?” His voice was low, measured. It was hardly a question, because he already knew. She knew, and Mello was on the precipice. She turned. 

“I…I was-”

He took a step further into the living room. 

“Taking my son from me,” he finished. “Taking a boy from his father?”

She shook her head, hiccuped. He peered around her to Mello. 

“Mihael, what did she tell you? Where did she say you were going?” And somehow, he knew not to answer. He could feel it, the fear, the rage, radiating from his mother. 

“Mihael.”

He lurched toward them, and Mama stepped before Mello. 

“Get away from him. You don’t touch him.” 

He ignored her, talked through her.

“Don’t you know I can see through you, Mihael? Don’t you know I can see when you lie?”

As Dad closed in, she raised a fist and shrieked, “Don’t you touch him!”

But it meant nothing. With the same precision with which he caught the rat under the bucket, he snatched her wrist in his hand. Mello had never noticed, but it went all the way round. He twisted, pulling her to him, dragging her across the floor. 

Mello was sobbing now too - he had always heard, but never seen this, and nothing compared to seeing it. He had heard, but never seen what it looked like to throw another person across the room, what it looked like when their side met the corner of the kitchen island. How it looked to hold someone by the chin, their cheeks pushed together, swollen, saliva leaking from their mouth. He had heard, but never seen, Mama thrown into the dish drying rack, shattering the porcelain and the shards being sprinkled into her hands. Only heard, not seen, Mama diving for the phone, only for it to be ripped out of the wall. 

A new sight and a new sound, like a lightbulb popping in a pillowcase, seeing Mama’s left wrist disjointed, bent at an odd angle. He had heard Mama’s screams, her pain many times, but never seen her blood leaking out of her like it was now, dripping onto the floor in puddles, rushing out of her nose, her forehead.  

“ Mama!”

What he was hearing and seeing now was not like the times before, and he had a feeling Mama knew. It was in the way she cried, her blood mixing with her tears, the way she was still fighting back, thrashing and spitting and kicking, the nasty look in her eye. It was in the way she was gurgling back blood, choking on it and raking her fingernails across his face, the way she stumbled over her ankles as they folded beneath her.

Mello was panicking, sobbing and screaming. Enough. Please. He ran at Dad’s legs, throwing his little fists against his thighs and his groin.

His father grabbed him, his huge hand engulfing his head, and shoved him into the cabinets. On TV, in his cartoons, they would always see stars, but he found it felt more like the inside of your own brain exploding and being left with the deflated remains. His vision blurred, and anything he looked at lingered before disappearing, like staring into the sun. Warmth bloomed under his hair, down his neck, and he couldn’t hear. And then, the pain, throbbing and overwhelming. 

When he could see again, he saw Mama’s hand from behind the island, fingernails chipped and arms sprayed with blood. She was hardly moving, her eyes rolling back into her head, the veins in her forehead bulging. He saw Dad, straddled above her, hands around her neck. 

No, no, no, no. This could not happen, this could not continue. Mama, his only friend, his angel, his happiness, and he was going to kill her. He had to do something, anything. 

With every bit of strength he could muster, he pulled himself off his knees and hoisted himself onto the island where they kept their knife block, just out of reach. He was not, ever, never ever, supposed to touch them.

He scooted on his stomach towards it, splaying out his fingers. He begged. Just a little farther, and he would have the largest, sharpest one. He knew it well. He dragged himself and finally wrapped his fingers around the hilt and it unsheathed with a low ring. He pulled it with such force the block toppled over, the rest of them clanging onto the floor. He hopped down, almost slipping on one, rolling his ankle. 

Through the flood of tears, he ran around the island and saw his father still crouched over her, her face red, blood vessels in her eyes bursting. He dwarfed them both. Mello’s hands tightened around the knife, the blood roaring in his ears. He screamed and threw himself forward into his father’s back. 

It didn’t feel at all like he thought it would. The knife popped the skin, slid in with a strange resistance. The blade went between his shoulders, and Mello assumed the hard wall he hit was bone. Dad let go of Mama, swung his arms behind him and reached blindly for the hilt. He was cursing, hissing, but cried out when Mello grabbed the hilt and pulled. It was harder coming out than it was going in, and again he had to use both hands. His father gasped when the tip of the blade left his back, soft, labored. 

“Mihae-”

Again, Mello screamed, and again he shoved the knife into his father’s back. He felt it hit his shoulder blades, the base of his spine. Mello screamed and stabbed, screamed and stabbed. Blood pooled under Dad’s shirt, spurted onto his cheeks and in his eyes. He could taste it. Like Mama, the blood mixed with the tears. Over and over, until Dad’s body slumped forward, head knocking against the cabinet before rolling on its side.

Mello panted, and the knife slipped out of his hand, clattering onto the floor. Then there was only silence and the ringing in his ears. Seconds dragged on and it felt like days that he knelt there, head throbbing, ankle burning, hands trembling. Eventually, he tried his best to shove the body off of Mama, but it was too heavy, and he could only drag his dad’s torso off her chest. Even now - maybe especially now - he hated him. He looked from his father’s body to his mother’s. 

“Mama,” he nudged her shoulder as gently as he could. “Mama.” 

He couldn’t stop crying, even when she choked and wheezed a weak inhale. He couldn’t stop crying, even though at least she was alive. He stood, knees numb, and looked around the kitchen. There were shards of glass littered across the floor and counters, handles broken off drawers, cabinets thrown off hinges. There was hardly a spot untouched. Blood, everywhere. He was covered in it, layers upon layers of it, crusted and flaking off him. It hardened in his hair and stuck his clothes to his skin.

Like the rat’s, it smelled, and Mello stumbled toward the living room and vomited. He went back to the kitchen, found the phone on the floor and held it up to his ear. Broken. He had to get help, and so he opened the front door and limped down the walkway, blinded by the mid afternoon sun. 

When his neighbors found him standing in the middle of the road, he was crying. When the police came and his mother was wheeled away into an ambulance, tangled in tubing and wires and peppered with glass, he was crying. He cried as he watched from another room as doctors and nurses pieced Mama back together, cracked her wrist back into place. He cried when a nurse brought him a little plush lion from the gift shop to hold while he waited. He cried as an officer brought him his suitcase, when the doctors stitched the back of his head shut, sponged off the blood from his face. When Mama woke and was told that her only son had killed her husband to save her, he cried still. 

♱ ♱ ♱ 

The last dead thing Mello saw was Vera Keehl, hanging from a rafter in their garage two months later. Again, he vomited, and again, he cried. Again, he found his neighbors who helped cut her down, her body stiff, lips blue, neck bruising. 

She had left a note that he read, but would probably never understand. How she had loved him, Mello, her beautiful boy, her only son. How she had failed him, failed to protect him, failed him as a mother, then, now, and forever. Her deepest shame, that she let his father hurt him, that she was so close to freedom, but lost it. That this was her fault, and she would die with this pain, having failed him so completely that he was forced to murder his own father.  

Mello would bury this too, watching her lowered into the earth. He would remember her face, bloated and swollen and swinging, and he would remember her face, broken and drenched in blood. He would remember her face, serene and wonderful and soft when she’d hold him, look into his eyes, and smile. By all accounts, Mello was not made for this world, nor the new one he found himself in, and so he cried, and cried, and cried. 

Chapter Text

It’s Saturday, noon, and so far you’ve watched eight back to back episodes of Full House, though you can hardly recall the premise or plot of each episode - they could be aired out of order for all you know, or care. Your chin is resting in your palm, eyes glazed over, legs falling asleep and prickling with pins and needles. Linda sits beside you on the couch, knees tucked under her, sketching, while Matt fiddles with his game boy and Mello reads. 

It’s been about two months since what you and Mello have been calling your “trip to the office”, and since then you’ve oscillated through a spectrum of crushing, suffocating despair, blinding, white hot rage, frantic, manic elation, and a stark echoing numbness. Your body is but a vessel for confusion, writhing inside you and in need of escape. You’ve tried journaling, painting, walking. Counting, pacing, reciting. You’ve tried to punch it away with kickboxing lessons, push it away by burying yourself in your studies, run laps around the grounds until you vomit. But nothing helps, and the feelings persist, dreams and memories of your family now eating away at you. The relief you felt from knowing, the love you felt from sharing has now morphed into a deep regret, an even stronger longing for what could’ve been, what you missed out on. Grief festers within you, bubbling and unfolding, a swelling cloud building to storm, waiting for the bottom to fall out, and collapse. 

The theme song blares as another episode begins, and you chew the inside of your cheek as you watch, seething. You think you might hate this show, these stupid actors and that stupid house and that stupid theme song. What could these stupid actors, in their stupid fake gilded world with lights and makeup chairs and stupid little outfits, ever know about losing a parent, a sibling, a home? Nothing, you conclude. You mute the TV and toss the remote onto the coffee table. It’s about lunchtime anyway. 

It’s chicken nuggets and fries today, with a side of apple slices and peanut butter for your great, developing young minds. Your plate comes with six, so you slip a slice to Linda, who’s sitting across and to your right. Mello and Matt flank each side, and you all munch in relative silence. You’ve tried your hardest to maintain your composure around them, to not snap when you feel particularly agitated, to joke and laugh like you usually do, and in turn they’ve lightened up on their usual teasing, and deferred to you when choosing what movie to watch or what to do with your day. 

They each hold you in their own way. Linda has brushed your hair out of your face, held your hand while you cried, Matt has helped you pick up your room after you’ve thrown things out of anxiety, and Mello has stayed up with you when you can’t sleep, afraid to dream of the burning, the smoke, the fluorescent light flickering overhead. As the days pass, you can feel Gigi’s gaze on your back, studying you and the cracks in your demeanor. You wonder when she’ll inevitably tell Dr. Vanger, and debate just going ahead and telling her what happened and that you’re capital F Freaking Out. Surely she’d understand, right? 

You’re mulling this over as you chew, when a figure appears before you, blocking out the sun from the window. You sigh, and you can feel your friends wilting around you.

“Hi, Rory.” 

In your grade, in your business, in your face, insufferable Rory. Usually a tertiary presence in your classes, Rory crops up whenever he thinks there’s Hot Goss he can pry out of people, or when he needs to re-up his feelings of being In the Know. What’s Hot Goss or what to even be In the Know about at a children’s orphanage in the first place is beyond you, and the four of you always try to scatter when he comes sniffing around to bother you. You try not to be mean, you really do, but he’s just so aggravating, and anything that comes out of your mouth gets absorbed into his rumor mill, mutated, and circulated. Mello’s a German spy who ratted out his entire family out of loyalty, Linda steals her art out of museums during field trips, Roger is actually L, who’s actually Gigi, Matt wasn’t dropped off at Wammy’s but rather found in a pile of dirt in the woods and raised by dogs, etc, etc. The list goes on.

Rory swings a leg around the chair in front of you and plops down, knocking into Linda’s shoulder. She rolls her eyes. 

“Hey guys,” he grins. He rests his elbows on the table and holds his face in his hands, drumming his fingers against his cheeks. None of you say anything, just exchange glances and dip your nuggets in ketchup. The moments tick by awkwardly until finally, you say something. 

“Did you need somethi-” 

“So what have you guys been up to?”

His eyes are glinting as they dart between the four of you, freckled cheeks pulled up and impish. 

“We’re eating,” Matt says flatly in between bites of a fry. Rory rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, obviously. Like, what have you been up to . We haven’t talked in a while.”

“We haven’t talked ‘cuz we don’t like you,” Mello says. 

“What! Not even a little bit?” 

“Nope,” Linda quips. 

“Why not?”

You pop a fry into your mouth. “‘Cuz you gossip. You say things that aren’t true. You lie.”

“Yeah, and no one likes liars,” Mello shakes his head. Rory’s grin seems to falter, his eyebrows twitch. You can feel the tension pulsing around you, bolts of malice sparking between your heads. You’re starting to get annoyed. You want this to be over, to have your lunch in peace, but you can't stop the words coming out of your mouth. You're playing with fire, and you and your friends all know it. You quirk an eyebrow. 

“What if we went around lying on you?”

You toss a sly look at Matt, and he picks up quick. 

“Yeah, like how you’re a no good little jerk who’s got nothing better to do?” Matt taunts, and tosses a fry towards Rory. “Well, I guess that wouldn’t be a lie.” 

Rory’s jaw sets, lips in a taut line. 

“Yeah, well, what if I went around and said something that is true?” 

You know you shouldn't go on, that you should just drop it. Whatever satisfaction you'd get from telling him off, it's probably not worth it. You don't even know where this is coming from, or why it feels so good. You don't want to. And yet you continue on, coasting on the high you get from skirting around danger, a hornet's nest.

You scoff, “like what, moron? What do you know?” 

Rory’s head snaps to you. “More than you! Ask Elisabeth, ” he sneers. 

The world stills, and the five of you are quiet. You can feel your neck growing hot, your stomach gnarled and snaking around itself. Mello, Linda, and Matt are all looking to you, faces blanched. That ringing in your ears whirrs to life once again. You clench your fists, your nails digging into your palms. Hearing her name come out of his mouth that way disgusts you. It’s marred, soiled and he says it with such flippancy that you might have to hurt him over it. Your teeth grind against each other.

“What the fuck did you just say?” 

“Yeah!” he nods wildly, haughty. “You’re not the only ones who can get in Dr. Vanger’s office, moron. ”

You know he’s insufferable, but you never pegged him for a total dickhead. A stupid one, at that. From beside you, Mello can feel the static of your anger coming off you in waves. The purity of it is unlike anything you've felt before. It’s as if the room has grown suddenly darker, heavier. To your shock, he tries to diffuse the situation, at least by his standards.

“God, is that all you ever do, get in people’s business? Daily Star would love your stupid ass.”    

“I bet they would! I could tell them all about your stupid little lives,” he pushes his palms on the table and cranes over to Mello. “Like your falling out with your dad, and your mom’s accident .” 

Mello seems mostly unfazed, but glares at Rory nonetheless. 

“Shut up, Rory!” Linda barks. He ignores her, turning back to you.

You’re fuming, hands trembling at your sides. 

“And your little house, all burned up.”

He leans down. 

“Get out of my face,” you warn him. You don’t really know what you’re planning on doing, if you have a plan at all, but you can feel something coming. It's exciting, feeling yourself unwinding. 

“Freak accident, yeah right. They probably set it themselves just to get away from you.” 

And before you can even think, you shoot out of your chair with a yell and fly across the table at Rory. Your chair screeches out from under you and topples to the ground as your shoes find purchase on the table and squeak. Linda shrieks as you push Rory backwards onto the floor, your hands digging into his hair and yanking. Your knees scream when you land on the floor.

It’s chaos as the younger kids scream and scatter, forming a circle around you to watch as your friends jump up from their seats and try to separate you. Yelling, grunting, screaming, shouting. They pull at your shirt, your neck, but you’re too enraged, too rabid. You feel nothing but your anger barreling through you, spilling out from your mouth and your fingertips. Food is flung onto the floor, ketchup smears on the floor and on your shirt. Rory is digging his knees into your sides as you knock his head against the floor. He thrashes underneath you, trying to bite up at you. 

Rory pulls your hair and palms at your face, scratching down your head, and you feel the sting in three straight lines. You let go of his hair and draw back your left fist, and you watch him squirm as you bring it down hard and connect it with his cheek. Spittle flies out of his mouth and onto the floor. Your knuckles throb, and you hate that you like the feeling. Tears stream out of your eyes and drip onto Rory’s swelling face. You wind up again, but before you can land another punch, the sea of children parts and you hear heavy footsteps, your name being yelled. 

“Hey! Hey!” Gigi yells and skids to a stop above you. She lifts you by the armpits and pulls, but you’re still reaching out for him through the tangle of limbs. Dr. Vanger grabs Rory and pulls him away, but not before you watch Mello slap Rory hard across the face. 

You thrash in Gigi’s arms, twisting and slipping, but she holds firm. You behold your work: tufts of Rory’s hair dot the floor in clumps, and what’s still on his head is splayed in every direction. His nose is dribbling blood onto his upper lip and into his mouth, and a goose egg is forming on his forehead. His face is red and lined with scratch marks, his eyes watering. Your own face burns where his fingernails sheared off the skin, and pinpoints of blood dot the gashes. Your hair is a tangled bird’s nest atop your head, and your knees are scraped and bruising from where you vaulted onto the table and crashed to the floor. Your left hand aches. 

Before you’re too far away, you pool saliva in your mouth and launch it at Rory’s face. Gigi jolts you in her arms. 

“ Hey, that’s enough!” 

She looks down at you and shakes you again. 

“What are you doing, ____? Huh? What are you doing?!”

You don't answer. You can't. She looks to Dr. Vanger, who’s holding Rory’s arms to his chest. You've never seen her so tense. She didn't even have time to put her hair up. She huffs out a harsh breath.

“Take him to the nurse, then I’ll take her.” 

Dr. Vanger looks at you before acquiescing, and the look he gives you is nigh pitying. Like you’ve disappointed him, like you failed. Panting and exhausted, you watch his back as he recedes with Rory down the hall.

Your head is aching now that the adrenaline is wearing off, your hands are shaking and your feet feel numb. If Gigi weren’t holding you, you might not even be upright. 

As Gigi escorts you to your room, you relive the sight of Mello’s open hand cracking across Rory’s cheek, and you smile. You hope he can still feel it. 

“So tell me what happened.” 

You’re slouching in Dr. Vanger’s office chair, knees pulled up to your chest. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye this whole time, so enveloped with shame that you can only glare at the floor. On each knee is a different colored Power Rangers band aid. Your cheek ambiently stings with rubbing alcohol under the gauze taped to your face. Gigi untangled your hair in silence, and now your scalp is sore. Your wrist hurts, and your jaw is locked up from chewing on your lip. You feel stupid. 

“He started it.” 

“Okay, so tell me about it.”

You shrug, your answers curt and noncommittal. 

“We fought. It’s not that complicated. Who cares?”

Dr. Vanger sighs, removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“I care, ____. Gigi cares, Roger cares. So, so many people care, and they want to know what’s wrong, so they can help.” 

You shrug again. 

“He was making fun of me.”

“He was making fun of you. Okay, what was he saying?” 

You shake your head. No, you don’t want to. 

Dr. Vanger laces his fingers together before him and surveys you. 

“Please, ____.” 

You say nothing for a moment, thoughts swirling and overlapping in your brain on a constant loop, and no matter what you do, you can't get it to stop. When you’re finally able to meet Dr. Vanger’s eyes, it makes you want to cry. Even through the sadness, the disappointment, they are kind. 

“If I tell you the truth, will I be in trouble?”

Dr. Vanger shakes his head. 

“You will not be in trouble.” 

You feel like you could swallow your tongue. You’ve been in trouble enough times to know that most of the time, adults are just saying that. 

“I…” you trail off. You glance at the filing cabinet. Somewhere in there, your file is sitting there, taunting you, laughing to itself. You inhale, avert your eyes back to the ground. 

“I snuck in here and looked at my Stuff.” 

“Your stuff?” 

You nod. 

“My folder…file…thingy.” 

Dr. Vanger swivels his head to the filing cabinet, then back to you. 

“You got into the filing cabinet? How?”

“I was exploring after everyone went to bed. The office was unlocked.” The lie comes easily out of your mouth, but not without cost. It leaves you just a bit emptier, like it took a piece with it, and now you must live without it. 

“By yourself? Did you look at anyone else’s?” 

You shake your head, decide against mentioning Mello. No use in getting him in trouble too. 

“Just me. Just mine.” 

Dr. Vanger nods slowly, ruminating over your admission. You squirm as you wait for him to say something. God, you hope you’re not in trouble. When Dr. Vanger speaks again, it’s soft and measured.

“Can you tell me what you saw?”

“I saw…” Your chest spasms, your lip starting to tremble. Like that night, your face contorts as your eyes well up with tears. 

“I saw what happened. To my family. Rory saw too and made fun of me for it.”  Your vision muddles as the tears begin to fall. Fuck Rory. 

“That must have been very hard for you.” 

Before you, like a film over your eyes, you see your sister’s ribbons. Your father’s watch, your mother’s ring. In dreams, you try to take them, but they crumble into ashes. 

You nod - it is very hard. 

“____, why did you sneak in? Why did you decide to look at your file?” 

Your face is burning, now from shame more than the rubbing alcohol. You clench your fists and smack your forehead into your knees so you don’t have to look at him. 

“I couldn’t…I couldn’t remember,” you hiccup. “My nightmares. I had to know.” 

You grind your head into your knees, smearing your tears on your legs. 

“Why couldn’t I remember? How could I forget something like that?” Yes, you think. How could you? All that you had that’s now gone, how loved you were, their faces and their beauty - how could you forget? 

You look back up at Dr. Vanger. From inside his desk, he pulls out a gingham handkerchief and offers it to you. You take it, though you don’t use it, just twist it in your hands. He exhales deeply. 

“Sometimes, ____,” he begins. He pauses, thinking what to say. He knows what you are starting to figure out - that the pain, the guilt, can never be explained. 

“Sometimes, especially when you’re young, when something really scary or terrible happens, our brains do things to try and make sense of it. These things can be good, or they can be bad, or they can just be.”

“Sometimes, when something happens that’s too scary or painful, our brains may try to…shield us from those things, and we forget them. Our brains think they’re protecting us, even if what it’s doing isn’t actually helping. It might wait until it thinks we’re ready to remember. Or sometimes, we don’t remember at all.” 

You look up at him. He looks pained, and you wonder how many times he’s had to have this exact conversation. 

“It can be frustrating and painful on its own to not know what’s bothering you, or why you’re upset. But it can be just as painful learning about those terrible things and not knowing how to deal with it.”

“It’s like…” 

He pauses, and you think he might be at a loss for once. You sniffle. 

“Like a porcupine,” you offer. He nods his head, urging you to go on. 

“Like someone gave you a porcupine. They can be nice to have, but if you don’t know how to hold a porcupine, it’ll hurt you.”

Dr. Vanger smiles gently, and nods. 

“Sure, like a porcupine. So sometimes, when we’re crossing the road and we stumble across a porcupine, we need to be taught how to hold it so it doesn’t hurt us.” 

“When will it stop hurting?” 

“We never really know,” he says, shaking his head. “Sometimes, picking up a porcupine will hurt no matter what you do.” 

You hum, nodding your head. Neither of you say a thing for some time, until Dr. Vanger quietly puts his glasses back on, refolds his hands on his desk. He sighs.

“Now, ____. I can’t see you off without talking about what happened today.” 

Here it comes, you think. You retreat into your chair, like a scolded hound.

“I think it’s important that you talk to someone.” 

You start - this is all happening quicker than you expected. Talk to someone? Somebody new? Isn’t talking now enough?  

“It doesn’t have to be me, or it could be, if you want. I just think it’s important that you learn how to hold the porcupine.” 

You don’t really want to, but you will since it’s Dr. Vanger asking. You don’t know if you can handle seeing more of his drawn face, terse and mangled by his disappointment in you. 

“And of course, you’ll need to apologize to Rory.” 

You almost squawk - he should be apologizing to you for what he said! 

Dr. Vanger holds up a hand. 

“I know that’s probably not what you want to hear. But you absolutely cannot strike people, even if they say nasty, awful things to you.”

You frown. Maybe his tune would change if he actually knew what Rory even said to you. 

“Rest assured Rory and I will be having our own talk about what happened today. There will be consequences on both sides.” 

You exhale. 

“Gigi, Roger, and I will discuss what those consequences may be. For now, I’d like you to go to your room and try to rest. After dinner, Nurse Nila will check on your scratches.” 

“Okay,” you nod. You untangle yourself from the chair and make your way to the door. Your mind will be racing with what your punishment could possibly be right up until you’re told, you know that much. Before you grab the doorknob, Dr. Vanger calls out to you.

“And ____?” 

You turn.

“Please, tell us if something like this happens again. Or if you’re feeling sad, or scared, or alone. Tell your friends. They care about you, and we care about you. Okay?” 

You nod. It’s nice to know, even if it doesn’t dull the pain. The confusion, the anger. As you meander down the hall back to your room, you wonder if there’s anything you could ever do to make them hate you. 

It’s 9:30pm, and you’re laying on your navy comforter. It has little yellow stars stitched into it, and little white squiggles and swirls. You've been staring at the ceiling for a while now. There’s fresh dressing on your face, and if you’re not careful, it’ll slide back and forth from the slimy neosporin underneath it. As instructed, you’d apologized to Rory, however begrudgingly. He halfheartedly apologized to you, and from this day on you know you’ll never hear the end of it. How he went easy on you because he can’t beat up a girl, how when he’s old enough, he’s totally gonna sue you. You’ve decided that you’re going to try to avoid him for the rest of your life, if you can help it. 

As you lay in bed, you think back to what Dr. Vanger said: sometimes it will hurt no matter what you do. You don’t like that answer, but you suppose it can’t be helped. You don't want to accept it. As much as you’d like to learn, you want to be free of the pain. You want to leave your porcupine by the side of the road. Better yet, you want to kill it. 

The night drags on - you’ve nothing to do, not allowed to have people visit you while you await your verdict, and eventually the ticking of your alarm clock lulls you to sleep. When you dream, it is of your family, standing at the edge of your bed, hands outstretched. 

Chapter Text

You stare down at the puzzle pieces before you, where a piece is jutting awkwardly to one side. You worry your lip. That…doesn’t look right. You wiggle the piece and toss it to the side with a huff. You’ve been at this for who knows how long now - you’re glad Mom got you a puzzle like you asked for, but why she did she have to pick one that’s hard as all fuck? 

As if sensing herself on your mind, she breezes into the kitchen, where you’re seated at the island, kicking your legs from the barstool. Sunlight streams lazily through the windows and the french doors to the backyard, lush and vibrant with new growth. She calls out to you from across the kitchen as she stuffs a tangerine into a lunchbox. 

“You almost ready? If you’re going to walk, you better get going pretty soon.”

You nod and hop off the barstool, swinging your backpack from the counter on your shoulder, where you guess it was sitting this whole time. 

“Can I take the car?”  

Mom smirks at you, an eyebrow quirked up. 

“What for? You don’t have your license.” 

“Practice?” You chirp hopefully. “Besides, legally I’m allowed now.” You point to the quote calendar tent on the counter, where today’s date is circled and “Happy 16th Birthday, ____!” is underlined no fewer than 7 times. If you hadn’t seen the calendar, you would’ve forgotten entirely, like most things this morning. You must’ve stayed up too late last night, because you hardly remember waking up and getting ready. Your morning, your life, it seems, started staring at that puzzle. 

“Your test isn’t ‘til Saturday,” she leans against the counter and tosses another tangerine your way. You catch it with one hand. 

“Yeah, but it’ll be like a practice test,” you reason. “You want me to pass, right? Gotta practice!” You bounce your eyebrows once, twice, before you hear footsteps thumping down the stairs. 

“Nice try, kiddo.” 

First his shoes, then his trousers, then his pressed polo come into view as he descends the stairs, briefcase in hand. Elisabeth follows close behind him, fidgeting with the straps of her backpack. “No unsupervised driving until you pass your test. Besides, you don’t want to deal with morning traffic anyway. You’ll thank us when you actually have to commute places.” 

You chortle and roll your eyes, “whatever, Dad.”

Elisabeth, having now resolved whatever issue she was having with her backpack strap, looks up and between you all. 

“What are we talking about?” 

Dad gives your hair a ruffle. “Your sister wanted to drive you both to school today.” 

Elisabeth shrugs.

“Well, can she?” 

“Not until her test on Saturday,” your mom shakes her head sagely. 

“But it’s real world practice!” 

“That’s what I said,” you huff and saunter over to her. You drape an arm around her and lead her out of the kitchen towards the front door. Her skin is cold from the blasting AC. “Come on, let’s mosey. Bye Mom, Dad!” 

From the entryway, you can hear them but not see them, their airy voices carried on the sunlight streaming in. 

“Bye girls, be careful. Remember, restaurant at 7 tonight, so be ready!”

“Yup,” you call back in unison. You’re not going to admit it, but you’d forgotten about that too. Oops.

The two of you cross the threshold to the world outside, which is sunny, warm and damp. Like your parents’ voices, you can feel the sun’s warmth on your back, but not see it. You fan your neck with your hand, beads of sweat already forming. 

“Yeesh, it’s hot,” Elisabeth says, wrapping her curls into a ponytail. If you don’t get a move on, it’ll be a poof of frizz before you make it to the school parking lot. You meander down the sidewalk, passing fences made of shrubs and iron wrought gates. Maybe it’s the excitement of today being your birthday, but the houses and yards seem to pass by much faster than you walk by them. Weird. 

You try to push it out of your head - you’re just anxious to get to school because your class is throwing a party for you, and for your test on Saturday. Yes, that’s it. You just want to pass. 

As you walk, you swing your arms back and forth, lazily watching the neighborhood go by. Other schoolkids - some you recognize, and some you don’t - trickle out of their houses and funnel onto the sidewalk. You march in a line like ants, instinctually knowing which turns to take, which streets to cross. You’re idly chatting with Elisabeth when you hook a right before stopping, your shoes skidding on the concrete. You squint, brows knitting together. You can’t place why, but you feel a tiny spasm in your chest. Leaning against a stop sign, arms folded. Is that…? 

“Mello?”

Blonde hair, glimmering in the morning sun, bangs held back by a metal headband. Black, long sleeved shirt - in this heat? - baggy denim jeans, high top converse, brown tattered backpack, wallet chain dangling from his pocket. Little tufts of bangs poke out from his headband. Was he always so much taller than you? 

He pushes himself off the stop sign to face you. 

“Bout time.”

“Morning, Mihael,” Elisabeth smiles serenely. 

You swivel your head around, scouring the neighborhood for a clue to what the hell is going on. Nary a one. You swallow. 

“What took you so long?”

“Slow morning, I guess. Sorry.” Your excuse is half-assed, but he takes it. Mello - Mihael?- shrugs, then swings his backpack to his front and digs around. After a moment of rummaging, his pulls something out and shoves it towards you. 

“This is for you. Happy birthday, dude,” and his cheeks are just the slightest tint red - must be the heat. 

“O-oh! Thanks dude.” You take the box. “You uh…you shouldn’t have.” You peek down at it, but you can’t read what it says. Judging from the thick, yet somehow still flimsy box, it’s a computer game. You feel…odd, like you just woke up from the worst nap of your life. Why can’t you read the packaging? Are you having a stroke or something? How long is this walk to school? Whatever, don’t think about it. You’re just having an off morning. Birthday jitters. The Big 16, or whatever. 

You continue walking down the sidewalk as a trio. 

“It’s just a little something. I know you’ve been wanting it.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “You have to let me play it though, gift tax.” 

“Sure,” you nod. 

As you walk, he keeps talking. 

“So, I was wondering if I could hitch a ride with you guys to the restaurant? Mom and Dad are having,” he wiggles his fingers, “ date night tonight, so they’re taking the car.” 

Sweat is starting to pool at the nape of your neck, trickling down your back. Date night? You don’t remember much prior to this morning, but you definitely don’t remember Mello’s parents being the…date night type, so to speak. 

“I thought your da-”

Elisabeth leans forward, as if you weren’t even talking. 

“Why don’t you just come home with us? We could just go straight there.”

You blink and shake your head, as if it will dispel the mounting confusion. Each step you take feels heavier and heavier. Something is wrong. You feel like prey in an open field, the eyes of the universe boring down upon you. Like every person, insect, blade of grass, knows something you don’t. 

Before Mello - Mihael - can answer, you stop. The sidewalk stretches out before you, endless. Your stomach churns within you. 

“You guys?”

Mello turns to you. His eyes, blue as the sunless sky above, regard you with concern, or maybe suspicion. 

“You okay, ____?”

You shake your head. No, you are not okay, and you don’t know why. 

“I don’t feel so good,” you admit quietly. You rest your hand on your roiling stomach. 

“What, like you’re sick? Here-” Mello takes your backpack off your shoulders, swings it over his, and leads you towards the edge of the sidewalk to sit. Elisabeth kneels before you. She swipes an errant lock of hair out of your face and behind your ear. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You shake your head. Nothing, everything. You lift your hand, clammy and damp, towards her. When you cup her cheek, it’s cold. Your eyes burn with tears. 

Elisabeth lays her hand over yours. Cold, stiff. The look she gives you is melancholy, pitying. Like washing dirt off a wounded animal that you know won't survive. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she murmurs. You know, you nod. You know. 

Such was the nightmare as you relayed it to Dr. Vanger, sobbing. Your worst one yet. Everything you wanted, all that you will never know. Despite your efforts in therapy, your journaling - 

come home

revelation 

regress 

- nothing has been helping, and every day that passes drags you deeper into the maw. Your sadness, your anxiety, your fear - you’re at the mercy of their insatiable appetites, and you feel yourself getting smaller and smaller and smaller. You wonder if there will be anything left. 

The horizon stretches out before you, the world amber in the setting sun. The checkered tiles of the terrace are still polished despite their use; sometimes you’ll have your lunch up here, or Linda will paint the horizon, or Gigi will lead your book club. You hope she’s not still mad at you. 

Now though, the terrace is empty, and you’re leaning up the stone balcony. It’s tall, and you consider the effort it would take to heft yourself across, then wonder why you thought that. 

The grounds of Wammy’s House - estate, lot, whatever they call it - have always been beautiful, all blooming gardens and stone fences. Like living in a castle. 

You’re watching the tree limbs sway in the breeze, so captivated by counting each limb and its offshoots that you don’t hear the terrace door open and close. Out of the silence two hands shoot out from behind you, grip your shoulders tightly and mime pushing you forward, and your heart races seeing the ground hurtling towards you. 

“Saved your life!”

Mello pops out from behind you, grinning. You spin, clutching the railing and catching your breath now that you’ve processed you’re not actually falling. You lob a feeble punch at his shoulder. 

“Dickhead,” you whine with a frown. He scoffs and folds his arms. 

“You do it to me! God, you’re easy,” he shakes his head. He joins you at the railing, leaning his elbows against it and resting his chin on his hands. He looks to you. 

“What were you doing out here anyway?” 

You shrug. 

“I was thinking.”

He grins again.

“Did it hurt?”

You click your tongue, roll your eyes. You’re not really in the mood for this. 

“Aw come on dude, I’m just joking,” he nudges you. You turn to him, and when you meet his eyes, they’re soft and clear. You can see your silhouette in the blue. 

“What were you thinking about?” 

You shake your head, shrug again. You don’t know if you can tell him he was in your dream, it’s both too embarrassing and too painful, but knowing Mello, he’s not gonna drop it until you give him something to work with. You think of Dream Mello, taller and sharper, with that weird little headband, somehow still your best friend. 

“Do you think…” you pause. “Do you think we’d be friends if we weren’t here?” 

He furrows his brows. 

“What do you mean?” 

You hardly know yourself, or why you’re asking, but there’s a gnawing within you that needs to know. 

“Like, if we weren’t at Wammy’s. Or like, in another universe. Do you think we’re friends in other universes?” 

Mello raises a brow, looks you up and down, scrutinizing. 

“...Yes? I mean, I don’t know, yeah? Why wouldn’t we be?” 

You look back out to the horizon. The sun is slowly sinking behind the trees, bleeding its last light up at the two of you. You say nothing. 

“Are…are you good? You’re freaking me out, dude. Like, actually.” 

“Yeah, yeah, for sure. I was just wondering. I dunno. Feeling kinda gloomy, I guess.” 

“Gloom and doom, huh,” Mello nods slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Well…Gigi wanted me to come get you. She wants you to choose the next book club book. Why don’t we go back inside?” 

You’re relieved to hear Gigi isn’t upset with you, at least enough to want your input on things. You nod and make your way to the door, and Mello follows. From behind you, he watches your back, skeptical and unnerved. Something, somewhere, is waiting for you in the dark - he can see it looming in your eyes.

You sift through the library shelves for a proper book to read, pondering Mello’s answer to your sudden, slightly unfair question.

Friends in every universe. Yes, why wouldn't you be?

The thought is comforting, if it’s real. It almost makes you think these other lives, these friendships and these birthdays, this family, these idle walks to school, could be attainable. The idea that you could start over and still have everything you want. Like reloading a save. You thumb over the book titles. Siddhartha, Green Darkness, A Wrinkle in Time.  

The thought is dangerous, intoxicating, and by the time you leave the library, stack of books tucked under your arm, it has wormed its way inside you, where it festers. 

Chapter Text

Your trinkets, stuffed animals, books, puzzles, whatever you don’t want thrown away are organized into neat piles on your floor. You’ve spent the last two weeks sorting through your drawers and dressers, rooting out what can and absolutely can’t be given to Goodwill, and have plucked out things you think people might want. Mello, Matt, and Linda have their own piles, just for them. 

In Linda’s pile is your pastel glitter eyeshadow set, the pink and the blue used up to the pan, your Art Through the Ages textbook you found in the basement, and your comfiest sweater. You figure it’ll be like a hug. 

In Matt’s pile is your Euler’s Disk he constantly asks to play with, your VHS copy of Terminator 2: Judgement Day , his favorite movie, and written permission to overwrite your save files on the library computer. 

In Mello’s pile is your encyclopedia of wildflowers, petals and stems from the garden pressed between some of the pages, the scrapbook you’d started, stuffed with pictures of the three of you eating, playing outside, posing with Gigi, Dr. Vanger waving from inside his office, and finally, your stuffed kitten Mittens, whose name Mello always teased for being too generic - “ really, ____, Mittens the Kitten?” , so Mittens wouldn’t be abandoned, and Kurt would have a buddy, a fellow cat who has seen far too much. 

Everything else you’ve left up for grabs. You couldn’t decide what would be more cruel - leaving pieces of you behind, or leaving nothing. No trace of your existence, just vanished, evaporated. 

You’re still debating leaving a note and all the things that would entail. Important things, like who you’d address it to, what you would say, whether you’d elaborate on why you’re doing what you’re doing. Stupid things, like which color pen to write it in, where to leave it so it’s found. Everything you’ve written til now you’ve ripped up and tossed, seeming pointless and vain - 

I miss my family 

I’m angry because my life could be different but I’m also angry for being angry

I had a family I’ll never know and it makes me depressed 

I don’t want to be here anymore

I’m scared of everything and I don’t know why

I caught a glimpse now it haunts me 

I love you, I’m sorry

I’m sorry, I love you

Aside from that, you don’t have much of a plan besides the day - one day before your birthday. In your unraveling mind, you think maybe if you time it right, once you get to wherever you’re going, you can spend it with your family. Mom, Dad, Elisabeth. 

You’ve thought about how it might feel, this perverse homecoming, how it will shape those you leave behind. You think of Mello, pushing each other on the swings outside, tying his shoelaces together while he’s not looking, catching a marshmallow in your mouth that he’d toss at you during movie night. His smile, wry and mischievous, his hands, delicate and swift. You imagine him standing without you beside him, and two versions. One, worse off, alone again. The other, lighter, shoulders less hunched, no longer burdened with your bullshit. Whichever the outcome, you know you’ll miss him the most. But if the next world is anything like your dream, maybe he’ll be there waiting for you. 

You’re not sure how long this is going to take. Minutes? Hours? You’d wanted to wait until everyone turned in for the night, but who knows when that’ll be, and so you tell everyone you’re tired, float up to your room, and lock the door behind you. It’s about 11pm, and it’s odd, hearing the house continue to murmur with life while you sit on your duvet, about to end yours. You’d thought it would be more ceremonial, more silent and reflective instead of just being cross legged on your bed in mismatched socks, organizing the bottle of tylenol you dumped out into a neat little puddle. You lost count at 40 pills, and you hope it’s enough to do the job. You’ve brought two bottles of water up here - dry swallowing freaks you out after Matt told you about that one lady who melted her esophagus or whatever. You crack them open and place them on your nightstand, where your stuffed animals sit, turned to face the wall. You turn your lamp off, and for a moment you just stare into your empty room, blue and silver in the moonlight. You take a deep breath, and start. 

Over the course of an hour, one by one, you pluck a pill from your bed, plop it in your mouth, chase it with a swig of water, and swallow. Over and over and over, pluck, plop, chase, swallow. Pluck, plop, chase, swallow. One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war. 

They’re oddly sweet, and you idly realize you chose the flavor coated kind. You feel nothing except a strange anticipation swirling in your brain that soon, the pain, this nightmare, will be over. You make your way through the pile slowly, imagining your stomach full of poison, sloshing with bile and constricting at the growing imbalance. 

Only after you’ve swallowed the last one do you feel your face grow hot, tears beginning to pool and spill over. You don’t think you want to be awake for whatever happens next, so you kick your feet under the covers, try to get comfortable, and try to sleep. What sleep you get is light, dreams just flashes of light and form. You dream of your family standing round your bed, heads bent, watching you as your chest becomes heavier and heavier. You didn’t know it, but you’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life, and the flashes of light sharpen until you finally see it for what it is. Your father’s watch, your mother’s ring, your sister’s darling bows. 

When you wake, it’s to vomit forcing its way up your throat and out your mouth, violent and foul. It sprays across your covers, your pillow, your wall, and through the vertigo you feel the creeping shame that someone will have to clean up after you. Your room is still dark, and you don’t know what time it is. Hours could’ve passed, or seconds. Your head sways from side to side, swimming and full of lead. You cannot think, you only see. You stumble out of your bile, sweat soaked bed, and try to stand, lasting but a moment before your knees give out and you crumple to the floor, trying to reach for your desk chair only to bring it crashing down with you. You land on one of the legs, snapping it. Your desk lamp rattles and falls on its side, rolling precariously to the edge. 

Your stomach feels like it’s eating itself, and your lower back cramps with such force that you can only curl into yourself and hope for it to pass. This doesn’t feel at all like you thought it would - you imagined drifting away slowly, face peaceful as if sleeping. You thought you wouldn’t even notice. And so here you are, sweating and shivering and vomiting all over your floor, your back in a vice grip that only gets tighter as you writhe on the floor in the dark. Your family stands in a circle around you, waiting to welcome you home. In unison, their heads look to your door. Through the dizziness, a voice. 

“____?”

Mello. Mello, of course, always. You whimper. If you could speak, you would cry, beg for him to leave and just go back to his room. Why him? 

“Are you okay in there? I heard a crash.” 

Your stomach clenches again, and you bring your cold hands to your face to stifle your groan, smearing your tears, snot, and vomit across your cheeks. Please, just go away. Please. 

Mello knocks on your door. 

“Hellooo? ____. I know you’re in there.” 

You remember doing the same for him not too long ago, watching him as he cried, holding out your hand in comfort. That moment feels a lifetime away now that more vomit is rushing out of your mouth. 

Your desk lamp teeters over the edge, until it finally tumbles to the ground, and the bulb shatters. A brief moment of silence - then furious pounding on your door. 

“Hey! Open up, ____. You better open up right now,” Mello demands, “open the door or I’m busting in there.” 

He stops knocking, and for a moment you wonder if he went to get Gigi, when there’s a thud at your door, rattling the doorknob. Another, and another, and another, until finally the door flies open, splinters of wood spraying, your doorknob clanking on the floor and rolling away. He’s kicked in the door, and with the slightest limp, he runs to the wall and throws on the overhead light. 

He’s stunned, eyes flitting from the vomit on your walls and floor, the piles of your belongings, the empty pill bottle on your shelf, and of course you strewn on the floor, pale and clammy and slipping into unconsciousness.  

“Oh shit ,” he murmurs.

He runs to you and crouches, rolling you over, and you can only glimpse his blonde hair, his panicked eyes, blurred and coming in and out of focus. You hardly feel him slapping your cheek, hear him calling your name. How long has it been? How long will it be until this is over? 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeats, and the last thing you see is him running down the hall before there is nothing. 

When you wake next, you’re in the front seat of Gigi’s car, barreling down the road, the street lights flying overhead cutting your body into abstract shapes. You’re not wearing any shoes, and your hair has been pulled back out of your face. More bile pools at your feet, dots the dashboard. The clock reads 3:15. 

At each red light, she stops for just a moment, then lays on the horn and speeds through the intersection. If you weren’t already vomiting, her driving now would probably set you off. Seeing you stir, she spares you a glance. Her voice is distant, garbled. 

“We’re almost there, honey. Just a little farther, okay?” 

From behind you hear a voice, and someone pushes their body towards the console. 

“Is she awake?”

“Sit down, Mello. Put your seatbelt on.” 

With all your strength, past the throbbing pain in your abdomen and the rawness of your throat, you try to speak. 

“Stop the car.”

What you can force out is so slurred and quiet, you doubt anyone actually understands you.

“Turn around.”

 Gigi shakes her head. Your head lolls to the side.

“Let me die.”

Her grip on the steering wheel tightens, and she sobs. 

The tires screech as Gigi swerves into the hospital’s emergency lot. The fluorescent lights make your eyes burn, your head ache. Just drop it, you think. None of this is worth the trouble. 

“Bring someone out here,” she instructs Mello, and instantly he’s out of the car and running inside. Gigi runs around the car to your side, throws open the door, undoes your seatbelt and scoops you up. You don’t have the strength to wrap your arms around her neck, and so she hefts up your dead weight and sprints to the doors, where a nurse is bringing out a wheelchair. You’re sat in it, and almost immediately you’re wheeled down a hall and bombarded with questions your head is too heavy to answer, and Gigi is forced to do it for you.

What did she take? 

Tylenol. 

What was the dose? 

500 milligrams. 

How many did she take? 

The whole bottle, at least 40. I don’t know. 

When did she take them? 

I don’t know. 

As she responds, your neurons are firing, your brain thinking of any old thing, any dumb thought or random memory. How Gigi would make a great sister, and you wish she was yours. Someone will have to clean up your room. Field day. Guilt, sadness, wrath, catharsis, bone, marrow. Linda drawing your portrait, helping you fold your clothes, teaching you the dance to Bye Bye Bye. Matt falling asleep against you on the couch, snoring, exhausted after an afternoon soccer game, showing you his pokemon team. Mello, teasing and poking at you, pouting when you beat him at Mortal Kombat, spouting made up words for your sci-fi/fantasy/time travel adventure story you promised to write together. Mello will have to get a new best friend. You want to hug him goodbye. Where are we going? Hi, Mom. You’ve never known hurt like this. It’s painless to let go. Happy Birthday. 

You feel heavy, so heavy as you’re rushed away from the lobby, where a nurse has told Mello to wait. Tears pour down his cheeks as he watches the back of your head through the swinging ER doors, smaller and smaller until you’re gone. 

Chapter Text

Time passes strangely here. You float along a fissure of consciousness, waking every few hours to fluorescent lights above and a tangle of wires around you. Waves of nausea come and go, but your back aches constantly. Sometimes, you’ll wake to a somber face watching you, or a figure sitting beside you, head hung. A small hand by your bedside, until again you float away.  

You can’t bring yourself to look at any nurse, doctor, or passerby in the eye, too ashamed. You figured it would be embarrassing being found, but you didn’t imagine how embarrassing it would be to fail. You had your chance. All you had to do was reach out and take it. 

You feel stupider than you’ve ever felt. A pinprick of a bruise dots the back of your right hand, and you wait for another to appear on your left, the tops of your feet, like stigmata, marks of your burning shame, the burden of feeling. You haven’t spoken - you don’t know what to say. But speak you must. 

Her hands are locked tight around the handles of a happy meal box balanced on her knees. She’s changed clothes since that night, however long ago it was, and she’s now in sweatpants and a cuffed sweater. With a deep sigh, Gigi pushes her glasses up her nose and looks to you. Her voice is soft and measured, like you’re an animal waiting to bolt.

“In a little while…” she begins. 

“In a little while, after lunch, a doctor is going to come in and talk to you, okay ____?”

You palm at the bedsheet over you. It’s soft but stark, completely white, nothing like your bedding at home. You pull at a frayed edge until it’s taut. 

“They’re going to ask you some questions, and you need to be honest with them. Can you do that?” 

Your heart is no longer pounding, too exhausted, but you still feel the need to ask. Your voice is quiet and hoarse, throat sore from all the vomiting. 

“Am I in trouble?” 

“No, honey. You’re not in trouble,” she says softly. You give her the tiniest nod of acknowledgement. 

“Are…” you swallow, and it stings. “Are you mad at me?” 

There’s a brief flash in Gigi’s eyes. A quaking, a glimmer of pain that she blinks away, cheeks growing red. 

“No, honey, of course I’m not mad. We were all just really worried about you. We didn’t want anything bad to happen to you.” She stares at the tile, her gaze far, far away. 

Neither of you say a word after that, just stare at your choice of sterile objects in the room. The silence lingers minute after minute, swelling until you can wrap your arms around it. Only the hum of machinery remains. 

Gigi clears her throat and rises, places your happy meal on the rolling table you’ve used for meals, and rolls it towards you. 

“I got you chicken nuggets and fries,” she says, and pries open the box. She places each item on the table one by one until she finds the toy. It’s the little RC car from Toy Story. You eat your food slowly, as if you can prolong the inevitable. It takes like dirt, and all you can think is how much you want to be home. 

Her hair is long and jet black, woven into a neat braid over her shoulder. She pulls a padfolio out of her satchel and sits beside you. Her voice is quaint, strangely elegant, but it puts you at ease nonetheless.  

“Hi ____, my name’s Kim. I’m a social worker for the hospital. I’m going to ask you a few questions about what happened the other night, so try to answer as best as you can, okay?” 

You nod.

Kim’s questions start about how you expect - what happened that night, what led to it, if you’d ever done anything like this before, and you answer truthfully, about it all. The tylenol, the dreams, the sadness, the pain. But then the questions become a bit more…niche, and you start to bristle and wonder just how honest you should be. Each one makes you worry more than the last, and the horror mounts the more you think about it, until it clicks. They’re sussing you out, you think, trying to see whether you’re crazy, and if so, just how much. And what kind of crazy? Bodies in the crawlspace crazy, bomb the post office crazy? Or sit in your room and rock back and forth crazy? Afraid of everything, can’t go outside crazy? With that in mind, you consider each question carefully.

Have you ever had a period where you felt down? Not just for a week or two but, in fact, for many weeks and, perhaps, months? Did you find you had no energy, or it wasn’t interesting to do things you usually enjoy?

Do you find it hard to stop thinking about a very difficult event that has happened to you?

Do you have unusual experiences such as hearing voices that other people cannot hear? What about seeing things that other people cannot see?

Do you have unusual ideas, such as feeling that you have special powers that no one else has?

Do you have any unusual or repetitive thoughts that you know are silly but you simply cannot stop yourself from thinking about?

Do you feel there are certain rituals you have to do, such as tap your hand a certain way or do things in sets of threes, which takes up a lot of time in the day?

Do you often act without thinking? 

What even are these questions? No, you don’t hear voices, you don’t see things, you don’t have special powers. It's just that even numbered things just make you feel weird, pacing around your room calms you down. Maybe you think too much about things you can’t control, and maybe if you count things, you can control them. You can prevent mistakes, tragedy, heartbreak, you can save yourself from discomfort, pain. The unknowns can become known, and you’ll never have to sit with uncertainty. Your safety, the safety of your friends can be guaranteed. Your happiness, theirs, the happiness of all mankind. As long as you can pace around your room, count the odd numbers in the world, all will be well. 

And so against your better judgement (or perhaps because of it), you tell her the truth, and Kim jots your responses in her little pad. Saying these things out loud almost makes you laugh - you sure as shit sound crazy. When her questions are through and you feel thoroughly dissected, she closes the folio and rises to her feet. 

“That’s all I have for you, ____. Thanks for bearing with me. I’m going to talk to your guardians and your doctors, and then we’ll talk about what happens next, okay?” 

“Mm,” you acknowledge her with a small nod. Kim gives you a small wave, then heads out of your room where Gigi is waiting, her braid swinging behind her. Whatever they’re talking about, you hope you didn’t just make it a whole lot worse. 

Hours have passed since then, and in those hours you’ve slept, watched (regrettably) more Full House reruns, and eaten hospital food that seems to get more and more bland with each meal. The evening sun washes your room in soft oranges and pinks, and you’re watching birds flock from tree to tree when there’s a soft knock on the door jamb. Gigi stands there, watching you. 

“Hi, ____. I just wanted to check in on you, see if there was anything you needed?”

You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.” 

Your choice of words is...funny, considering. She nods quietly, pensive.  

“I know it’s probably been pretty boring in here. Would you like it if you had some visitors? Maybe you could take a walk around the floor now that you’re doing a little better.”

You mull over her proposal - it would be nice to stretch your legs a little, but you don’t know about visitors. Depends on who, you guess. Friends only, maybe Dr. Vanger, if you don’t have to talk about the elephant in the room. At your silence, she reassures you.

“Only if you want to.” 

After another beat, you shrug. “Sure," you say, and Gigi’s face brightens for what seems like the first time in days. 

“Cool,” she smiles. “We can start small, huh? I can think of a couple of people who’d love to see you.” 

Thankfully, Gigi doesn’t mean right then and there, so you have a good hour or so to get your story straight to whoever asks, and you begin to wonder who knows what. By the time you see the tops of two heads poke up from the hall window, you’ve settled on a seizure that made you fall and bonk your head. 

They filter into the room, led by Gigi. They’re quiet and unsure at first, but after a moment, Linda rushes forward and throws her arms around you, lip quivering and eyes welling with tears. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay!” She sniffles, and you let her rock you for a moment before raising your arms to hug her back. She smells like home, like her shampoo and the too strong candles that are always lit in the foyer. She pulls away, and it’s gone. 

“We were so worried about you,” she shakes her head, wiping an errant tear from her cheek. “What even happened to you?” 

Here it comes, you think, and for a moment your eyes dart to Gigi’s. She neither nods nor shakes her head, just quirks a small, sad smile. You figure it’s okay to lie just this once. 

“I uh…I had a seizure and hit my head.” And to really sell it, you rub the back of your head. 

Matt pokes his head over Linda’s shoulder, grinning. 

“Dang! You must've really bit it, huh? I bet your brain’s all scrambled up now - here lies ____’s brain cells, dropped a whole reading level.”  

Linda clicks her tongue and elbows him. 

“Can’t you be sincere for once? She could’ve died or something.” 

You stiffen for just a moment - she doesn’t know how right she is. 

“I am being sincere! You’re back to square one with all that Serbian you picked up,” Matt laughs as he maneuvers around Linda. He gives you a soft, unserious punch to the shoulder. “Seriously though, I’m glad you’re okay too. We’ll have to get you a helmet from now on.” 

You chuckle, but then peer over their shoulders, between their heads. Someone’s missing, someone you thought would be the first one in here.

“Where’s Mello?”  

“He said he’d come by later, at least that’s what Gigi said,” Linda turns back to Gigi, leaning against the wall, arms folded. She nods. 

“He didn’t want to overwhelm you with a bunch of people,” Gigi adds. Your shoulders slump, just a little.

“Oh.” 

Linda turns back to you. “He’ll come by, don’t you worry!” 

You figure you can’t blame him. Matt and Linda don’t seem to know a thing, but Mello was there for (almost) every excruciating moment. You doubt he would put up with your lie, and as you watch your friends smiling at you, giving you flowers and rubbing your limp hands pricked with IVs, telling you what you missed at home, completely unaware of what really happened, the guilt festers in your chest. You want to cry for what you did, and what you’re now doing, and with every second that passes, the guilt crystalizes. 

Eventually, Matt and Linda head home, leaving the flowers they brought and an extra blanket from the house. You wrap it around you and inhale, grateful to finally touch something that hasn’t been disinfected 80 times. The sun, almost fully set by now, has bathed the room in blue, and the fluorescent lights have kicked back on until you’re ready to sleep. 

From the doorway, Gigi’s voice calls to you softly. 

“____?” 

You tense. You have a feeling you know what’s happening, and if what you think is happening really is happening, you’d rather it didn’t happen. 

“Mello’s here to see you.” 

Okay, so it is happening. She steps into the room, Mello at her side, her hand resting on his shoulder. Classic black long sleeve, backpack hanging off one shoulder, he looks so…tired. Cold and small. He meets your gaze for only a moment before Gigi encourages him further into the room. Unlike with Matt and Linda, this time she waits outside, leaving the two of you in silence. 

Mello glances around the room - the bathroom door, blue curtains, yellow and orange flowers in a clear vase, the humming lights above you. You go first.

“...Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

Stupid, but you can’t think of anything else to say. What is there except the obvious? 

“Do you want to-” you clear your throat, “-do you want to sit?”

Silently, absently, he takes one of the room chairs, drags it up to your bedside, and sits. Like he can’t take up too much space, like he doesn’t want to touch anything in here if he doesn’t have to. He says nothing. You say nothing, despite all the things you desperately want to. He leans down and rests his chin on your mattress, arms in his lap. The way he’s folded over, he reminds you of a little slug, or a lump on a log. Without looking at you, he finally speaks. 

“How are you feeling?”

 A shrug is all you can muster. 

“Better, I guess. Back still hurts, my throat is still kinda sore.”

“Yeah, I bet.” 

And that’s it. Silence again, stretching on and on while you look at him, looking out the window. Naturally, looking at him makes your heart hurt. Your brain, cruel and vindictive - you’ve taken to calling these moods “demon brain” lately - tells you to look at what you’ve done, face up to what you did. Look at how you’ve hurt him. Look at his sunken eyes, his puffy cheeks, his mussed hair. His hands, fingernails bitten to the quick. Sad, so so sad. Look at it, simmer with it, internalize. 

Before you can say anything else, Mello sits up properly and drags his backpack so it sits in his lap. He quietly undoes the zipper and pulls its contents onto the bed. Your compendium of flowers, the scrapbook. All except for Mittens, who he cradles in his hand. He gives his scraggly ear a little pet before speaking.

“____,” he begins. He’s still not looking at you, just stroking the soft plush. 

“Do you think I’m stupid?” 

Your heart jumps, and you jolt your head to look at him. 

“What?” 

“I said, do you think I’m stupid. Like, dumb.” 

You’re shocked - obviously you don’t think that, why would you? 

“No? What do you mean? Why would I think that?”

“Why else would you-” he stutters, choking on his words. He rolls his eyes, frustrated at himself.

“Why would I want your -” he puts Mittens down and gestures at your wildflower book, shoving it towards you, “your flower book? Or, or-” 

You watch his eyes wrench shut, his cheeks grow red, the side of his mouth twitch. 

“Or your scrapbook, or Mittens the Kitten?” 

He buries his head in his hands, rakes his hands into his hair. It hurts to watch him, so afraid and helpless and just that much more hurt, frightened all over again. When he finally looks at you, tears have spilled down his cheeks, sticking his eyelashes together, making his nose run. He glares at you, not so much with anger, but sorrow. Furious sadness, betrayal.

“I don’t want your…stupid flower book,” he hiccups. He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms, and he practically shouts. 

“I want my friend!” 

You don’t know when they started, but you feel your own tears rolling down your cheeks, and you shut your eyes at the sting. Your face is hot, and you hiccup and cough as the two of you watch each other cry, reflections of each other’s pain. You blindly feel for his hand, and when you find it, you unwind his thin, trembling fingers. 

“I-” You stifle a sob. “I’m sorry, Mello. I’m really sorry,” and you are, so sorry that you would trade anything to take it back, to keep him from crying. You would sacrifice anything, on any altar, to any god, to make it okay again. 

You repeat it over and over as you cry, as you pull him to you, out of his chair and leaning over the bed to hug him. It’s uncomfortable, you know his back is probably straining, and pulling your arms so tight around him tugs at the line in your hand, but nothing matters, not when your best friend is hugging you back. 

“Don’t,” he chokes, “don’t do stuff like that.” He begs, and you shake your head into his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You repeat it until it no longer sounds like two words, and when you can no longer bear to say it, you just sit there, holding each other. 

“They’re gonna take you away,” Mello cries. “They’re gonna take you away, you know that, right?”

Fresh tears pour down. You had a feeling they might, after all you and Kim talked about, you figure they won’t let you just be on your way after doing what you did. Wherever it is, you don’t want to go if it’s not with your friends, with Mello, however unrealistic that is. But if it means feeling better, getting to return to Wammy’s and curl up in your starry blanket, the clamor of day, the warmth of the sun, you will. After all of this, the pain, the sadness, the hurt, you will claw your way back to the light. 

Chapter Text

This wouldn’t be the first time this has happened in Wammy’s history, but it would certainly be the first time it’s happened to her. Dreaming, then torn out of sleep by a tiny fist pounding on her door harder than she ever thought a tiny fist could. Mello, red faced, bouncing on his heels and frantic, dragging her by the wrist out of her room and down the hall. 

This late at night, she has an idea of things it could possibly be and their appropriate response. Whatever it is, it’ll come face to face with her foolproof emergency preparedness plans, extensive checklists, and CPR certification (good for another year and a half).  

Someone lurking around the grounds, peeking in the windows for goodies to steal or safes to crack into? Pull out the polished cedar baseball bat from under her bed (just in case), call the cops, call Watari. 

Someone took pity on a baby raccoon they found taking out the trash, kept it in a shoebox in their closet, and now it’s twice as big, escaped, and wreaking havoc downstairs? Grab her old butterfly net, a cardboard box, and a bag of pepperoni slices. Trap the little bastard, release him outside, make an appointment for the kid to be looked at for rabies, scabies, fleas and whatnot, tell Roger, maybe Watari.

A serial graffiti artist is leaving drawings and those weird little s’s on the bathroom stalls? Give it a wipedown when it gets too bad, maybe leave some dry erase markers in there - if you’re gonna write on the walls, at least make it easily erasable. Not exactly anything to escalate, so maybe tell Roger. At this point in her life, she felt pretty confident what she could and couldn’t handle on her own, and when she needed Roger’s help or, if the situation was dire enough, the big man himself. If she had no idea what to do, she’d take a breath and ask herself, what would Watari do? Don’t panic - wwwd? 

This, however? One of her kids - and she knows she shouldn’t say it like that, but still - is vomiting up her life at three in the morning because she tried to…kill herself? This she did not have a plan for, and the time to ask wwwd has long passed. 

♱ ♱ ♱ 

Contrary to popular belief, Gigi was not, in fact, a Wammy’s kid. Her life is not shrouded in mystery or despair, and she knows exactly who her parents are and what became of them: her mother a celebrated anthropology professor, her father a private investigator for Interpol. Family friends of Quillish Wammy, both now retired and basking in the filtered light of the Catskills. 

An only child, she spent many an afternoon trailing her parents like a ghost, peeking over her mother’s shoulder as she restored some or other ancient text, hiding behind her father’s pant legs as he introduced her to Mr. Quillish Wammy - “Watari, please,” - only to latch onto him like a lichen, observing as he tinkered with his inventions and drafted plans for a place he claimed would change the world someday. Twenty-ish years, a master’s in social work and many field placements and internships later, she came under Roger’s wing as the secondary caregiver, the firm but fair dispenser of justice, wisdom, and frank yet loving advice to the throng of children she was charged with. She was to be the steward of tomorrow’s philosophers, great detectives, genius artistes. And right now, one of tomorrow’s great minds is in a crisis, primed to become today’s grave loss if she doesn’t act fast enough. 

♱ ♱ ♱ 

For such a scrawny kid, Mello’s grip around her wrist is tight, almost painful as he yanks her down the hall - if he really tried she bet he could pull her shoulder right out of its socket. Mello has always had somewhat of a flair for the dramatic, so something better be on fire or something to warrant all this.

“Mello, what is going on?” Despite his banging on her door, she at least tries to maintain a whisper so the whole goddamn house isn’t woken up. Mello doesn’t answer, just keeps pulling her.

“Come quick, come quick,” he repeats. “____. It’s ____.”

There’s a twisting in her chest at that, a lurch in her stomach, like looking over the edge just a bit too far. She had been keeping a close eye on that one since she found her grinding her teeth down to a pulp that one morning. She had clocked the mood swings, isolation, and of course there was the fight with Rory, so she was wary, trying to get close, but not too close to freak her out or scare her away. Apparently her close eye had not been close enough. 

Light streams out of ____’s room, one tiny beam shooting out from her half open door. Splintered wood dusts the hardwood, sticks to the bottoms of her feet. What in the hell? What’s behind that door, the thought of it almost makes her panic - don’t panic, wwwd? - and as she palms open the door, she braces for something terrible. 

Thankfully, there doesn’t seem to be any blood. She can handle most of the realities of a houseful of kids, especially the young ones, but not blood, never blood. She awakes to a five year old standing in her doorway saying they threw up? Easy - ponytail, dish gloves, soap and a bucket. One of the tweens wipes out attempting a kickflip, and now their wrist is jutting at an odd angle? Assess the damage, strap ‘em into the van, to the emergency room they go. But tending to a baseball to the nose that unleashed a torrent of blood down a kid’s face, crimson and diluting with snot and tears? No, thank you. A slip with the kitchen knife pools blood in her palm and needs stitches? Not likely. She just couldn’t - something about the way it spread, the pungent scent of it, the way it stains. She would deal with it if she absolutely had to, but otherwise…

So seeing ____ in a puddle of her own vomit is, extremely objectively , not the worst she could’ve found. Until she looks to the right and sees piles of her belongings neatly arranged, until she looks to the left and sees an empty pill bottle rolling on the floor, to her nightstand, where her stuffed animals have turned away in fear. For just a moment, it’s as if she’s forgotten everything she ever knew, evaporated in the face of a child in front of her, dying. A child who, for all she can tell, did this to herself. On purpose. 

She shakes out her hands and crouches at her side. Cold, congealing vomit seeps into her pants. Okay. Okay. 

Gently, Gigi rolls her over. Her skin is still warm, so that’s good at least. She looks to Mello, standing in the corner, hands digging into his hair. He bounces from foot to foot, biting his lip. 

When this is over, she’ll lay awake thinking about how this is not the first time he has seen this. 

“Mello, grab the pill bottle and bring my purse from my room. It’s on my wall hanger.”

“Is she gonna die?” 

No , she wants to say, but she can’t. She can’t be sure. 

“Do it now, Mello.” 

Mello darts to the bed, swipes at the bottle, then stumbles out of the room. Gigi slides her arm under her back until her head rests in the crook of her elbow, her other arm shrugging under her knees until she can lift her up and out to the hall. The way she can lift her so easily, the way her dead weight is so easy to maneuver makes her sick. Good Christ, she’s just a fucking kid. Tears well in her eyes, and she blinks them away. Help now, cry later. WWWD. As she carries her down the hallway, she prays to whoever the hell is out there that no one else is awake and that her stupid car has gas.

Mello follows her down the stairs, clutching Gigi’s bag in a tight fist. He can hear her car keys jingling within, and he fishes them out before they’re even out the front door. Her beat up little sedan - that she’s meant to trade in - waits in the driveway, and the gravel crunches under their feet when she skids to a stop in front of the passenger door. Maybe this is a stupid idea, but there’s a nagging feeling within her that calling an ambulance wouldn’t be fast enough. If she’s wrong - and she really hopes she won’t be - then it’s over. Her career at Wammy’s is over, trust in Wammy’s as an institution is over, Watari’s trust in her is over. And of course, ____’s life will be over. She’ll be dead. 

Okay, enough. 

“Open the door,” she instructs, and quickly, wordlessly, Mello does so. Gigi lays her in the front seat, stretching out her legs and fastening her seatbelt. She presses the back of her hand to her forehead - she doesn’t really know why or what good it’ll do, but at least she can still feel her sweating, can feel a weak throb from her temple. Still alive. She closes the door and sprints to the driver’s side, throwing open the door and practically falling in. She closes the door, only to hear another slam from behind her. She whips her head around. Mello. 

“Get out, Mello. Go upstairs and tell Roger to meet me at the hospital.” She turns back around and turns the key, the engine coughing to life. 

“I’m going with you,” he says, shaking his head. The headlights flicker on, the tree lined path off the grounds empty and still before them. 

“I’m not arguing with you, Mello. Now,” her voice is stern, and though she hates being harsh, now is not the time for Mello’s stubbornness. 

“No!” 

He barks it out at her, and at the sound of his strained little voice, the finality of it, she’s again reminded that these are just children. Ten. 

“You are not coming!”

The yell erupts out of her, grinds out of her throat, and she's instantly so ashamed. She’ll have to remember to mention this during her supervisions with Dr. Vanger. That she yelled at a child. 

As if in response, ____ stirs from her seat, coughing and heaving. Mouthfuls of bile bubble out of her. They’re wasting time. No time to stop, no time to think. There is no longer time for speculating, for asking wwwd. Every choice from now is hers alone, for better or worse. WWGD? Don’t panic - What would Gigi do? 

“God dammit,” she murmurs, and throws it into gear. She points at him. “You and I are having a serious talk when we get back about listening .” 

She speeds out of the driveway and through the gate. 

“Now put your fucking seatbelt on.”

The roads are empty as they barrel through them, and Gigi uses the (relative) calm of the drive to ruminate on why this is happening, whether it’s her fault, what she could’ve done, what signs she missed. Whether ____ will die. 

Each intersection makes her panic - don’t panic, wwgd. If whatever ____ took doesn’t kill her, she doesn’t want getting t-boned at high speeds to do it instead. Left, right, left again, go. Each street they pass both soothes her and makes her all the more paranoid. They hurtle that much closer to salvation, or that much closer to being just seconds too late. The road seems to stretch before them forever.

Fabric rustles from beside her. Thank god. Thank god. She spares ____ a glance, not wanting to take her eyes from the road, even just for a moment. 

“We’re almost there, honey. Just a little farther, okay?” 

If the current situation wasn’t the current situation, she would cringe at herself. She’s not one for pet names other than buddy, pal, champ, etc. She knows the dangers of it, of seeing these things as familial, a cousin-like relationship or, god forbid, a sisterly one. She tries not to have “favorites”, but she’s attended enough conferences and been to enough happy hours to learn that any caretaker, daycare worker, teacher or what have you, is totally bullshitting when they claim to not have favorite kids, students, charges, whatever. Every single one. And she’ll never, ever admit it, but she loves her kids. There’s that word again, “her”, and again she wants to cringe. It is her job to protect them, to raise them, but they are not hers to protect, nor to love. But she does. 

“Is she awake?” 

Yes, thank god. 

“Sit down, Mello. Put your seatbelt on.” 

____’s voice is barely audible over the drone of the tires on the asphalt, but at least she’s alive enough to talk. What she says though, poses an issue. 

“Stop the car.”

No, we’re not going to do that. She glances at Mello through the rearview mirror, and she hopes so badly that he can’t hear her. Unethical and ill advised as it is, she has a soft spot for that little group, the bond they have and the antics they get themselves into. Something tells her they’re meant to do great things, and she can’t imagine them doing it without one another. She can’t see one without the other.

“Turn around.” 

It’s like a blade piercing into her, hearing her say that, knowing that’s what she wants. A little kid, who wants to die. One who wants it enough to do it herself. Gigi shakes her head. 

She realizes and re-realizes often how unfair this all is. How these children, everyone who lives under their roof, every single one, has lost something so profound, something they can never get back. They are talented, smart, and so very gifted, the price paid in blood. Gigi thinks to her own parents, alive and well. She will never know what these kids know. 

“Let me die,” ____ says. 

Not gonna happen , she wants to say, but she can’t, too focused on the glowing sign in the distance, growing closer and closer, her grip on the steering wheel too tight to think about anything other than getting there. Her throat is too tight to do anything but sob. 

Finally, finally, finally they arrive, tires screeching to a stop.

“Bring someone out here.”

Again she’s out of the car and sprinting to the other side, gathering ____ up. She’s heavier, slumped, and she doesn’t dare think about why. 

She places her in the wheelchair sent out and grabs Mello’s hand, running after the nurses and trying to keep up. She answers every question they fire off at her, and she feels stupid for every one she doesn’t know. Some caretaker. 

She’s not sure whether or not to follow as ____’s wheeled through the ER doors. A nurse hurries up to her. 

“Are you Mom?” 

“I’m her guardian.” 

“Come with me,” the nurse instructs, and dips past the doors. She hesitates, still holding Mello’s hand. 

“What about him?” 

The nurse, flustered and huffing, looks Mello up and down. 

“We’ll have him wait in the family room,” he turns to a fellow nurse by the entrance, “Take him to the family room, please.” 

Mello looks up at Gigi, eyes wide and shimmering. She drops his hand and crouches, rests each hand on his shoulder. He looks to the doors, back to her, back to the doors. 

“I’ll be right back, okay, Mello? Just wait here, and I’ll be back. Okay? 

On instinct, and perhaps against her better judgment, she pulls him into a hug. Small, cold, petrified. She pulls away and gives him one last look, smooths his hair down. 

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay, okay? It’s gonna be okay.” 

And again, she says it against her better judgment, because will it? She can’t know, she won’t know, until she does. But she can’t watch him cry, and she can’t stop herself from saying it. He just barely nods, and it’s enough to have her darting through the doors and down the hall. 

She sets the payphone down on its receiver. Everyone has been informed, from Dr. Vanger to Roger, Watari, anyone who absolutely needed to know, nobody that didn’t. She’ll explain to Nurse Nila when ____’s discharged. 

She was perfectly informative with Roger and Dr. Vanger, relaying all the important details, the next steps. ____ will be assessed, and more than likely she’ll be on an involuntary hold for a few days or maybe a week, to monitor her and draft a plan of action, what she needs, what she can’t have. She needs more therapy, she might need medication. She’ll need to ask about Mello, no doubt, after what he’s seen.  

But when she finally called Watari was when she could hold it in no longer. She cried, sobbed, held her face in her hand as she explained. She hyperventilated, had to sit on the floor while she told him, while she begged him to tell her what she did was right, that it was okay. Please god let it be okay. 

His voice was soft over the phone, muffled with static from the distance between them. He would be flying in soonest he could, he’d said. Not to worry. 

Over and over, she’d asked if she did okay, what he would’ve done in her shoes, and over and over he reassured her what he would’ve done doesn’t matter, what matters is what she, Gigi, did. The girl is alive, and she wouldn’t be if not for her and Mello. Again, she’d sobbed - it destroys her that Mello had to see this, that she couldn’t shield him from it, that she couldn’t shield ____ from whatever haunted her. 

She can’t help but feel like she’d failed, both of them. All three of them, actually.  ____, Mello, Watari. She sighs, rests her head against the cool glass divider between each payphone. Her breath fogs the glass. She closes her eyes. For a moment, everything is still, and while she doesn’t feel relaxed, at least she doesn’t feel as panicked as she did before. The worst is over, for now. 

She feels the smallest tug on her fingertip, and her eyes flutter open. From beside her, Mello looks up at her. It’s been a minute since they got here. Her voice is soft.

“Hungry?” 

He says nothing, just nods. 

“Come on,” she says. She puts a hand on his back, leads them to the elevators to the cafeteria. Her work is not yet done. It probably never will be, and she accepts that. 

It doesn’t matter what Watari does, she doesn’t have to ask herself what he would do. As the doors close before her and the elevator descends, she can only think of what she’s done, what she will do for these kids. They’re not her kids. She knows that. But she’ll love them, all of them, regardless. 

Chapter Text

“Red ribbons, handkerchiefs, tennis balls.”

Mello clutches a throw pillow to his chest, coiling his legs tighter around it. The tasseled edges tickle his nose. Beside him, Matt sits with his chin on his knees, too spooked to let them hang off the couch lest some creature or ghostie snatch his ankle and drag him who knows where. And beside Matt is ____, curled up against the arm of the couch, snoring lightly in the strobing light of the TV. Why they keep putting on this movie if ____’s just gonna fall asleep three quarters of the way through is beyond them - why they keep putting in on past bedtime, alone in the foyer with all the lights off is extremely beyond them. Nose goes for whoever has to turn off the TV and go up the stairs last, that’s for sure. 

“Carol Anne, it’s Mommy, can you hear me?” 

For weeks, Mello, Matt, and Linda had wracked their brains on what to do for ____’s birthday, and eventually they’d settled on ____’s Happy Birthday Hauntapalooza : a week of her favorite scary movies and spooky treats, all culminating to a surprise costume party at Peter Piper Pizza that they, admittedly, still haven’t told Gigi about, let alone started actually planning. Surely a week’s enough time, right? 

Mello peers behind Matt’s head at ____, thinking maybe if she’s asleep deep enough, they can slip off and discuss party plans and be back before the movie’s over. Only one way to find out.

“Psst.” 

Matt’s eyes widen, his brows knitting together. He side eyes him. Mello cocks his chin towards ____ and whispers. 

“Is she asleep?”

Matt hisses a quiet response.

“What?” 

Mello rolls his eyes. “Is she asleep ; we need to talk about birthday stuff.” 

“Ooh,” Matt nods slowly, mouth slightly agape. He shifts, turning his shoulders towards ____. Slowly, carefully, he snakes two fingers around her wrist and lifts it up a few inches. He lets it go, and it plops softly onto the armrest. Though she does twitch, she doesn’t wake, only curls further into herself with a small hmph. 

“Out like a trout,” he confirms. 

Nice, Mello nods. Partially because now they can speak (relatively) freely, but more so because getting ____ to sleep soundly has been a little…elusive lately. In the wee hours of the night, on the way back from cramming in the library, he can see the glow of her lamplight from under her door, see the shadows of her feet pacing back and forth. At lunch, he can see her eyes, glassy and irritated from lack of sleep, or maybe crying, probably both. She only swings so high on the swings now. She’s been touchy, agitated and frantic, yet some days aloof and wilted. As some of the older kids put it, she’s been “on one.” Mello doesn’t really get what that means, but sure. She’s been on one. 

Truthfully, he’s been worried. There’s a malaise about her, something heavy snaking around, gathering strength. A smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. Watching her beat the piss out of Rory, cool as it was and as much as the little twerp deserved it, was Not A Good Sign. She’s not really the violent type save when she kicked him when they first met. And what was all that stuff about other universes? Not being here? Gloom and doom? 

That he can’t seem to do anything about it, plus it being in a way his fault, makes him want to punch stuff, and so in a three way handshake, he, Linda, and Matt promised that whether this party pans out or not, they need to make sure whatever they do is extra special. 

Over the blaring TV, they can just barely hear each other’s whispers. The boys sit on their knees, face to face.

“What about a piñata that looks like Rory?” Matt offers. “Fill it up with her favorite candy and just let her go nuts. Bonk, bonk, bonk,” he beats his fist in a circle. Mello shakes his head. 

“Nah, what kinda birthday would it be if it’s all about how much she dislikes someone?”  

“True,” Matt agrees. Mello puts his forefinger on his nose, thumb pressed against his mouth and ponders. 

“While she’s at the party, we could make a scavenger hunt for her presents, maybe? All the clues could be from movies we’re gonna watch.”

“How though? We’ll also be at the party.”

“Gigi?” 

“Will also be at the party,” and now Matt rolls his eyes. 

“Man fuck you, I’m just spitballing, alright?” Mello huffs and lets his back fall slowly onto the couch cushions. Planning has never been his bread and butter. But something is wrong with ____, and he’s gonna think of something if it kills him. 

Mello’s handwriting is what a perhaps more persnickety person would call chicken scratch, but at least it’s somewhat legible, if the people around him are to be trusted. 

____’s birthday draws nearer, and the cap of his pen is dented from teeth marks that he’s gnawed while trying to think of clues for this scavenger hunt that was somehow going to be put together the day of her birthday but before the birthday party but also after other birthday festivities that he will probably also be participating in? However that’s going to work. But rather than think about that, he’s pivoted to making her birthday card. Normally he wouldn’t, citing it as too sappy for a cool, worldly, badass dude like him, but he feels like she needs it, and so he does his best to draw something. So far he’s got Johnny Cage and ____’s favorite Mortal Kombat fighter standing back to back, smiling big, with their thumbs up. On the inside, he draws a birthday cake on a platter with arrows pointing to it and “ FINISH HIM!! ” above it in big block letters. 

On the other side he writes his birthday letter, trying to strike that perfect balance of funny and sincere that Linda says he’s absolutely shit at. The ink of his pen has smeared in places, bleeding over the words. He signs it, Your Friend Mello, Cool Guy Of The World . 

He slides the card into a lavender envelope and seals it, nodding just so. Nice. He stuffs it between notebooks on his desk where it’ll sit until the surprise party. And now to find Gigi, explain their idea for the party and beg for forgiveness that they didn’t mention it earlier. 

It might work out, she’d told him, big asterisk on the might. They’ll call to confirm, she’d told him. You oughta have a backup plan just in case, she’d told him. And though Mello very strongly feels that backup plans are for “ye’s of little faith” or whatever, he still gathers ingredients for a chocolate cake to have on standby, eleven candles, and supplies for him, Matt, and Linda to make paper stars and garlands. They work on them between classes, during ____’s Dr. Vander meeting, in a circle in Linda’s room while ____ studies. The paper stars pile up one by one until a little galaxy forms, twinkling and bright. They loop the garland rings together carefully, roll, tape, attach, roll, tape, attach. Mello holds them lightly in his hands, and as the paper squeaks and crinkles, snaking across the floor, he hopes that just for a second, that it’ll soothe the hurt just a little. A brief moment to forget, for the smile to reach the eyes.

As Gigi so wisely predicted, Peter Piper Pizza did not, in fact, ever call back, and so here Mello is the afternoon before ____’s birthday, delegating. They huddle their heads together, arms around each other’s shoulders. He nods to each of them in turn.

“Matt, you’re on cake duty. I dunno how, but you’re gonna have to bake that cake as discreetly as possible. When it’s cooled come find us so we can all decorate it.” 

“Roger,” Matt nods. 

He turns to Linda. 

“Linda, your artistic flair is needed for decorating outside. If there’s anyone who can make a birthday party festive but also spooky, it’s you.” 

“I won’t let you down,” she stamps a foot on the ground. How she was going to make the upstairs terrace appropriately spooky enough for a horror themed birthday party but also not too Halloween-y, he bet she was still noodling on, but she’ll come up with something, surely. 

“Sweet. I’m gonna wrap her presents, then tomorrow morning I’ll set up the scavenger hunt.”

Matt quirks a brow. 

“Why not tonight?”

“There’s like, a million other kids here. I’m not gonna leave shiny nice presents everywhere for some rando to open and ruin.”

“Makes sense,” Matt nods. 

“Gigi’s ordering pizza? Snacks and stuff?” 

“Yup.”

“Nice,” Linda beams. “Then that’s everything?” 

“That’s everything,” Mello confirms. He straightens up and places his hand in the middle of them. 

“Remember, mum’s the word, everybody.” 

Matt and Linda each extend a hand, each on top of the other. Matt begins to bounce his up and down. 

“Hauntapalooza on three,” he says. 

One bounce, two, three, and they shoot their hands in the air with a shout that they hope ____, wherever she is in this house, doesn’t hear. 

Dinner has come and gone, and each minute that ticks toward midnight, and more importantly tomorrow morning, only amps Mello up. The excitement bubbles within him as he flits about the house, checking on things, helping Linda decorate, pestering Gigi about what type of pizza they got, practically giddy. So far, everything’s gone off without a hitch, and he basks in the pride as he hops down the stairs, the hardwood creaking underneath him. 

From the bottom of the stairs, he can just see the top of ____’s head poking out from the seat of the couch. Still and silent, she’s watching Poltergeist . Again. He pads over behind the couch and flops over the back of it, thinking maybe he can spook her. 

“Don’t you ever get-” 

He stops at the look on her face. 

Spacing out would maybe be the closest thing to it, but there’s something buried that it doesn’t convey. The dead fog in her eyes, swirling and thick. Her expression, empty and flat, a tomb. It’s like she’s not watching the movie, but something infinitely far away, unreachable by space or time, will or promise. 

“- tired of this movie?”

The words take a moment to reach her. His face barely pierces the fog. 

She doesn’t even blink, just barely turns to him. 

“Huh?”

“ Poltergeist , dude, again.” 

She shrugs, her shoulders barely rising a centimeter. 

“I like this movie.”

“Yeah, evidently,” Mello chortles. “You’ve watched it like eight times this week.” 

He kicks a leg over the back of the couch and throws himself over. 

“So are you excited?” 

“For what?” 

Mello balks at her. 

“Your birthday? The big eleven?”

A brief glimmer of life flickers in ____’s eyes, like something legitimized after a long back and forth. 

“Sure, yeah. Totally,” she nods. What the hell? Mello thinks. What is with this reaction? He thrusts his hand in her face and snaps thrice. 

“Hello, Earth to ____! What is up with you?”

As he stares, he thinks of all the things it could be aside from the obvious, which he still feels guilty about. It might be poised to be his one regret in life, but he pushes the thought away. Does she know about the party? Did someone spoil the surprise?  

She turns to him and smiles, soft and serene. 

“I am, promise. I’m just tired.”

She pauses, contemplating. 

“Actually, I think I might go to bed.” 

“Already? It’s not even,” Mello glances at his wrist, where he is not wearing a watch. “It’s so early!”

“Yeah, but gotta be rested for the big day, right?” 

Well, he can’t deny that. And with that, she unfurls from the couch and plods up the stairs. To her back, he shouts. 

“You better be ready!” 

He watches her ascend the stairs, and without looking back, she gives a small wave of her hand. 

The minutes drag, and he can’t sleep for the excitement. Everything’s coming up Mello - the presents are wrapped and gathered, the pizza order is secure, the terrace looks lively and fabulous, and they’re ready to party. All they have to do is wait until morning, which shouldn’t be too hard considering how late (early?) it already is. His clock blinks up at him - 2:50 AM. A new record, he thinks, and he feels the coolness gauge tick a bit higher. Upon even thinking of a coolness gauge, it goes back down. He shakes his head. Embarrassing. 

As he stares at his ceiling, he contemplates just going over to ____’s room to give her his card - technically, it is already her birthday. Plus that way, no one has to watch her open it and read all the stuff he wrote her and be all weird and gooey eyed about it. 

So he changes out of his pjs and shrugs on some cargo shorts and socks. When he’s done, he just stands there, debating. She might not even be awake, but still, he reaches between his notebooks for the card. 

Just as he’s about to grab it, there’s a thud from down the hall. And not just a regular, “oops, I tripped over my own legs but managed to save it” kind of thud, but a definite, resounding, “I just busted my ass” kind of thud. It reminds him of when he and Matt were jumping on his bed to see who could touch both of their heels to the ceiling first and Matt overcommitted, backflipping onto the floor. The landing was hard enough to shake the windows, and it sounded like it hurt. Immediately they were covering their mouths to stifle their laughter and wheezing, clutching their stomachs and shushing each other. 

This too, sounded like it hurt. He’s not supposed to be awake, so for a quick second he’s not sure what to do, or whether he’ll get in trouble, but if it sounded that crazy, he’d probably want someone to check on him. He leaves the card sandwiched between his books and wanders out into the hall.  

He passes before each door, listening for a scuffle or groaning or muffled giggles, but under each door is just the thin indigo stripe of darkness. But when he arrives at ____’s door, he pauses, not knowing why. Something feels…odd. He squints, peering down at the gap. Indigo stripe, but more than that. Blackness. Shadows writhing in the dark. Maybe it’s the idea of being the only one up in a dark, sprawling mansion, but goosebumps erupt on his arms and the back of his neck. A small dread boils in his stomach. The silence burns on for one more second before he can’t take it anymore. 

“____?”

He presses his ear against the door. 

“Are you okay in there? I heard a crash.” 

Nothing. Doubtful. He raises a fist and knocks. 

“Hellooo? ____. I know you’re in there.” 

There’s another moment of silence, before there’s another thump, a ringing, metallic thud, and then the familiar pop of glass shattering. A burglar? She fainted? She’s seizing? Whatever the hell that is, it can’t be good, and at the speed that his heart’s beating, he’s surprised he can even see straight. He’s gotta get in there. Who cares if he’s not supposed to be awake. He balls his fist tight and slams it against ____’s door, over and over. 

“Hey! Open up, ____. You better open up right now. Open the door or I’m busting in there.” 

He shakes out his hands, looking from left to right down the still empty hall. He’s only ever seen this in movies, so if there’s a technique, it’s certainly escaping him right now. He takes a step back and exhales hard. This is probably gonna hurt. 

Mello thinks he might be cursed. Cursed to see all the things the world should never let you see without marring your psyche, rewiring your brain. His dead father, an exploded rat. Swollen tongues, gushing blood, pooling blood, clotting blood. Blood of all kinds. His dead mother, suspended from a rafter. He remembers her face, puffed and contorted, but with this resigned expression that almost looked peaceful, and almost alive. Like the loop had been closed. He’ll never forget it. 

His best friend, in the middle of her room, a pill bottle nearby, with that same expression on her face. He will never forget it. 

He also thinks he might be an idiot, standing half in, half out of her room after turning her lights on. As ____’s doorknob rolls across the floor and he looks down at the flecks of wood floating around them, he thinks dully that if she’d been a few feet closer, he would’ve sent that door right into her skull. He could’ve killed her. 

There’s vomit everywhere. Splinters everywhere, both from the door and from the leg of her chair that’s been snapped off. 

“Oh shit.” 

He runs over to her, wincing just a bit at the throb in his ankle. Funny enough, (or maybe not funny at all), it’s that same ankle from…well, the last time he rolled his ankle. 

He rolls ____ over, and her eyes are filled with that gray fog. He slaps her cheek again and again, but nothing. No acknowledgement, barely any spark of recognition. 

“____,” he calls. “Say something. Say something.” 

He’s panicking, and he feels bad, but he winds up one more time to give her one last good smack and call her a name she doesn’t like. Maybe if he pisses her off enough, she’ll wake up and smack him back. 

“ Speak, bitch!” 

And to his horror, nothing. He teeters to his feet to the door, trying to stave off the panic and the smell of vomit and the image of a taut rope.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He stumbles down the hall, and if Gigi’s awake and ____’s still alive, he personally will replace her door, her lamp, and clean the vomit from the walls. 

As they fly through each intersection, Mello contemplates whether this is all his fault. The jury’s still out on that one, but he’s leaning towards yes. He thinks back to what he told ____ all those months ago. 

Don’t blame me if you learn something you would’ve been better off not knowing.

But that’s where the blame lies, isn’t it? Squarely in his lap, pinning him to the ground. What an idiot - how could any of this have been good for her? Sure, she’d asked, but he didn’t have to say yes. He thought maybe it would help. No good deed. 

He stares straight ahead at the headrest in front of him, listening to her babble about going home, pulling over. About leaving her to die. His eyes are wide open and stinging as the tears pool and spill out of them. Under the dim light of each passing street lamp, he looks down at his hands, and the fault radiates off them. The hands that held the flashlight, picked the lock. The hands that opened the filing cabinet. The hands that held out Kurt to her in a desperate plea for forgiveness. Please. Absolve me. The hands that pretended to push her over the balcony. Saved your life. The hands that held the knife that killed his father, that stroked the lacquer of Mama’s casket before it was sealed underground. Hands that held ____’s, that decorated her cake, that wrapped her gifts, that tried to slap her awake, that wrote her a sappy ooey gooey birthday card that he will now never give her, forgotten. Hands that’ll give her a good throttle for doing this, if she fucking lives, and she better fucking live. 

By some miracle, apparently, ____ is stable enough that they can leave her while she recovers. Roger had sent a cab to collect him, but he refused to get in until he knew one way or the other. He’d tried to take a nap in the family waiting room, but the light of dawn bled through the window and he couldn’t sleep, the room too bright, his nerves too jangled. 

Now he stands in ____’s room, vomit already cleaned and door already replaced per their wealth of connections. The room still smells faintly of bile while they wash her sheets, replace her curtains. He surveys the pile of stuff on her desk. 

For Linda. For Matt. For Mello. 

He sifts through the pile. Flowers, photos, and a cat. The loot ____ drops when she dies. As he picks up Mittens, he thinks of what he’ll say when he sees her next, if she doesn’t have brain damage or something. 

Happy Belated Birthday, sorry you almost died.

I’m so fucking mad at you. 

Your room is all clean. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It will never be enough. 

Mello remembers the start of all this, his apology for letting her in there in the first place, how she said it was fine. What he must’ve missed, what he could’ve done, how it was not enough. 

He puts Mittens, the scrapbook, and the flower book into his pack. He still doesn’t know what he’ll say to her, but as a self proclaimed cool guy, he’s decided just to wing it. Whatever he comes up with, it will never be enough. 

Chapter Text

It’s kinda crazy how loose your shoes are without laces. You could swing your leg, probably not even that hard, and they’d go flying. Every once in a while, your ankle will slip out, you’ll stumble, and your sock will gather under your heel. Everybody waits on you, some rolling their eyes, some picking at their hair or nails while you lean on the wall to fix it. When you’re ready, you straighten out and your little unit moves once again down the hall toward the dining room, a little single celled organism, or maybe an amoeba. 

Along with your shoelaces, they also confiscated your half of the Friends Forever heart necklace you shared with Linda, the string tie from your hoodie, and a beaded bracelet you brought in. Aside from the clothes on your back and the extras Gigi brought you, hardly a trace of you exists here. Maybe things from back home are like…contrary to the therapeutic process or something. You’d thought maybe you’d be allowed to bring books or a stuffed animal or something, but apparently the risks of smuggling in contraband are too much of a liability. 

And so in between your meals, therapy sessions (individual and group), supervised crafts, and exercise time, you’re left to either watch the TV drone or mingle with your fellow...Patients? Inmates? And unlike Wammy’s, the kids here have no qualms about divulging anything to you you’d ever want to know about them. With any new arrival, you included, the first question they ask is always a cheeky or demanding, “what are you in for?”

Well, you say, I tried to kill myself and missed my own birthday. Also I can’t count things without feeling weird about it. You? 

There’s Leah, a middle schooler whose pathological lying proved too much for her parents and schoolteachers. In the few days you’ve been here, you’ve learned to just smile and nod your head when she tells you her father is xyz head of state, FBI director, et al. You bond over talking about NSYNC, but you decided to stop bringing it up after she’d told you however many times that she could get you backstage because her mom is their PR lady. It kind of makes you mad, because that would be awesome, but you know it’s another lie. But she’s nice otherwise.     

Then there’s Simon, a fifteen year old whose severe anxiety manifested after accidentally kicking a soccer ball at his coach’s head, rupturing an aneurysm and killing him. At 11 each morning he asks to use the phone to call his surviving family and apologize, and is gently denied every time. When he’s not recounting the event to whoever will listen, he’s doing sudoku puzzles with a pencil intentionally left dull. 

Samuel, a homeschooled tween who was goaded into smoking too much weed with his neighbors until he passed out and was found hours later by his parents, who panicked and called an ambulance, and are now trying to work out his “behavioral issues”. 

Ana, who couldn’t explain why it felt so relieving to cut herself, only that it was the only thing that did, and thus every time she was discharged she ended up back so quickly that at this point it’d be easier to count the days she wasn’t institutionalized. 

And finally, there’s Minerva, your roommate. 16, the oldest of the bunch so far, a teen mom who miscarried and sunk into a deep, lonely abyss afterwards. Quiet and aloof, she can’t be bothered to be anywhere anymore, especially this place. On your first night here, you could hardly sleep on account of the anxiety, the finality of your arrival, like this is the end of the line with no going back. No one gave you a definite answer on when you could go back to Wammy’s, and the fear of being forced to stay here forever slowly eked in throughout the evening. That coupled with orderlies barging in every few hours to measure your blood toxicity so your liver didn’t explode or something, made for a very restless night. She made it slightly more bearable by, ironically, making you feel small. She’d rolled her eyes at your occasional sniffling, told you that none of this was a big deal as long as you weren’t stupid about it. Just follow the rules, courtesy of Minerva: 

1. Don’t sleep too much - they’ll say you’re depressed and keep you here longer. 

2. Don’t sleep too little - they’ll say you’re paranoid and keep you here longer. 

3. Don’t eat too little, even if you’re not hungry - they’ll say you’re starving and keep you here longer. 

4. Don’t eat too much - they’ll say you’re bingeing and keep you here longer. 

5. Don’t pick fights - they’ll say you’re violent and keep you here longer. 

6. Don’t avoid everyone - they’ll say you’re self-isolating and keep you here longer. 

And so on and so on. Essentially, don’t do this thing or its opposite or you’ll never go home. And while you get that stuffing a bunch of messed up kids under one segmented, under-funded roof isn’t really the ideal, you can’t help but feel like you’re being punished for something rather than treated. You take your medicine and feel no different, and probably won’t for a while. You might as well write “I will not try to kill myself” on a chalkboard eight hundred times. 

But still, you’re trying, you really are. You participate in therapy, you reflect and journal with your dull little pencil, you try your hardest to stop counting things, pacing, all of it. You haven’t forgotten your tearful goodbye to Mello, how it felt to hug him after you figured you never would again. You haven’t forgotten Linda’s tears at seeing you alright, not even knowing the half of it, nor Gigi’s after hearing the awful things you asked her to do. You have to make up for it all somehow. 

Gathered in the small rec area, you play Simon Says (obviously Simon gets to be Simon first) and you wonder what they’re all doing at this very moment, what they would be doing if you were there. 

“Simon Says stand on one foot.”

You lift your right foot off the ground, ankle wobbling. You imagine Linda reaching up, high enough that she has to tiptoe on one foot, skirting her fingers across the highest shelf for her pastels. Who even put them up this high anyway? If you were there you’d give her a boost. 

“Simon says play air guitar.”

With your right foot still hovering, you lift your hands up and strum a little fake guitar, moving your hand across the frets. You imagine Matt seated beside you on the couch, trying to teach you how to play Edelweiss on the ukulele he got for his birthday. He’s a terrible teacher, and you’re a terrible student, laughing as you pluck away at the nylon strings, the notes screechy and discordant. You imagine him yanking it out of your hands with a grin, asking how the heck you can make a song meant for babies sound so bad.

“Simon says…reach out like a zombie.” 

For a moment you pause - are you supposed to stop doing air guitar or..? Whatever. You stretch your arms out in front of you, palms down and fingers spread wide. Your left foot is starting to tire from balancing. You imagine Mello, his back to you, surveying a picturesque pile of freshly raked leaves. You imagine sneaking up behind him, creeping up without a sound and shoving him into the leaves and yelling, boo! You imagine him swallowed by the leaves, crunching and scattering beneath him, laughing, yelling and flailing to try and drag you in with him. 

You imagine the fabric of the back of his shirt crinkling as you push him on the swings, higher and higher so he can jump off at the apex. When he’s done (and if he sticks the landing) it’ll be your turn. 

You imagine your arms out before you, Mello’s back to you again, your hands over his eyes as you push him down the hallway toward some unknown. The hardwood creaks as you pad along in your socks, and you imagine him asking where you’re going. You continue on down the hall towards a sliver of light. Your room. 

You lead on til you reach it, the door kicked open. Splinters at your feet.

With a flourish, you take your hands from Mello’s eyes and reveal what’s inside. Three piles of junk, a folded piece of paper, a broken chair on its side. On the floor, strewn amongst the vomit and the sweat, your body, ashen and cold, lips blue. No, no, no, you think. This was not how it was supposed to go. You step back. 

“You’re out, ____!”     

It’s like waking from a dream, or in your case maybe a vision of a parallel world, what should’ve happened but didn’t. Your arms fall to your sides, your right foot plants back on the floor. You can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights of the rec room, can feel your heart throb in your throat. You stutter.

“What?”

Simon points at your foot. 

“I didn’t say Simon says, so you’re out.”

"Oh."

Bewildered, you nod, and shuffle over to the wall with the others. Evidently there is much more work to be done. 

With another week gone by, you kinda figured you’d be home by now, and you’re starting to get antsy. Hour after hour sitting in the common room you sit, hoping your name will be called from the psychiatrist’s office, but they drag on. 

And with the passing days, it’s started to really hit you that things will be different from here on out. At least for the foreseeable future, your life feels separated into two parts, the before and the after. The world continues on, and you worry whether you’ll be able to catch up, how you’ll fill the craters left in your absence. Are you the same as when you came in here? Will you be the same person if - when - you leave? If not, how much can a person change in so little time? Will you be “cured”, whatever that means? Is that even the point? 

You sigh and slump further into your seat. Therapeutic or not, there’s no shortage of time to...reflect in here. You scan the room. Ana sits a chair over, pulling split ends from a lock of her hair. Your gaze lands on her arm, the skin tight and pocked with layers upon layers of pale, shiny scars. Some long, some deep and wide, one after another after another. You watch her skin stretch and compress as she fidgets. It must’ve hurt, you think, and all the blood must be so scary. Does she wait for each one to heal? Or does she just go at it?

You start to feel like you’re staring a little too hard, and so you avert your gaze back to your own hands and wrists, soft and smooth and relatively unmarred compared to Ana’s. Your veins, wiry and blue snake under the skin, and your own blood within them. You imagine it trickling out of you, pooling in your cupped hands, warm and crimson and alive. Just like Ana, you will bleed. Everyone did, everyone does, everyone will. If it bleeds, it can die. But if it bleeds, it can scab. It can scar, and it can heal. 

Watari’s voice is about what you expected, at least going off the photos you’ve seen at Wammy’s. Cordial but soft, somewhat comforting. Unperturbed. It’s kind of what you imagine Santa Clause sounding like or something. His hands, wrinkled and dusted with sparse gray hair on the knuckles, are offering up to you a porcelain cup and saucer.

“Tea?” 

You’re not a super big tea person, but you’re not allowed to have coffee yet, so you figure this is the next best thing. From its color, it’s already been dressed with milk and maybe sugar, and for a moment you wonder how they let him in with all this. Visiting hours have only just begun, so maybe the ladies at the reception desk are in a lenient mood. You learn forward and take the saucer and cup with both hands. 

“Thank you, Mr. Watari Sir.” You’re not exactly sure what to call him, and you don’t want to be rude. He chuckles. 

“Just Watari is fine.” 

It feels odd calling an adult that’s not Gigi their first name (if that even is his real name), so you decide to stick with Mr. Watari anyway and hope he doesn’t mind. He takes a sip of his own tea and places the cup and saucer on the coffee table between you. The room you’re in is nowhere near as sterile as the rest of the ward - throw pillows of warm tones speckle the soft couch, the walls are a homey sage, and maroon butterfly accents dot the walls. There’s even curtains in the window. Watari folds his hands in his lap.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, ____.” 

It’s not at all accusatory, but you know from TV that when someone says that, it usually precedes something dramatic, so you brace yourself. 

“Gigi tells me you’re curious, thoughtful, and sensitive. That you may want to be an interpreter when you grow up.” 

You nod and squirm just a bit, fighting the urge to beam or say thank you. You do feel a little bit special getting to meet Watari, present circumstances not withstanding. 

“She also tells me you can be secretive, easily overwhelmed, and impulsive. That you snuck into Dr. Vanger’s office and read your case file.” 

Your head snaps up, your stomach dropping. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. The words spill out of you. “I was having nightmares, and I couldn’t remember, and-”

Watari raises a palm. 

“It’s alright, ____. You’re not in trouble. Gigi and Dr. Vanger told me what happened.” He reaches for his tea and takes another sip. The steam curls around his face, fogs his glasses for just a moment. He heaves a sigh. 

“Wammy’s House is by no means a perfect place. I’m sorry that this happened to you, and that we couldn’t support you better.” 

You blink. An apology from Watari was definitely not what you were expecting. If anything, you were going to apologize for this whole mess. Instead, you sip your tea.

“We’re going to…reevaluate how we approach those things,” he pauses. “Your histories, I mean. You deserve to find out about these things at your own pace, with someone who can guide you. Not alone, all at once, because you feel you have no other choice.”

Huh. You hadn’t really thought of it that way. That you were failed by those around you, and not the other way around. You figured everyone just does their best…but the thought that something like what happened to you won’t - hopefully - happen again, is comforting. You’d say so, but instead you just smile and nod. 

“That sounds good.”

Watari smiles himself, soft and just barely reaching the tips of his moustache. 

“I’m glad.” 

There’s a moment of silence between you, in which you both just sit and sip your tea. You don’t know what kind it is exactly, but it’s warm and mild, just a little sweet. Even when you place it back on the coffee table, you can smell it. It smells familiar, and you imagine there’s probably boxes of it tucked somewhere in the kitchen back home. You miss it. You miss the too strong candles, the slippery hardwood you slide around on in your socks, the library, the terrace, your starry blanket. It must show on your face, because Watari meets your gaze from beneath his bushy brows. 

“I’m sure you’re anxious to be released.”

You fold your legs up in your seat and hold them, chin on your knees. You nod. 

“I want to go home.” 

“Yes,” he nods. Home, you repeat in your head. Home, with Linda, Mello, and Matt. You want to go home. 

“There are a few things that need to be settled before you can come back to the house,” he begins. You tense - that’s not exactly what you were hoping for, and your gaze drops to the carpet. 

“But,” he says gently, like he can sense the distress pulsing off you, “barring any major setbacks, by tomorrow afternoon, it should be all arranged.”

Your body unfolds as if on instinct, your hands flying to the armrest of the couch.

“Tomorrow? Like, tomorrow tomorrow?” 

“Should all go according to schedule,” he reminds you. “I can’t make any guarantees.” 

You don’t care about guarantees. The thought of being back that soon is too good, too exciting that you’re almost giddy. You could scream - that’s not even like, a day away. You bet the “few things that need to be settled” are all bureaucratic anyway, stamping things and signing things and all that, nothing to do with you, really. You swing your legs in your chair, and as you watch Watari gather your teacups and saucers and prepare to put them…well, wherever they go (he did bring a satchel), you imagine Wammy’s front gates. You imagine the winding path to the entrance, the windows and the lattice and the terrace. You imagine your room and your starry blanket, and the hearth downstairs, where your friends have been waiting for you all this time. 

You can’t tell exactly what time it is, but it’s been lights out for a minute now. For the rest of the day after Watari’s visit, you’d been bouncing around the ward, too restless and wound up to sit and watch something or color or craft. Nothing could make the time go by faster except sleeping, and now you can’t. You just haven’t been able to, too cautiously excited about the day ahead, yet anxious trying to conjure up anything that could constitute a “major setback”. You’ve been staring at the square ceiling panels, trying very, very hard not to count them to make you feel better. You roll onto your side and sigh, trying one more time to force your eyes closed. Then, from out of the darkness, a voice.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Minerva's voice is soft. It’s less of a question and more a statement to confirm. Your eyes flutter open and meet hers, watching you from her bed. She’s curled up in her blankets, her hands bunching the edges almost over her mouth. 

“I think so,” you nod. Only a trickle of moonlight seeps through the window, so you don’t really even know if she sees. You yourself can only barely see her, the outline of her hair, the light of her eyes. “I hope so.”

 She hums. 

“That’s good.” 

There’s sincerity in her voice, but it’s dulled, muffled by something. Despite your excitement throughout the day, you’d tried your hardest not to be obnoxious or even mention it too loud, but just like home, word spreads fast. You bet it's hard watching people go when you can't follow.

You know Minerva’s the oldest, but you don’t necessarily know how long she’s been here, and it never really felt cool to ask. But maybe, since she brought it up…

“Do you know when you’re leaving?” 

“Mm-mm.” The covers shift just so as she shakes her head. You hope it’s soon for everybody, but especially her. Even through her quiet, her distance, she was kind when you first got here, and made your first couple of nights just a little less terrible. You wonder what she’s like outside of this place, what her friends are like, where she goes to school, how she lives her life. Does she like movies? What's her favorite food? Does she have a boyfriend? Were her parents upset? Did she choose a name? No one in the ward knew, and on your potentially last night here, you’d feel like the biggest, nosiest jerk to ask, so you don’t.

“I hope it’s soon,” you say, and you mean it. You hope she can feel it from across the room. 

“Thanks.”  

For a moment she’s silent, then quirks a little half smile. 

“Y’know, before I got here I had just made my first email address. I was so stoked about it, but then this happened before I could give it to anyone.” 

“Like, you arriving here?” 

She nods. Another pause, deep in thought.

“You…you can have it, if you want. You don’t have to message me, but I dunno. Might be kinda cool.” 

You doubt she can see your eyes widen. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, why not.” 

You force down a smile - despite the setting, you feel so cool. A sixteen year old, a cool one at that, is giving you her email address. And you don’t even have one! 

“Cool,” you respond, dopey and enamored. 

Minerva snickers and rolls onto her back. You can’t see them, but by the sound of her voice you can tell her eyes roll. 

“God, the first person to get my email and it’s a ten year old psycho.” 

“I’m eleven,” you correct her cheerfully. 

“Whatever.” 

And with that, she bids you goodnight, rolling to face the wall. You hope she means it too, that you’ll walk out of here with a slip of paper somewhere in your suitcase or pocket with her name and email on it. You’ll have her write it on your forehead if she has to. Maybe in a month, in a year, or whenever, you can email her and she can email you, and you can catch up on all the things that aren’t such a big deal.

Chapter Text

Once again, a fluorescent light flickers above your head and you fight and fight and fight not to count the intervals at which it blinks. It’s a slog, like waking up a muscle you never knew you had, or lifting when your limbs have atrophied. Sisyphus pushing his rock. An eyelid almost twitches at the discomfort of not obeying the compulsion, and instead of counting, you try and focus on the shelves before you. 

Pick whatever you like, he had said. Oh, you will - it’s been a minute since you’ve had candy or chips or soda, anything that might constitute a sweet treat since the diet was so rigid during your little stint in the ward. With one hand you fiddle with your half of your Friends Forever necklace, bestowed back upon you by the front office ladies once you were officially signed out, and with the other you bounce a little plastic basket filled with cheetos, one ( only one, Watari specified) bottle of Dr. Pepper, and flavor blasted goldfish. Now you just need something sweet to balance out all the salty. 

You scan the wrappers, thinking maybe one will call to you. Crunch bars, chocolate with almonds, a giant toblerone, chupa chups…You hover your hand over them before honing in on a Milka bar - you’ve never tried it before, but maybe trying something new will help with the whole “can’t handle uncertainty” thing. You snatch it up and plop it into your basket, poised to turn on your heel to find Watari and head to the counter with your haul, but something stops you. On second thought, you grab another identical bar. One for you and one for Mello, a very crude “thanks for saving my life but also sorry you had to save my life” gift. You toss it in and half walk, half skip to the next aisle over to find Watari, hands behind his back, surveying the chilled drinks and coffees. You stifle a giggle - this dingy little corner store is definitely not his scene, what with his tailored jacket, polished shoes and trilby hat. You bet he and L eat like…caviar and stuff like that. You can’t imagine him (or L, for that matter) solving the world’s great mysteries with cheeto fingers. You slide up to his side. He looks at you, hands still behind his back.

“All done?” 

“Yes, sir,” you nod, and hold out your basket. He takes it from your hands and feigns losing his balance at the weight. 

“Oh my,” he says quietly, and at your smile, he chuckles and straightens out. There’s a flash of pain in your chest - you imagine he’s what a grandfather would be like, if you had one. You hadn’t really thought of it until now, but assume you don’t. You shake your head and try to let the thought pass before Demon Brain can latch onto it and start gnawing. You trail after Watari towards the cashier, surrounded by boxes of gum and rolls of lotto tickets, a desk TV with antennae warped and bent, blaring a news bulletin about youth crime. She's pretty, young and clearly bored, blowing a massive pink bubble with her chewing gum and leafing through a magazine. You peek over the counter in awe - not only have you never been able to blow a bubble that big, you’re also starstruck by how she still looks kinda cool even in a corner store uniform. Dark hair half up, pulled into buns on either side of her head, flyaways spiking out every which way, purple eyeshadow, and a silver chain round her neck with a razor charm in the center. 

“Good afternoon,” Watari says, placing the basket on the counter. You glance at her nametag. Bri✩ .

Bri✩ peels her eyes from the magazine and lets it flutter closed before meeting your eyes. Your cheeks flare. Sliding the magazine aside, she plucks out each item and scans it, and the three of you stand in the silence only punctuated by tiny mechanical chirps. 

“Four twelve,” she says flatly. From his billfold, Watari pulls out a fiver and insists she keep the change. You watch as she packs your snacks into a bag, drumming your fingers on the counter. 

“Um,” you titter, and her gaze snapping back to you almost has you flinching. 

“Huh?”

“How many pieces of gum are you chewing?” 

She raises a tweezed eyebrow, and you cough. 

“Like, to make bubbles that big.”

As if to demonstrate, she inflates one, the bubble hissing more and more until it’s almost past her cheeks.  

“Six.” 

“Whoa,” you mutter under your breath. Six, you think with a nod of your head. A nasty even number, but whatever. Maybe the way you’re looking up at her is charming or something, because she lets out a small snicker. From one of the tins on the counter, she grabs a roll of bubble tape and drops it in your bag before handing it to Watari. 

“On the house,” she says. “Knock yourself out.” 

You almost have to bite your tongue to keep from squealing, or your jaw falling open. From beside you, Watari smiles down at the top of your head. 

“How kind of you,” he nods. “Say thank you, ____.”

“Thank you,” you parrot, practically vibrating, and as Watari leads you out to the car, you give Bri✩ a small wave and goodbye. She waves back at you without even looking, one hand already flipping her magazine pages to where she left off, a perfect pink bubble poised before her face. 

As you crawl into the backseat, it occurs to you for the first time in some time, quite vividly in fact, that maybe one day you’ll be older, maybe even as old as her, however old that is. She could’ve been twenty for all you know. That’s almost double your age, and the thought of a twenty year old you is hard to fathom, especially after all this. The image of her in your mind is fluid, shifting and obscured by moving parts and things yet to come, questions you’re yet to ask yourself and others. 

Out the window, the trees blur by. In ten years, Linda will be the next Van Gogh (without the ear thing, of course), Matt will be the world’s eminent champion competitive pokemon player, and Mello will be the next L, you’re sure of it. Somewhere, somehow you’ll be among them, perhaps a polyglot or translator like Watari said, sharing your knowledge and insights across the gulf of language. Maybe you’ll write the next great literary classic. Who knows. You only hope that your friends - Mello especially, though you can’t place why aside from him being your bestest friend - will be there with you, and that you’ll be better off than you are now.   

You expected him to be skeptical, but not this much. Apparently Mello is also loath to try new things from the way he’s practically glaring at the candy bar in your hand. The two of you are perched on a section of brick fencing that encircles the property, watching the setting sun through the thickets. Matt and Linda are supposed to join you at sundown to go frog hunting, but you figured now was as good a time as ever to give Mello your Apology Bar.

“What is it?” 

“What the - What do you mean what is it? It’s a chocolate bar. You eat it.” You hold yours up to your mouth and take giant pretend bites out of it. “Like this.” 

He swipes the bar from your hand and inspects it, turning it over in his hands. 

“Duh. But why is the packaging different? Are there like nuts in it or something?”

“I don’t know, it’s a different brand? The wrapper just says milk chocolate.” 

He hums, apparently still not convinced. Since you arrived back, he’s been cautiously optimistic, but still distrustful of your seemingly sunnier state of mind. While everyone has been congratulating you on your fake speedy recovery from your fake seizure and your (semi) fake hospital stay, he’s had to watch them, burdened with the truth that you’re not ready to confess yet. He’s watched you lie to them, plucking random details from thin air and weaving them into this elaborate little tapestry, anything more palatable than what really happened. And the twisting knife is that you’re pretty much making him lie for you too, and he has no choice. Add that to the list of things you’ll have to make up sometime, somehow. 

“Will you just take it, dude? This is my “Sorry You Had to See That” apology chocolate bar.” 

As dumb as it sounds, you really are sorry. The feeling is just too raw to put into words just yet, and so you hope this will be enough for now, and the right words will come in time. Until then, you can leave out all the rest. 

Mello laughs, but there’s no joy. 

“You’re pretty stupid if you think a chocolate bar’s gonna make it all better.” 

“What if it’s a really good chocolate bar?” You bump him with your shoulder, hard enough to jostle him, but not so much he falls off the wall. He softens at that and rolls his eyes. 

“Yeah, you better hope it’s that good, you slime.”  

Pinching one end of the wrapper, he pulls the foil with his teeth to unveil the chocolate, smooth and pristine. Okay wait, it actually looks kinda good. Mello breaks off a piece and chews. He’s quiet for what you think is just a moment too long, rolling the flavor around in his mouth with furrowed brows. 

“Well?” 

He’s pensive for a moment more, then shrugs. 

“Meh, it’s alright.” 

“What! All that thinking for ‘it’s alright’,” you shove his shoulder, again and again while he laughs and taunts you. 

“Eh, nothing special. Yeeeah, just tastes like a normal chocolate bar. You’ve got a pretty simple palette.” He dodges and squirms, trying to catch your wrists while still keeping balance. 

“You have to be nice to me, I almost died,” you gripe, only half sincere.

“Yeah, ‘cause of something you did, idiot!” 

Alright, you’ll have to give him that one, and you try not to think about it too deeply. Instead you just laugh and grunt, writhing around while he’s got your wrists, one hand holding your arm straight out and the other making you hit yourself with your own hand over and over. 

“Stop hittin’ yourself, stop hittin’ yourself!” Mello laughs. From behind you, footsteps crunch in the grass and scurry up to you. 

“Yeah, ____, stop hittin’ yourself!” Matt’s voice joins the commotion, and from behind him you see Linda trailing behind, already smiling. 

“Get her, she’s gone crazy!” Mello points, and Matt follows in kind, grabbing your ankles and dragging you off the wall, grinning. You shriek, kicking and laughing until your stomach hurts. The two of them carry you toward the bushes and flower beds and you swing between them like a hammock between two trees.

“Linda, save me!” You beg, but she’s bent over laughing, watching you brace to be tossed into the overgrowth and the dirt. You hope there aren’t any thorns in these bushes, but you only halfheartedly try to escape.

“Bet you’ll find some frogs in there!” Mello cackles, and with one final backswing, they launch you into the bushes. You scream and land with an oof , crunching the leaves and the twigs and petals under you. They laugh and laugh, hands on their knees, until Linda rushes in with a howl and tackles Matt into the leaves beside you. Mello only points and keeps on laughing and so Linda yanks him in too, tossing him into the bushes. She rolls on top of them and tickles Mello until he’s wheezing, pries Matt’s shoe off and throws it across the yard, anything to avenge you. You pile on top of her, piled on top of Matt, piled on top of Mello, piled atop the bushes, wrestling and smacking and yelling and jeering. 

By the time you’ve tired yourselves out, the bush you launched into is all but a flattened little heap of twigs and leaves and pollen and petals, there’s probably ants in your pants. The four of you huff and puff, your chests rising and falling harshly, winded. You lay in the dirt and watch the clouds float on by as you catch your breath. Against the orange and lavender sky, one looks like a seashell, one looks like a bird. You know they must be impossibly large, but from way down here they can fit in the palm of your hand, precious and small. You can hold the sun in your hands. 

You know you’re not magically cured. Your parents and your sister are still dead, and not a trace of them remains but their faces in your mind. You’ll probably still have nightmares, be locked in a vice of panic, dream of sweat and vomit and the taste of each pill’s subtle candy coating. One day you’ll have to reckon with almost trading one family for another. How you hurt them, whether they know it or not. It will be hard, you realize as you watch the clouds drift along. You turn your head to Mello beside you, who now too is watching the clouds. Your best friend. 

Maybe he can feel you watching him, because not long after you begin does he turn to you and stick his tongue out. 

“What are you lookin’ at, huh?”   

You laugh, because it’s all you can do. You don’t know. You’re just lookin’. You turn back to the clouds floating across the evening sky and smile. The sun is warm in your hands. 

Chapter Text

“Mello and ____, sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” 

You close your eyes and inhale deep. Maybe if you ignore them they’ll lose interest. You turn the TV a few notches higher and gather a throw pillow into your lap. 

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage!”

You exhale, and hearing the giggling and squealing that comes after is what finally does it for you. 

“Will,” you take the pillow in one hand, “you,” you raise it above your head, “shut up!”  You launch it across the foyer. It lands on the little ones’ table, scattering their crayons and glue pens and colored pencils. A gaggle of three or four 8 year olds screech and disperse, scurrying off and sliding away in their socks to go find and torture their next victim, cackling and spitting like hyenas. From behind you, you can hear the snort of someone trying to hold back their laugh. 

You whip your head over the backrest of the sofa, bracing for more teasing. When you meet their gaze, you huff a relieved sigh. Linda. Oh thank god. She floats around the sofa and plops down next to you. 

“How long have they been doing that?” 

You bring a finger to each temple and massage, your eyes falling closed again, but the frustration, the beat of your brain against your skull is still there.

“All freaking morning!” You yell it towards whatever hallway they stampeded down, hoping they can hear you, but doubting they can. Linda quirks a brow. 

“Freaking?”  

You nod. “Gigi got after me for saying ‘fucking’ too much, and now when she hears me do it she says I owe her a dollar.” 

“Wha-,” Linda scoffs, “with what money?” 

“That’s what I said, but she said she’s running a tally that I’ll have to pay off after we graduate.” 

It still feels kind of odd to put it that way, but you decided to dub your eventual departure from Wammy’s “graduating”, since no one ever actually gets adopted, and just leaving sounds kind of anticlimactic, especially if you’re going on to bigger and better things like university or the workforce or, dare you even say, succeeding L. But whatever. You’ve got a couple more years to save your dollars before ponying up. 

“Why were they doing that anyway?” 

You roll your eyes, loll your head onto the backrest. 

“I asked Mello to help me with the dishes and he did.”

“Oh,” Linda’s shoulders fall. “Well, that’s stupid.” 

“Yeah.”

“I thought you guys like, held hands or something.” 

“What the - ew ,” you balk at her. “What the hell, dude? Why would I do that?”

Linda shrugs. “I dunno, I could see it,” she gives you a wry smile. 

God, not this shit again. It seems like a bimonthly statement you have to release, and each time you just get more and more annoyed, and now Linda’s buying into it, apparently. Et tu, Linda? 

“I oughta kill you, dude. It’s called being best friends.” 

“Alright,” she sings, her grin growing wider and wider.

“ Anyway, ” you shove her shoulder, “they just ran with it, and now they won’t stop.”

Day in and day out, ____ and Mello, sittin’ in a tree, ____ and Mello passin’ notes in class. I like coffee, I like tea, I like the boys and the boys like me. You sigh. It’s really not like that, but anything you say goes over their heads and into their twisted little brains, and the whole thing starts all over again. Christ, were you this annoying when you were little? Where do all these orphans come from anyway? Someone’s gotta look into the scourge of parent deaths that’s apparently plaguing this nation. 

“Well, nevermind them,” Linda waves a hand, “I’ve got stuff to show you!” 

The corners of your mouth spring up. 

“Stuff?”

“Yeah, so come on,” and her hand, slender and soft, nails painted a glittery pink, takes yours and pulls you up from the couch and tugs you up the stairs and towards her room. Your own fingers, nails painted an iridescent periwinkle, lace and interlock, pink, blue, pink, blue. As you skip along, you only barely hear the tail end of a news bulletin, grave and stern. Talking heads in prim tailored sportsjackets detail the gathering of 1500 investigators to Japan, with the express purpose of determining the connections between a string of suspiciously timely deaths of unrelated, highly dangerous criminals. You try not to think about it, and instead watch Linda's ponytail swinging behind her as she bounces down the hall.

Turns out the Stuff Linda wanted to show you is right up your alley - black liquid eyeliner with the slightest hint of shimmer and a pan of lavender pink blush in a little plastic heart. Sitting cross legged before you, her tongue poking out, she taps the tip of her finger in the blush and pats it on the apples of your cheeks. 

“Gigi finally let me get some on our last grocery trip,” she explains. “But just this, ‘cause she doesn’t want us to get too crazy with it.” 

You hum. 

“Makes sense, I guess.” You’d only just learned to do your eyeliner a few months ago, and you’re still kind of sucky at it, so you don’t blame Gigi for trying to reign you guys in a bit. You still remember her folding her arms and leaning in the threshold, her exasperated, skeptical voice - what does a fourteen year old need with that anyway?

You scan Linda’s face as she blots the color onto your cheeks. And indeed, over the years she’s become sharper; her cheeks that you used to pinch and pull for all their roundness have taken on just a bit of an angle, her jaw has become just that much more set, the bridge of her nose has developed little freckles from time spent watching the younger kids outside. 

When she’s done, you hold up her hand mirror to your face. Still you, just a little more flush and eyes lined with messy black strokes that you hope you can convince people are intentional. When you put the mirror back down, Linda’s watching you, a small and quiet smile on her face. 

“What?” You ask. She just shakes her head. 

“Nothin’, just happy,” and she unfurls herself from the floor, holding a hand out to you. “Come on, let’s see what everyone’s up to.” 

You follow with a soft "'kay", and room to room you go, knocking and barging in looking for Matt and Mello and anyone else you can bother. You only stop when you walk in on Gigi, standing tense and shoulders hunched in the middle of her room. In one hand is her landline, the cord to which she’s twirling around her finger until it's taut. Her other hand can’t seem to find a place, going from planted on her hip to stuffed in her jean pocket to running through her hair. You can’t hear the voice on the other line or what’s being said, but from her stance and the heaviness around her, you’re not sure you want to. 

You’re about to apologize, but then she spots you and freezes, as if caught lingering somewhere she shouldn't. She waves the two of you away, distracted and fraught. In her eyes is an odd flickering, sparks of the gears grinding and one thought racing to chase another. And for the first time in your life, she shuts the door in your face. 

“She didn’t say anything at all?” 

The four of you sit in a circle in the foyer, Matt to your left and Mello to your right, Linda directly across. Your shoes are all knocking into each others’, swaying this way and that. Over your chatter you can just barely hear dishes clanking together in the kitchen, the sizzle of grease on frying pans as supper is prepared. Breakfast for dinner, from the smell of it. You watch the top of what looks to be Near’s head lazily gliding back and forth, setting the table. You could almost swear you see his gaze flickering over, his head tilting to listen.  

“Nope,” you shake your head. “She just looked at us, then rushed over and shut the door.” 

“That’s cold,” Mello mimics your head shake. “Must’ve been pretty important, I guess.” 

“Yeah, but not even a gesture or something? Just slam, right in your face,” Matt adds. “Brutal.” 

The conversation lulls while each of you pull at your own threads of thought for a clue, something to keep the fabric from fraying and a rumor from budding, the narrative taking form until it’s out of control. You’ve seen Gigi in a crisis, the way she fidgets and the pull of her brows over her eyes. What you saw just now - her frigid posture and the veins in her hand as she dragged it through her hair, pensive and perturbed -  was not that. 

As you’re pondering, a voice interjects, one that’s low and flat, and seldom heard. 

“What are you guys talking about?” 

White socks, baggy white pants, and an equally baggy white longsleeve top that swallows his hands at his sides, Near is hovering over you all, twirling a lock of white hair with his forefinger. 

“Nothing, Near. Go away,” Mello shoos him, barely sparing him a glance. 

Just like Linda, Mello has become…sharper over the past few years. In a sense. Though his test scores have ticked up and up, they’ve always, still, trailed just behind Near’s, and his competitive edge has become razor thin, poised to slice and bleed you if not handled carefully. After a few bouts of eye rolling and hurling half-baked insults at one another, of you saying being the best doesn’t matter, him saying being the best is all that matters, you’ve stopped bringing it up before one of you actually gets your feelings hurt. Either that or you strangle one another.

“Is it about all the killings?” 

You’re not looking at him, but you can guess that already there’s a twitch in Mello’s eye, can feel the irritation radiating off him. You sigh and drag your palms down your cheeks. 

“Look Near, we’re trying to have a private conversation. Maybe we can talk la-” 

“Is it about Kira?”

And as the prophecy foretold, the magic word is uttered. Kira, Kira, Kira. The elephant in the room, the thorn in your side, the specter haunting this house. Everyone, in some way, has caught wind of the Kira “situation” lately, to the point that it’s almost unavoidable. Your peers scramble to know more, scraping and clawing over one another for a crumb of detail, anything to set them apart from the rest, to prove they’re worthy against this new adversary, case, whatever they’re calling it. You have no doubt it’s been eating Mello alive.

A hush falls over you, an awkward stench lingering between you as you glance from Near, to Linda, to Matt, and finally back to Mello. Part of you feels powerless watching it unfold, Near seemingly oblivious and Mello rearing up, pressure mounting and primed to burst. 

“ No ,” Mello grits through clenched teeth, head angled up to glare. Oh boy. You don’t like this, and you fumble for anything that might be believable, eyes darting around the room from the steam wafting from the kitchen, the glasses on the tables, and finally the bulletin board on the wall, where a little silver poster glittering with snowflakes and sparkles is hung with a thumbtack. Bingo.

“We were talking about the winter party,” you blurt. You weren’t, and surely Near knows that, but what the hell. Sure. Thankfully, Linda picks it up quick. 

“Yeah, like the uh,” she glances at you, “the gift exchange and stuff.” 

“And the Dinner and Dancing thing,” Matt nods. Ever the secularists, this was Wammy’s answer to hordes of kids constantly asking why they don’t get Christmas presents or Hanukkah gifts once the grocery store even hints at stocking anything winter themed, and why they don’t get Christmas dinners or holiday parties like other schools. And thus the Wammy’s House Winter Gift Exchange Party was born - last year you drew Linda’s name and got her Portishead’s Dummy album and a bottle of sparkling grape juice that the two of you pretended to get absolutely plastered with on New Year’s eve. Whoever you pull this year, you’ll really have to pull out all the stops. 

“Oh,” Near nods. The finger twirling his hair slows, and with one socked foot, he scratches at his ankle, now disinterested. “Nevermind then.” 

And without another word or even a parting wave, he turns and pads back to the kitchen, where Dr. Vanger is passing out napkins, forks, little barrels of juice. His hair is now fully grayed, the lens of his glasses a fraction thicker. You watch him flit around the table, and you wonder what he knows. 

You pick at the strips of bacon and the slices of pancake on your plate, shoo away the stray gnat that sniffs out your table outside. Now that you’re a little older and apparently can be trusted not to fling your dinner plate like a frisbee off the terrace - you have Matt to thank for demonstrating and getting you all in trouble - you’ve taken to having dinner outside in the gentle light of the sunset, the tiny breeze of the evening. It makes you feel fancy, looking out over the horizon as you eat. 

Across from you sits Mello, dribbling syrup over his pancakes and smearing butter in between each stack. To your relief, he seems much less agitated than before - he even asked you (quite nicely, in fact) if he could have your fifth pancake, which you forked over happily. You watch him tear into it, soggy and dripping and surely oversaturated with syrup and chocolate chips, and try to relax.

As you finish your dinner, you hum, glad to have other stuff to worry about, things that are less dire, more lighthearted, almost trifling compared to the droning malaise that’s starting to seep into the house. Things like whose name you’ll pull for the gift exchange, what you’re going to wear, how you want to buy that sparkling grape juice again and pretend to get sloppy drunk like they do in movies. Pleasant and silly, they distract you from the irking twitch, the gnawing feeling that The Kira Situation is looming over you all. That will only grow until it eclipses each of you, swallowing each of you one by one, growing like a tumor. You don’t really want to think about that, nor the idea that it’s waiting, unbalanced, and on the eve of a great reckoning, so you just rip off another bite of bacon, and watch Mello do the same. 

Chapter Text

Warm amber light bleeds through the windows, dust and refractions dancing languidly within, and you watch the shadows of leaves and branches pepper the wall beside you, chin heavy in your palm. It’s the last class session until your biannual benchmark tests, and you as a class have been doing fuck all, so it doesn’t shock you when, during independent reading, a tiny folded up triangle lands on your desk with a tiny smack. 

You drag it towards you with a fingertip and pry it open, the paper scratchy and smudged with eraser. For a moment there’s a tiny lilt in your stomach, a split second of horror when you imagine what it could be. You’ve gotten your fair share of do u like me, yes/no (circle one) notes passed your way, and you’re not particularly keen to deal with that on your last day of class, especially with the holiday break coming up. You swallow the feeling down and stare down at its contents, and what you find isn’t a confession, but rather four little stick figures looking up at you, all in seemingly various stages of duress. One has little pigtails, its eyes and mouth scrunched up in a yell, one with thick rimmed glasses is crying a river of tears, one has its arms up in panic, and the last stares ahead in shock, balls at the end of its arms making little clenched fists. 

As you’re surveying these little guys - victims? - another note lands on your desk with that same little smack. In this note is another stick figure, this one ramrod straight, frowning, and holding a little “L”, which you can only assume is supposed to be a gun. Next to him is a speech bubble, and he asks you: 

WHO DID U GET 4 GIFT EXCHANGE?

Your eyes fall closed, exasperated, before you scan the room for its sender. You survey the backs of your fellow students’ heads - some are actually reading, some are staring off at who knows what, some are outright sleeping as they wait for the period to end, the only sound the creak of your chairs and the small scuff of shoes against the hardwood. Only one has a pencil in their hand, and you’re not shocked who, because he did this same thing last year. 

Mello, clad in yet another black hoodie and denim shorts is peeking over his shoulder at you, watching for your reaction yet seeming to also avoid eye contact. 

You roll your eyes and fish a pen from your bag, flip the note over, and scrawl, simple and to the point:

NO

You fold it back up, flick it at his desk where it slides to a stop. It takes him but a moment to read your response and tch, then scribble a reply before tossing it back. 

He’s drawn angry, downturned eyebrows on the stick figure, and in another speech bubble he’s written his next demand: 

DO IT OR IM KILLING A HOSTAGE

Jesus Christ. A snort and snicker bubbles up within you, and you force it down. You scribble down another response. Sorry little guys, but one of you is about to meet a violent, eraser shaving riddled end. 

DO IT, U WONT

You toss the note to Mello’s desk and it soars through the aisle and over the heads of your classmates; after many a class period spent tossing these to this student or that, you’ve honed your aim to startling accuracy. Another moment beats by, then another, then the note skips back across your desk. 

Sure enough, the little pigtailed figure has been erased and redrawn a sprawled body on the floor, eyes now x’s and tongue sticking out, in pen this time. A gruesome way to go, surely, but you’re unphased. Again you deny him, and again he slays another stick figure, back and forth until there’s only one left, the one with the glasses, crying its river of tears before a mangled pile of limbs. Through with the carnage, you scratch out a response and send it flying.

You watch as Mello rips it open, smirk when you know he’s read the first side by the straightening of his back, the perk of his ears.

FINE ->

His fingers fly to flip the note over, smoothing it out to read on his desk and cupping his hands around it. 

KIRA.

His shoulders fall, and you imagine he’s reading the line after by the way his hands fall flat on the desk.

(FUCK U IM NOT TELLING)

You have to bite your tongue to keep from snickering as watch the tips of his ears go red, and you swear you can feel the heat pulsing off them as he crumples up the note and stuffs it in his pocket. He rips off another piece of paper and scribbles something hastily, crumples it into a ball and tosses it with some gusto right at your head, which it bounces off of with a light rustle. You unfold it, and what you see is about what you expected. Another stick figure, this time sticking out his arm and a hand that you’re pretty sure is supposed to be flipping you off. Underneath, no speech bubble this time, is his parting word to you. 

DICKHEAD  

Figures. With a pleasant smile on your face, you fold it up and put it in your pocket, give it a nice little tap just to drive your satisfaction home. 

Later, when class is dismissed and you trample down the hall with your classmates, you know he’ll sidle up to you and try to butter you up like he didn’t just cull a stick figure family, like he didn’t just call you a dickhead. Just like last year, he’ll poke and pester you, fume when you tell him no, that you can’t ruin a surprise. You’ll fish around your pocket for Mello’s little drawing, debate keeping it or tossing it in a drawer somewhere to be forgotten. You’ll decide to keep it, just like you did last year’s. You’ll look at it and smile, unsure why you did so or why it makes your heart swell to look at. Just like last year’s, you’ll wonder if he kept your note, if looking at it brings the same happiness. You’ll hope it does, then wonder why you care.

Folded twice into four little squares, the corner of the sticky note just barely sticks to the tip of your finger. You’ve been using it as a bookmark since the drawing, careful to always stick it face down and tucked away from anyone who might try to weed out their gift assignee process of elimination style. You unravel it and peer down at the name, scrawled across the paper in purple ink. 

MELLO

Mello, because why wouldn’t it be. Mello, of course, Mello, always. You’d yoinked it out of the totally-not-Santa-for-secular-reasons holiday hat without too much preamble, choosing the first paper you touched instead of swirling your hand a few times like previous years, and you figure you choosing Mello out of everyone here is either proof the two of you are cursed, doomed to be together and annoy each other for eternity, or a coincidence. You kind of hope it’s the former, and mull over the probability of him pulling your name, of you pulling each other - wouldn’t that be something?  

You stuff the sticky note in your book and toss it to the edge of your bed, then shimmy around to your nightstand for your notebook and a pen, pink glitter ink and nearly dried out. You flick through the pages - somewhere in here is a dogeared page with a list of ideas and a countdown to the party, not unlike a little advent calendar, snaking around the page until it ends at a big DEC 3RD encircled by snowflakes, sparkles and stars. You drum the pen against your cheek as you work down your list of ideas, some relatively feasible and others…well, a little fantastical. But what’s a Christmas without a miracle or whatever? 

1. Tony Hawk’s Underground 2

You’ve almost a mind to scratch this one out - with what money are you planning to obtain this besides Gigi’s? Maybe you could find someone to pirate it off of, but you imagine Mello’s face falling as he tears open the box only to find a bootleg version, and the thought of his deflated face floats that idea right out of your head. If you ask Mello, he’d probably tell you to just steal it, the concept of you doing something Against the Rules more surprising a gift than the actual game. 

2. A trial subscription to Thrasher

Slightly more feasible, you’ll give it that much, but again there’s the money issue, and you imagine you’d have to mail in some sort of collateral before they start just sending you issues willy nilly. Plus, if he really likes it, what happens when the trial is over and he has no way of keeping it going? Maybe you can convince Gigi to lump in the subscription fee to your swear jar debit, to be paid upon graduation. You draw a squiggle through the idea. 

3. Your comic book collection

It seems like every other month, he pilfers through your room, snatching armfuls of them to hoard in his room and read in spurts, thinking you can’t tell when they’re missing, don’t notice when they suddenly reappear in your crate. Would that be a lazy gift? Regifting? What if he’s already read them all and you’re just dumping them on him? Then again, the last time you “gifted” him a book did not go over well, though you do admit the context was…vastly different. So you’ve left it on the list for now.

And finally, your most ambitious but perhaps the coolest idea, and the one you know Mello wants the most: two (2) redeemable coupons for you to pierce his ears, whenever he wants, no notice required, no questions asked. One for each ear, not required to redeem both at the same time. After you pierced Linda’s ears with an apple and sewing needle with minimal loss of life and limb, he’d been bugging you about doing his nonstop for months and you’ve refused, afraid of the trouble you might get in if more kids just started popping up with ear piercings, ear lobes swollen, red, ripe for infection and all your doing. But if it’s that important to him, you’re willing to risk it, candle heated needle in one hand, red delicious apple in the other. And so you draw a little star next to the idea, make a note to throw in a little handmade card, let your notebook flutter closed, and consider it settled. 

You wouldn’t call the flashes of red and white, the visage of a waning moon and the heavy feeling of coagulating blood inside you a dream per se, but whatever it is, you’re startled out of it by your clock blasting the nation’s top 40 at max volume. You flail a hand over it to snooze the alarm, stumble to your vanity, down your morning meds, and hope that by the time the festivities start today, the curious knotting in your stomach will be gone. 

You’ve got Mello’s gift tucked away in your room, two gold foil cards that you’ve stylized to look like a Willy Wonka’s golden ticket tucked away into two chocolate bars that you took extra pains to unwrap without ripping, then refolded and sealed with a little spot of double sided tape. You’ve placed them daintily in a striped oval present box stuffed plump with tissue paper and confetti, laid your card beneath them, sealed it up with a bow, and slipped it under your bed until the time comes.  

Downstairs the wheels are already in motion - streamers and tinsel are hung from the walls, dining tables are pushed together and draped with tablecloths and scattered with party favors, bendy straws and spinning tops, presents are already being stacked as stealthily as possible on table next to the TV that’s been playing The Polar Express since like, 9am probably. The tweens are herding the younger kids to the sofa and out of the way of those who actually have something to do, and you chuckle seeing them clamor over each other for a closer spot. 

You trot past the kitchen where Gigi is nursing a simmer pot, the cinnamon and citrus pungent and ribboning around the room, sticking to your clothes. Tarts and snickerdoodles cool on the countertop and you nab one while backs are turned, munching as you continue your sweep of the preparations. In the ballroom down the hall (infrequently used save for events like these, so much so that a rumor started that it’s haunted), furniture has been pushed against the wall to make room for a punch table and makeshift dance floor, complete with two standing speakers and a little disco ball dangling from the chandelier.  

Looks like it’s all coming together, you muse, and spin on a heel and mosey back the way you came, plucking up plastic decoration wrappers and discarded price tags as you go. There’s a crispness in the air, the winter chill seeping through the windowsills and gaps in the insulation, and from the corner of your eye, you see it’s started to drizzle, the sky above dreary and mottled with stretches of misty gray clouds. It’s a good day for being cozy, to bake in the hearth’s warmth, to drink something steamy and eat something sweet, to watch your friends smile, and you in turn. 

You approach the window beside you, lean down and fog up the glass - dot, dot, slide, you draw a little smiley face, then continue on to find something you can help with. You spot Matt, freshly awoken with mussed hair, bundled in a striped sweater and donning oven mitts, and you scurry up to open the oven for him. In this house, with the fire crackling and the sharp winter smells permeating every inch, the buzz of anticipation, the screech of laughter, it all feels right, and you smile. Outside in the damp gray, the blades of grass twitch in the soft wind, the earthworms push through the earth to the surface, searching for something to decompose. 

Your stomach is full to bursting, and though you know it can’t be, you imagine your navy dress feeling just a half size smaller. Still, you pluck a sugar cookie from the tray before you, then three more for your friends, poised in a little stack to take back to your table along with a mug of hot chocolate. They chatter at your table across the room, Linda smiling through a bite of pot roast, Matt gesticulating wildly through some farfetched story, Mello fiddling with the silver star table decorations as he listens. Everyone’s all done up, shirts pressed, hair brushed and mascara applied, glitter perfume spritzed, the works, and you could scream at how cute everyone looks, how giddy you feel. 

You scoot back into your chair and deal out each cookie one by one before chomping into your own. Mello inhales his and asks you, crumbs falling from his lips.

“So what’s that bring us to?” 

You hum and count on your fingers. 

“20 sugar cookies, 16 tarts, 4 dinner plates, 6 slices of carrot cake, an unknown amount of chocolate kisses” you nod, “and a partridge in a pear tree.”

“Hell yeah,” Matt nods, “great work, team.” 

Indeed, this breaks your snack record from last year, and in humble satisfaction you unwrap another kiss and pop it into your mouth, when you hear a quick set of claps, and a hush falls over the room save for the music prattling on. 

From the kitchen, Gigi waltzes over to the present table, now piled high with boxes and bags wrapped in tissue and tinsel, practically bending at its center. Even she’s spruced up some, curls tied in a ribbon, sleigh bell earrings dangling from each lobe. Behind her, Roger and Dr. Vanger trail behind, the former wearing - begrudgingly, it seems - a reindeer antler headband, and the latter sporting a jingly elf hat and holding a velvet lined wicker basket. You crane your head around them, searching - usually Watari comes to these. Bummer, since usually he passes out fancy little candies to each of you with a little note to match, but you suppose you’re not surprised. Lots going on. 

“Okay everybody,” Gigi sings, clapping once more, “I think you all know what time it is?” 

The room erupts with cheering, squealing and clapping and little fists banging on the tables, little feet stomping on the floor. She laughs, feigns being stumbling away, blown away by the force, then holds up her hands. 

“Whoa, whoa, now! Settle, settle.” She places her hands on her hips. “Now, you all know the drill - we’ll call each of you up to find your gift, but remember, don’t open it then and there. We want a big loud cheer from whoever the giver is! Then, take your seat and we’ll call the next person, and so on, and so on. When we’ve all got our gifts, we’ll count down and tear those suckers open, sound good?” 

And again the crowd goes wild with whoops, clapping, and cheering. Gigi sides up to Dr. Vanger, who holds up a quick finger. 

“Remember to thank whoever got your gift!” 

“Yes, thank you Dr. Vanger, that’s very crucial,” Gigi nods pleasantly, then scans the room. When she meets your eyes, she winks. 

“Alright everybody, are you ready? Away…we…go!” And with that, she shoots her hand into the basket to pluck out Lucky #1. She skims the slip. 

“Linda, come on up, Linda!” 

She squeals, and your screeching joins the clapping and cheering as you shake her shoulders before letting her skip up to the present table. Your heart pounds, and you’re sure by the end of the night your cheeks will be sore from smiling. Linda digs her hands into her hair, miming panic as she struggles to find her present. 

“There’s so many!” 

But after a moment, she spots hers and snatches it up, bouncing on her heels and swiveling her head around the room. 

“Okay, spill!” 

From the back corner there’s a light shuffling that gives way to cheering and whooping, then a hand shoots up. 

“That’s me, that’s me!” 

Kitty, a ten year old with pretty green eyes, a head of braids down to her waist, and the craziest throwing arm you’ve ever seen, stands and waves, scooting out from her chair.

“Aw, thank you, Kitty!” Linda says as she hustles over to hug her. “I can’t wait to open it.” 

“I hope you like it,” Kitty beams, and they part, bouncing back to their chairs. When Linda’s back beside you, you give her a nudge with your shoulder, sway happily when she nudges you back. 

One by one you’re called up to collect, Roger, Gigi and Dr. Vanger alternating who picks and who announces, and bit by bit the pile depletes over laughing and shrieking and your fellow students shouting their names and hollering. You’re almost vibrating with excitement, your stomach churning as Gigi pulls the next name. Maybe you’re just excited, but you’ve got a good feeling about this one. She unfolds the slip and grins, head shooting up. 

“____, come on down!” 

It’s oddly surreal hearing your name and the racket that follows, watching Gigi’s mouth form around each syllable and smile. Your friends scream and shout along with you as you rise from your chair and shimmy your shoulders with glee. Mello slams his hands on the table, rattling the silverware.

“Woo, go ____!”

You dance up to the table, wiggling your fingers as you search. You hover your hands over each present, including Mello’s, just to throw him off a little, then fiddle with each tag to find yours, eventually spotting it. It’s a cylinder about a foot long, wrapped in tissue and tinsel and tied at the ends to look like a giant hard candy, iridescent and sparkling. You hoist it over your head and shake it, turning to the crowd. 

“Show yourself, show yourself!”

Your eyes dart from table to table as people shake their heads, hold up their hands, point at other tables, until you finally land on your own. Linda is holding her cheeks, Matt is watching with a madman’s grin. And Mello? Mello is slowly rising, one hand in the air and the other slapped against his face, sheepish and beet red, so unlike his usual bluster that you can only laugh while watching him squirm. 

Ain’t no way, you think, mouth hanging open, and you can hardly hear yourself repeating it over the hooting and whistling from your friends and…well, everyone else. Your face starts to grow hot - who knows why - your cheeks scrunching up and you don’t know what you should do, if you should thank him, if you should give him a cool handshake or god forbid, give him a hug like everyone else has been doing. You hug the gift to your chest, the plastic wrapping crinkling, and dash back to your chair. 

“Thank you, Mello,” you say loudly, and he nods, face still steaming and covered with a hand. He gives you a thumbs up of all things, and you both sit back down to stew in your embarrassment. 

“Yup,” he answers, and you think this is either the worst thing to ever happen to you, or the funniest. To be determined upon later reflection, you note. 

The commotion dies down, and again the roll call resumes - Matt got Near, which is hilarious, as is the plain white wrapping job Matt chose for his gift, Linda got Estelle, an eighth grader who’s taken after her artistic pursuits, and finally, Mello’s name is called. He stands up, face no longer red, and pumps his fists up in the air as he approaches the table, now only sparsely littered with gifts, yours sitting soundly in the back. He peers over them, then snatches the box off the table before showing it off.  

“Alright, who is it?” 

You debate how you should do this. A spectacular flourish, a demure raise of the hand? You’re going to be mortified either way after your own reveal, so you guess it doesn’t really matter, and decide to get it over with quick. 

You pop out of your chair, hand raised, and yell a long, drawn out, “meee!”

And if you thought the ruckus at your reveal was excessive, the uproar that you spark now is so ridiculous, it might just blow out your ears, shake the windows. Screaming, squealing, raucous laughter, playful jeering surrounds you as Mello holds his head in his hand, shaking it. Linda’s mouth is agape, her hand slapped over it, Matt is cackling as he slaps his knee, even Roger has a bemused smile and a hiked up eyebrow. And you? You just laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

The call goes on, and soon everyone is seated with their gift, eager and itching to unwrap it, fingers already twitching and picking at the tape and ribbons and tissue paper. The countdown begins, and by “two” you’re about to explode with anticipation for Mello’s gift, nerves about your own. 

Before Gigi can even finish “one”, all you hear is the tearing of wrapping paper and clatter of box lids tumbling to the floor, laughter and ooh’s and ahh’s. You fiddle with your gift. Here goes. 

You untie the bows on each side and untwirl the wrapping, careful not to rip the iridescent paper. Whatever’s in there feels soft, and you think you hear a small jingling. Something like fabric…clothes? A bandana? A blanket? Your fingers snake around the fabric and you yank it out of the wrapping with a flourish, whatever was jingling inside landing with a clank on the table. 

It’s white, whatever it is, and you unravel it in your hands before rolling your eyes, smiling. 

“Oh my god,” you gripe, and hold out the shirt before you. A white, airbrushed t-shirt that has a cheesy caricature of a beach island resort with palm trees and striped cloth chairs. In big, swirling letters it reads, “I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT”, surrounded with sparkles and sun rays and coconuts, just like the shirts you make fun of in tourist trap alleys and Hard Rock Cafes. On the back, in equally gaudy letters and surrounded by seashells and sprays of water, it says “ASK ME ABOUT MY ER VISIT”. 

It’s become a rather morbid joke between the four of you now that your symptoms are somewhat better managed and you’d finally gathered the courage to tell Linda and Matt what your “seizure” actually was. Turns out Matt had already known, having stayed up with Mello many a night as he recounted the shock and the fear that he didn’t want to burden you with, and Linda, well, Linda received the news and tried very, very hard not to cry, told you how happy she is that you fucked it up, and made you promise to tell her expeditiously if you ever felt that way again. You throw your head back and cackle, and Mello laughs along with you. 

“You’re such an asshole,” you laugh, and if there weren't cookies and chocolate and various sauces scattered across the table, you’d wad it up and throw it at him. You pluck up what landed on the table to examine: a Hot Topic tag…a silver chain and, you realize with a snicker, a razor charm in the middle, just like the cashier’s that you’ve never forgotten, but never bought for yourself. You smile gently - it’s actually kinda touching that he remembered, and you look up at him sincerely.

“Thank you, Mello.” 

“Yeah, merry Christmas or whatever,” he nods with a grin. 

“Do you like yours?” 

“You had me for a second, I thought it was just chocolate and was gonna think you were the stingiest bastard I’ve ever met.” He gathers his golden tickets and fans them around, still smiling. 

“You better not fuck it up, though,” and from the shimmer in his eye you know he’s only teasing. You laugh and shake your head in reassurance. 

With everyone now reeling with excitement, the younger kids scatter from their tables and flock to the sofas to gush over their new toys, books, CDs and whatever else, and you think now’s a good time as ever to hit the punch bowl and the dance floor. But before you do, you bundle up your shirt and tuck it in your chair, then tear open the cardboard holding your necklace in place. You undo the clasp and drape it around your neck, where it sits just below, the metal cool and pleasant against the skin, singing. 

Fruit punch, tangy and chilled, swirls in your cup as you watch your friends and classmates dance from a chaise against the wall, your feet starting to hurt after your second round of spinning around, jumping to the music and scooting along to Achey Breaky Heart. You flex your feet in your shoes and scan the crowd for a bouncy blonde head of hair. 

He’s not in the corner teaching the fifth graders curse words, nor is he sliding around the dance floor with Linda and Matt, and he’s not at any other spot resting. So where’d he go? 

Despite your aching - achey breaky, you chuckle to yourself - feet, you push yourself off the chaise and start meandering around the house, looking for Mello. He’s not in the foyer by the fire where Gigi and Dr. Vanger are demonstrating how to make paper snowflakes, he’s not in the library, where Near is crouched over a pure white puzzle, biting on his knuckle, he’s not in his room, littered with wrapping paper and twine, and you doubt he’s in the courtyard downstairs, what with the mud from today’s drizzle. That leaves only one place, you deduce, and throw on a sweater before going upstairs and beelining to your spot. 

And sure enough, sitting in the moonlight and just barely backlit by the yellow lamps in the hall, is Mello, plopped on a concrete bench, arms out supporting his slouch. You don’t even think he hears you slipping outside and shutting the door behind you, at least by the little tense of his shoulders when you call out to him. 

“Hey, drama queen.”

He watches you over his shoulder as you approach him, and it’s almost reflexive how he scoots over to make room. You sit beside him and mirror him, gazing up at the moon that always makes his hair look white. 

“What are you doing out here?”

He shrugs. 

“Chillin’.”

“Yeah, no kiddin’. You’re not cold?” 

Again, Mello shrugs, “Meh, not really.” 

“You’re weird,” you tell him, and smirk. 

“You’re ugly,” he retorts, smirking right back. 

“Yeah, well, you’re stupid.”

“Better than being ugly,” and he elbows you, the tip of his arm cold and just a little damp from the night chill. You chuckle, and your breath comes out in puffs that you watch float up and up towards the moon, dissipate. 

“Thanks for the gifts,” you say again - you know you already thanked him once, and he heard you when you did, but you feel like the embarrassment plus the noise didn’t exactly capture just how thankful you actually are. 

“You’re welcome,” he says plainly, but you can hear the smile in there somewhere, can see it in the puffs of his breath as they waft away. He turns his head towards you, asking the floor more than your face.

“You really gonna pierce my ears?”  

“Yeah man. You got the golden ticket,” you nod. 

“Sweet,” he mimics your nod, then keeps talking. “Why’d you choose that as your gift this year?” 

You wanted to do something nice for him, you wanted him to look as cool as he feels, but mostly you just want to make him happy. Because you’re best friends, stalwart, thick as thieves. You shrug. 

“I remember you wanted it, and I kept telling you no.” 

“What made you cave?”

Again, you shrug. 

“It was important to you. If it’s important to you, I’ll do it.”

“Even though you freaked out the last time you did it?” 

“Well, yeah,” you admit. “If something’s important to you, I’ll do it scared. ‘Cuz you’re my friend,” you say just as plainly. 

“‘Cuz you’re my friend,” he repeats, the lilt in his voice just the tiniest bit goading. You nod. 

“Yeahp!” 

Mello snorts, shooting a quick, curious glance at you before tilting his head back up to watch the moon. To the night sky above, he says it, the little tufts of breath floating up and away.

“God, you’re a sap.”

“Oh well,” you hum, and you don’t know what compels you, and it’s almost shocking, but you let your head rest on his shoulder. Maybe you are a sap. 

His shoulder doesn’t tense like you’d expect it to - if anything he relaxes to let your head loll more. His shirt is soft, his hair tickles your forehead, and you can just barely make out the dab of cologne you made fun of him for putting on. He says nothing, nor do you, and the two of you simply stare, counting the craters on the moon. After a moment, you feel the weight of his head resting lightly on yours. Your heart does thump hard in your chest, racing, and you’re glad your burning cheeks can’t be seen in the dark of night. But your body doesn’t tense, and you wonder why, but not that hard, because the feeling of it, the tenderness, just feels like something you already know. Nothing new, but no less cherished. The feeling of him right beside you, the joy watching him open his present, the feeling of being remembered, being thought of, it soothes you. It’s a funny feeling, it makes your ears ring and your hands clammy and your tongue dry, and you wonder if he feels it too. It’s funny. It’s kind of scary, and still it’s just fine, sweet, content. It’s Mello. It’s everything. 

Chapter Text

For some reason, crying doesn’t seem like an appropriate response. In fact, feeling emotion of any kind seems contrary to what’s actually forming inside you: a grand, pulsing, nauseating nothing. An open expanse, barren and gray, whipped by a cold wind. 

“You’re lying.” 

“I am not lying.”

Before you Roger sits behind his desk, hands folded, the thin skin of his knuckles pocked and muddled. If you try, you can focus just enough to make out the ridges of his face, backlit with the pale light from the overcast outside. But you don’t, and instead you train your gaze just above his head, skirting over and through him to the frosted edges of the window. 

It’s Mello that’s been speaking. You haven’t said a word, convinced that when you open your mouth you’ll throw up. Beside Mello, Near is crouching on the floor, picking at white puzzle pieces. You don’t know how, since you hardly think you can feel your fingers. 

“Then say it again,” Mello demands, “what did you say?” 

From what you can glean from a quick glance beside you, his hands are warped tight into fists, muscles stiffening and fingernails digging tight into the skin. You know it hurts. 

Roger sighs. 

“I’m afraid,” he huffs once more. The pads under his eyes are swollen and puffy, tinged with the slightest sickly purple of fatigue. Don’t, you want to tell him. 

“I’m afraid L is dead.” 

Somehow it’s worse the second time, and while it still doesn’t feel any more real, at least now you can feel your throat swelling, your mouth curling, your chest ballooning with confusion, ache, fear. This is not happening. It can’t.

♱ ♱ ♱

“Bam, read ‘em and weep.” 

Mello’s finger squeaks against the flickering computer screen, brightened and blued against the darkness of the library. The lights are off save for one dim lamp in the corner, and the door is cracked just so, since you’re not really supposed to be on the computer this late. Bad for your eyes, Gigi says. You squint down, level your head with Mello’s. 

“‘What am I looking at?” 

With a roll of his eyes, Mello scoffs and whirls to face the keyboard. 

“A reply, doofus. Check it.” 

You wiggle the mouse in your hand and open the message, skimming over the subject line and the body. 

“Mello, this is from like…two months ago.” 

“Yeah? And what?”

“You’re just reading it now?”

“I got caught up!” He blinks hard, either from the brightness of the screen or a tic you think you’ve caught springing up when he’s agitated. Before he can bristle any further, you slip into the chair next to him and read the email in full. 

Dear Mello, 

You’re welcome. I hope those details are helpful for your book. Perhaps when it’s finished, you can send me a signed copy. 

Rest assured, Kira will be brought to justice. In the meantime, please keep doing your best and working hard. You have my full confidence.

Sincerely, 

L 

You’re surprised Mello isn’t choking up when you turn for his reaction, but he is beaming, grinning practically cheek to cheek, eyes sparkling and shimmering with pride. It’s kind of sweet, and you bump him with your shoulder. 

“Sounds like he really believes in you.”

Though he says nothing, you can feel the warmth radiating off him, a quiet happiness haloing around him like the light of the computer screen. He pokes his tongue out and straightens up before swatting at your hand for the mouse. More to himself than to you, he mutters a quiet, “let’s see,” before starting a reply. His fingers tap away at the keys and their crunchy thwomp bounces off the walls in the silence of the night. 

Dear L, 

Thank you again for all your help. We hope to see you soon here at the house. 

Sincerely,

Mello 

He pauses for just a moment, then adds something to the bottom of the message.

P.S. ____ says hi.   

You raise a brow at him and he shrugs, like you should know better. 

“It’s rude if you don’t.” 

And with a swift click and a soft woosh, the email is launched into the ether and across the airwaves. Internet waves, whatever. You settle back in your seats, and almost instantly through the speakers comes a little muted chirp. You straighten. 

Inbox (1)

“Dang, he’s quick.” 

You figure Mello’d like to do the honors, so you offer him up the mouse. He clicks in, face taut and nervous, but as he skims the message, it morphs from pursed and tight to dull and listless, then finally low and confused. The shimmer in his eye is gone. 

“Aw, man,” he whines. You peer past his shoulder and squint. 

Thank you for your message. It has been received, and I will respond as soon as possible upon my return.  

“An…out of office message?” 

“Guess so,” Mello slumps and closes the window. He’s clearly bummed, whiplashed from the high and instant low, and you’re not entirely sure what to say or how he’ll react. Fuck it. 

“Guess everyone needs a vacation once in a while?” The hopeful lilt in your voice falls flat, and by the way he tries to blink away an eye roll, you elect to just not bring this up again. For a moment you debate just deleting the auto response altogether. 

With a click of his tongue, Mello closes all the windows and shuts off the computer. The screen fades to black, and in the silence you’re left to stare at your black reflections in the glass. Two small figures, waiting alone in the dark.

♱ ♱ ♱

In a sick, almost comical way, it makes sense now. It was not a vacation. At least, not one he’d be coming back from. Though you never saw his face, for whatever reason you still try to picture it dead. A faceless body, cold, and the thought of it prompts you to finally speak.

“What happened?”

It’s a stupid question, because you know what happened: the only thing that could’ve happened. The inevitable happened, and now you’re at DEFCON 1. Doomsday imminent, a fast train marching. This is not good. Putting it fucking mildly. 

Mello’s hands slam down onto the desk, sending a knickknack clattering onto the floor.

“Was it Kira? Did Kira kill him?” 

Why are you doing this, you think. Why are you delaying what you both know to be true?

“Probably.”  

You could almost scoff - what probably? Obviously. There’s another clatter of little cardboard chips, and Near is mumbling something you can’t make out over the droning in your ears, the horrid thoughts scraping by, too fast to pin down. Beside you Mello continues to writhe and flail. 

“So, which one of us did L pick?”

Less of a stupid question, more of an afterthought to you really, but you suppose that must be why you’re here. You didn’t even really consider yourself in the running. Either way, no time to mourn, no time to feel. Keep crawling. 

“He hadn’t chosen yet,” Roger glances between the three of you, “and now that he’s gone, I’m afraid he won’t be able to.” 

And again, if it didn’t signal assured, steadily approaching death, this situation would almost be funny, because of course he hadn’t. So maybe you propose the next best thing, and your voice is small, flat compared to Mello’s that ricochets off the wall when he shouts. 

“Have Watari choose.”

From the way Roger’s eyes fall, that exhale of fatigue, you can imagine what he’ll say next. 

“I’m afraid that will not be possible.”

“Why not?” And now, if this is real, you need to hear him say it. 

“Because Watari is dead.”

Incredible. Why wouldn’t he be? And maybe it’s because you knew his face, his voice, his quiet kindness, but this news hurts you more than L’s. A hand, rotted and gnarled, reaches into your gut and squeezes. Mello backs away from the desk, back into the line you’ve all subconsciously formed. Your formation.

“So what does that mean?”

“Look, Mello,” he begins, and you almost want to tell him not to bother. Whatever the plan, it’s doomed. “Can’t the three of you work together? You, Near, and ____.” 

Near, one hand twirling a lock of hair, the other placing a puzzle piece finally speaks. You almost forgot he was there. 

“Sure, that sounds good.”

“No,” Mello says through his teeth. You can hear them grind together as he fumes. “It’ll never work.” 

“Why not?” 

Because I hate him, you know he wants to say. Because I’ve always been second, and this would kill me. Or, no. I’d rather die. 

“You know we’ve never gotten along. I’m not like Near,” he glares at the crown of his head. The disdain in his voice slithers around the room and settles. You doubt you can talk him down, but you have to try, and so you turn to him and look him in the eye, constricted and red and blinking back venom.  

“Mello, if it’s the three of us-” But before you can finish, he’s speaking again, looking at Roger.

“You know what? It’s fine.”

What? It is certainly not fine, and will probably never be again. He continues. 

“Near should be the one to succeed L. He doesn’t get emotional, and just uses his head. Like it’s a game, or a puzzle.” 

You stare at Mello, speechless. This is all he’s ever wanted, and you know it. To just concede, even if it’s partially conceding to you, is not the Mello you know. It’s impossible - it’s bullshit. 

His jaw clenches.

“And as for me, I’m leaving this institution.”

You balk at him. Roger pushes himself to stand.

“What?”

“Mello-”

But he’s already spun on his heel, stomping towards the door.  

“Don’t waste your breath. I’m almost fifteen years old - it’s time I started living my own life.”

For a moment you’re stunned, rooted to the floor and cursed to just swivel your head between the swinging door, Near, and Roger forever. Then your shoes squeak against the floor and you dash up the stairs, arm outstretched trying to clamp onto his shoulder, shirt, anything, but he goes on without you, at a stride that just outpaces yours. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

Stuffing rolled up shirts into a backpack is what he’s doing, but what the fuck is he doing? Socks and pants are strewn around the room, papers and pens scattered on the bed. It’s a familiar sight, but tainted. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

You watch him dart from corner to corner, head ducked, shaking junk out of bags and stuffing random, seemingly useless stuff into his backpack and pockets. A lighter, a wallet chain, a baseball hat. He’s practically frantic. It looks like you’re Freaking Out, you want to tell him. You plant your hands on your hips.

“You don’t actually think you’re gonna leave.”

“I do.”

“And go where? You’ve got no money.”

He can’t be serious, you think. This is totally ridiculous, and after a few hours he’ll cool off and sit next to you so he can rant at you and cry on you and claw at you through his pain and his anger until the well runs dry. Matt will let him spar, will give him a baseball bat to hit the ground outside until he’s tired, and Linda will help him pick up his room when he’s ready, when he’s calmed down. He’s got to.

He zips his backpack closed and tightens the straps. 

“I’ll figure it out,” and when he eyes the door, you move to block him. He tries to shove past you, but each time you sidestep just in his way. 

“Mello, don’t be stupid.” 

And you only sort of regret it, because you’ve called him ugly, weird, psycho, mongrel, dickhead, but never stupid.  You’ve never called him stupid save for two days ago, before resting your head on his shoulder, the happiest you’d ever been. But right now, he’s being fucking stupid. He flares, and when he looks down at you, it’s dark, almost disgusted, and it makes you wince. 

“No ____, what’s stupid,” he spits, “is fucking around here and waiting for something to happen to you. You’re better than that.” 

“Excuse me? What the fuck does that mean?”

He shoulders past you and out into the hall.

“It means I’m not fucking around here and waiting for something to happen.” 

You follow after him as he speedwalks down the hall.

“What about us? Your friends.” 

He ignores you, taking two stairs at a time. 

“What about me?”

“Come or don’t. But I’m leaving.” He says it over his shoulder, more at you than to you, an aside tossed to the wind. 

“What the - I’m not going with you, dumbass, what are you thinking?”

The walls, the doors, and those peeking out from behind them are a blur as you pass. The only thing that’s clear is the front door, closer and closer. Where is everyone, someone, anyone who can actually do something? Where are Matt and Linda to help you hold him down? 

His hand is already closed around the doorknob, metal and cold. The other slips a beanie over his head. He’s going to be so cold. He yanks the door open with such force it slams against the wall, and immediately the chill seeps inside, stinging your cheeks and biting at your nose. He marches on, and you follow still through the dry grass, the dead leaves and the cold dirt. A crowd has gathered at the door, cheeks and hands pressed against the windows, fogging the glass. Some watch in fascination, some leering like vultures. One less to compete with. Carrion, finally discarded. 

“Mello!” 

You lunge and catch his shoulder, if anything just to make him face you now that tears are pooling in your eyes, now that this is actually happening. When he turns, you hardly recognize the face, and before you can, he grabs you by the shoulders and shoves you backwards toward the house.

“If you’re not coming, stop following!” 

You stumble back, still fighting to keep walking, but your shoes catch against the dirt and you slip, pitching forward and onto your knees. Your knees ache where the gravel scratches against them, your palms peppered with dust and twigs. The cold of the ground permeates.  

“Mello,” you cry up at him. You’re not above begging, though the thought of it makes you sick. You feel pitiful down here in the dirt. And the way he looks at you, like you’re small, like he’s debating whether you’re important enough to drag along, it makes you want to hate him. That he can hesitate, shift to help you up only to cower and turn back around and keep walking makes you want to hate him. But you can’t, even as he leaves you on the ground, knees scuffed with dirt and palms dotted with pebbles. You can’t, even as you watch him walk towards the gate, slip through the bars and tug his backpack with him to who knows where, out in the cold, bloody meat into the open maw. 

By the time you’ve stood up, numb, Gigi calls out to you, placing a hand on your shoulder before dashing to her car to trail Mello. Again you are alone and again in front of you is a wasteland, barren and gray and whipped by a cold wind.