Walls Came Tumbling Down

There had been children in the library, but they had gone. Distant smells suggested that the evening meal was in the process of being served, and had been for at least 40 minutes. But there was a soft quietness in here, amongst archaic books and piles of journals. Matt hoped that someone had fed Mello, because he was likely to be here for a while yet.

Matt had notes, referenced on LaTeX like he was writing his thesis again. Some habits were hard to break, particularly in these surroundings. His research made disturbing reading, which would have hurt him much more, if he had let it. There were answers here, symptoms which fit too well to be disdained. He was delving deeply into 'disorganized attachment', a disorder identified by Mary Main and Judith Solomon, of the University of California, Berkeley. Matt concluded that he almost certainly fit into the rare sub-category of 'Ambivalent Attachment'.

It measured behaviour within the Strange Situation Protocol branch of child psychology. Place the kid into a potentially stressful environment and watch what they did. The normal ones looked to an adult to gage how bad things really were. A smile, reassurance and all was well, despite external evidence to the contrary. Conversely, a panicking adult resulted in very frightened off-spring.

But what if they weren't normal? What if said adult didn't even notice, nor care, if said child lived or died? The word 'abuse' kept being bandied around the term 'infant neglect' and Matt hated that. It implied that he was a victim before he even began; which they all knew was true. It didn't help to see that, over and over again, in black and white.

Perversely, it wasn't any of the textbooks, but Wikipedia which kept him staring at the screen for a very long time. [i]If the child uses the caregiver as a mirror to understand the self, the disorganized child is looking into a mirror broken into a thousand pieces.[/i] Too many mixed messages. Too much to take in. The neglected child had no way of knowing the best course of action, so had to find one of his, or her, own.

Only 7% - 15% of them would find refuge in 'Ambivalent Attachment' (Cassidy and Berlin (1994)). They froze. Stock-still, statuesque; just waiting for the end to come or the danger to go away. They didn't know what to do, so they did nothing. Then they grew up. The description of those carrying this disorder into adulthood was his biography. Words flew from the pages, 'cold, distant relationships', 'uncomfortable with intimacy', 'distraught at frequent break-ups', 'never believe that a caregiver will stay', 'failed marriages'...

"Hey."

Matt jolted so hard on the carpet, that his head hit the metal shelf on the bookcase behind him. He had no idea how Mello was even out of bed, let alone all the way here, on the other side of the building, in the library. Rubbing his head, Matt turned in confusion, though he couldn't even see the door through the rows of books. "I didn't hear you come in!" He declared, stupidly. His research sourcebooks and notes were all in plain view. "That was sneaky!"

Mello must have been in agony, because his face was a pallid white, covered over with a light sheen of sweat. But he held himself solidly, standing with a chocolate bar halfway to his mouth, his wrist resting against the plastic cast. He didn't sound petulant at all. "You've been gone at least three hours."

"I was..." Matt faltered. It was bloody obvious what he was doing; and he really didn't want Mello reading a word of this.

Mello waited for him to finish. When nothing more was forthcoming, he commented drily, "Ainsworth only studied each child for twenty minutes to come up with Strange Situation Procedure. Reckon that was enough to base the whole Protocol upon?"

Matt felt exposed. Dirty. Mello wasn't asking his opinion on a facet of academia. He was telling him that he'd already read it all. Matt bowed his head and said nothing, then realised that he was acting like someone with disorganised attachment. He stood, fighting his own mind for something to say. "You need a chair." He sauntered away. When he returned with it, Mello had bitten off a square of chocolate and was sucking it with the intensity of the comfort eater. "You could have called me. I had my 'phone."

"And miss the novelty of seeing you study?" Mello forced a weak smile, as he was lowered into his seat. "In case you were wondering, Rian told us where you were."

"Us?" Matt's heart was thundering. He wanted those books out of sight, even if Mello knew their contents.

Mello nodded. His tongue snaked out to lick at the bar in his hand. "Me and Hal. We've been chatting." Matt turned around, half expecting the American woman to be there too. They were alone. Mello added, "She brought me to the door. Then I asked her to leave us to it." He was watching Matt with a penetrating stare. "Nothing's changed. You just have a label to stick on things. Does that make it better or worse?"

"Have you persuaded her to stay?" Matt asked, buying time. He closed his laptop lid and began tidying away the journals first. They were more easily stacked and stashed on the shelves. "At Wammy's House."

"Do you want me to?"

Matt's gaze flickered towards his husband. Mello was treating him with kid gloves, asking gentle questions and concealing his pain. Matt wasn't sure how he felt about that, other than recognising that it must mean he seemed fragile on this subject. "It's inevitable that we're going to have a lot of break-ups."

Mello shook his head, "No, it's not. Contextualise Cassidy before you start quoting her, especially if you're going to fixate on specific sentences." He flashed a reassuring smile. "And remember that we're talking about potentialities only."

"I freeze in stressful situations."

"I give you mixed messages." Mello winked. "And you don't always. Hardly ever, in fact. You did once upon a time, a lot more than you do these days. You didn't freeze when Neuron was coming for you."

"You're not my caregiver or parent."

Mello looked amused. "I so am." He took another hearty chunk of chocolate into his mouth, then spoke through it. "You're reading the theory too narrowly."

Matt frowned as he slotted the last book back onto the shelf. Then he peered back at his husband and asked, calmly, "Are you remaining light-hearted, reassuring me, to defuse my sense that there might be danger right now?"

His husband chuckled, "Yep."

Matt rubbed his fingers through his own fringe, then let it flop back down over his goggles. "I need a cigarette." It occurred to him that he hadn't smoked since he'd been in the library. It was certainly prohibited in here, slightly more than it was in the rest of the house. There was a lot that was flammable, not to mention first editions and one or two unique prints, which didn't need a nicotine tinge. "Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?"

Mello shook his head. "Madeleine wants me to move about more. I'll just take it slowly." He made no attempt to get up. "Go and have a cigarette. I'll wait here."

Matt hesitated. On the one hand, now that he'd noticed his nicotine withdrawal, it was consuming him to the extent of pushing out all extraneous consideration. On the other, Mello looked bloody ill, for all his brave face and Mother Theresa attitude. "Have you eaten? I can take you to the refectory first then..."

"Just hand me Main and Solomon, then come back for me after your smoke." Mello radiated alrightness. Everything in the world was rosy and good, to believe his tone. It was eerie.

Matt snapped, "I don't want you reading them!"

"I own the book and several of their papers besides. Plus Cassidy and Berlin, plus Ainsworth, plus a lot of other studies, which weren't on your little reading list just now."

Matt felt cold. Worse still, he was inside his own head, observing his own reactions to ensure that none of them aligned with the text-book behaviour. He turned on his heels and marched out. He was halfway to the back door, before he realised that he'd never handed over the requested volume. It was too late to go back now. He'd just have his cigarette - two cigarettes - and return in a better frame of mind.

It took until the sixth or seventh hit before he felt his emotions coming down a notch. Then it was only to recognise the despair that had been lurking just beneath the surface shell. He never would be in a better frame of mind. He'd been [i]pwnt[/i] before he was three. This was him for life and Mello was going to have to put up with that, or leave.

[i]'...distraught at frequent break-ups...'[/i]

Matt didn't bother with the second cigarette. His heart craved a different addiction. He pushed back through the door so quickly, that it sent a momentary jarring through his wrist. He shook the twinge away, as he ran along the corridors, barely missing a couple of children in his path. His name was called, but he ignored it; not even registering if it was a kid after his attention, or an adult telling him off for running. He arrived breathless in the library to find Mello still sitting there, on the chair, looking down.

Something had changed. Anger crackled in the air. Mello's head was bowed over images. Matt had left his records. Navarre.

"Mello?"

Mello's voice was a low hiss. "Where did you sleep?"

"I don't know." Matt replied automatically, though he knew. In flashes of memory, he knew. "Settee."

"It's filthy."

Matt nodded, realising suddenly how all of this was lining up. His records, the library, Mello's sense of helplessness in an aftermath. Rojo. Matt's legs felt shaky. He told himself that it was because of the sprint here. His lungs weren't good at exercise. His hand trembled, where he rested it on the side of the bookcase. His broken fingers were sticking up.

Mello raised his head. There was danger in his dark eyes. "You shouldn't have been there."

"Sorry."

Mello blinked, frowned and looked back down. "You wouldn't thank me for crying over this; and it's too late to kill the fucker." He flicked a finger towards the picture from inside the oil tanker. "This one I've seen before. The rest I didn't know existed." He kept his voice low. It all sounded like censure. "Which of the bodies is he?"

Matt swallowed, "None of them."

Mello nodded. "Ok." He shifted slightly, uncomfortable where he sat. "Does one exist of him?"

"It wasn't in my records, if there was."

"Seems strange that someone would capture all of this, then not photograph you and your father too."

Matt shrugged. In truth, he had thought the same and it had hurt him. "Yep."

Mello toed the edge of a photograph, one on top of the other. It was half-hearted and Matt dashed forward. He knelt at Mello's feet and collected the images together, back into a pile. He reached for the plastic pocket, which had encased them, but Mello's hand was on his head. Matt waited to see what he was going to do. Fingers crept down and around the collar, at the back of his neck. Mello hauled weakly, but Matt rose up anyway and he was engulfed in as tight a hug as Mello could muster. "It was all a long time ago, Mail; and none of it was your fault." Mello kissed his ear. "As for the child psychologists, fuck the lot of them. They don't know you and what you're capable of."

"Are we going to break up?"

"No." Mello spoke like it wasn't something that he kept having to say. Repetitive reassurance for the disorganised ambivalent adult-child. "You're researching all of this to try and be sane enough, so I'll let us go home?"

Matt didn't reply. He could think of nothing to say to that. It was the truth and Mello knew it.

"Use it for inspiration, guapo." Mello found a smile to press against Matt's jawline. "Something struck a chord in those books. If you don't want to ask things for yourself, then do it as an academic exercise. How would you advise someone to act around an adult survivor of all of that?"

Matt whispered, "How the fuck should I know?"

"Think about it. Put it in your contract." Mello was still holding him. The edge of the chair felt hard beneath Matt's knee, as he supported his own weight upon it. "Your heart is beating so hard."

Matt exhaled. "Don't keep me guessing." There. It was out there and, because Mello had mentioned it, his heartbeat sped up further. "I need to know that we are going home; and that you'll come with me."

Mello nodded. "We are going home. I am coming with you. Where else in the world would I go, if not home with you?" They just stayed as they were for a few moments, a silent tableau. "I know how you feel, Mail. It's like my scars, but on the inside. You tell me I'm pretty." There was a little laugh, but it was neither self-effacing nor mirthful. He continued, steadily, like it was no big deal. "How can I believe that, when I look in the mirror and see this?" Mello rubbed his hand down Matt's back and he had to resist the urge to move. Mello kissed his neck again. "Nearly time."

"To go?" Hope and anxiety leapt in equal measure inside.

"To stop hugging you." Mello breathed in his ear. It was hot. "I wear my sexiest clothes and keep my hair tidy. I put my eye-liner on, making the best of my left eye, surrounded as it is..."

"You're gorgeous." Matt replied automatically.

Mello left a kiss on his ear and leaned back, releasing him. "And I'm never going to leave you." There was kindness in his smile. "Two phrases there to write on paper and stick on the fridge back home, eh?" Matt stood before him, their eyes meeting and locking contact for long seconds. Mello looked so tired. Less angry now, but still with something dark lingering in the back of his stare. "Two questions, guapo." Mello waited, though for what, Matt wasn't sure. He waited too and eventually Mello spoke the first of them. "Do you want to go home now? Knowing the..." He paused. Matt had straightened a little, his lips curling in a nervous smile of anticipation. Mello swallowed and hurried on. "Knowing that neither of us is stable. I can't look after you, when I'm in this state. Can you look after me?"

"Yes." Matt's mind span in a million strategies to forestall a repeat of before. He would neither eat nor drink a thing that Mello set before him. There would be keys, tools and all manner of survival equipment concealed around the bed. Even if Mello did crack up and try to control him, Matt would be prepared this time. "I can look after you. I did before." His gaze glanced over Mello's scars. "I can again."

Mello's stare was deep and penetrating. It did well to remember that he possessed one of the greatest intellects on the planet. "Item one. You will always, without question or censure, place your own mental and physical well-being above my whims. Especially if they seem insane."

"Your whims always seem insane." Matt smirked, too relieved by developments to rein in his wisecracks. But his vision dropped to Mello's cast and Matt's face fell an instant later. "Sorry."

"No. That's good." Mello reassured, blandly. "Question two."

Matt frowned. There had already been two questions. "Yes?"

"I'd like to write and agree on our contracts before we leave here."

Matt froze. This was the other boot falling. Mello would drag that out for weeks. They would be stuck in the Institution, being crushed by the presence of their peers. He needed another cigarette.

Mello was watching him. "We've both been thinking about it for days. I've written dissertations in less time. How hard can a single side of A4 be?" He smiled. "That wasn't my question either. This is it. Do you want me to write yours for you?"

"What?" Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing, though a small part of him was turned on by that. Another part felt suddenly lighter. He didn't know how to respond.

"Not on my own." Mello clarified. "With you. Very, very much with you. You don't get away Scot free here." He gestured towards the book-shelf lined with volumes of child psychology. "I'm mostly asking so we can get things in there, which help you cope with all of that."

Matt couldn't tell if Mello was joking or not. He didn't look like he was. "That's not about sex."

"The contract shouldn't be all about sex." Mello countered. "And it so is."

"Let's do it." Matt decided to let Mello's insinuations go, if it got them out of Wammy's House sooner. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his blank sheet. The numbers 1-20 were listed down one side, but there was nothing else written on there. This wasn't the proper contract. That wouldn't emerge until he'd got the items to write on it. He held it out for Mello to take.

Mello stashed his chocolate between his legs and received the paper. "This is as far as you've got?"

"I have some stuff in my head." Matt replied, defensively.

Mello snorted. "I have about fifty! I'm trying to whittle mine down to twenty!"

Matt stared, feeling cold again. "Fifty things that you hate about me?"

"No. Fifty things that I think should be set in writing." He glanced at Matt's face and sighed. "Most of them are shit stuff, like 'thou shalt not consider pizza to be a major food group'. Which didn't make the final cut. Though starving yourself so you never become heavier than me will be on there."

"I never..."

"You fucking admitted that one, Mail!" Mello blazed. Then he had to stop, because the door had opened and some of the children were coming in for evening study. Mello relented. "Talking about food, you've had none. Let's go and grab something from the refectory." He folded the paper, one-handedly against his thigh, back into quarters, then stashed it in his breast pocket. "Help me up."

Matt had been collecting together the last of his records, hiding them safely inside his laptop case. He closed the lid on the laptop itself and slotted it away. But it was too late. They'd been spotted. Holiday rushed across. "Hi Mello!"

"Hello." Mello replied gruffly, though his public face was on now. Matt watched Mello switch on the charisma, like a rock-star. "How's it going?"

"Great!" Holiday gushed, then nearly toppled, as Daton landed on his back. The teenagers nearly fell into Mello, but Matt was there, pushing them away. They looked mortified. "Daton! That was gay! Fuck off!"

Mello and Matt both stared. The colour slowly rose, bright scarlet and creeping, up from Holiday's neck. Mello's eyebrows were both up. Matt could tell, even if the boys could not, that Mello was silently amused by the faux pas. His expression must have conveyed a darker message. Daton snorted and ran away. Holiday started to splutter out some excuse, but Matt was quicker. He spoke blandly, precisely enunciating. "How very sixteen year old boy with a dodgy moustache." It really worked. Holiday did have bum fluff shading his top lip, though it could hardly be called a moustache.

"Sorry." Holiday said, his mouth dry and his eyes slightly bulging. From the other side of the library, they could hear Daton and some other boy tittering. "I didn't mean, like, bad gay."

"Holiday." Mello spoke in the voice which he must have used on rival gangsters. "You will not use it again, in a derogatory fashion. Will you?" The smile perturbed Matt, let alone the kid. Though Matt figured that he alone also felt the stirring in his groin.

"No."

"Good." Mello winked and extended a hand, languidly, towards his husband. Matt took it and, in the guise of assisting his prima donna to his feet, actually gave him the support that he needed. "Let's do this, baby." With one last sweeping glance to ensure that they had left nothing at all, the couple moved slowly towards the door.

Holiday found his breath. "Mello!" He called after them.

Mello paused. "Yes, Holiday?"

"I'm sorry."

"You're forgiven." Then they were through the door and gone. Mello and Matt waited a whole corridor's length, before catching each other's eye and laughing. "Fucking face was a picture."

"Yeah." Just like that, they felt close again. Sharing a laugh, finding a future. Matt let his gaze linger just a touch longer, finally believing now, that they would go home. Their marriage could survive. It was just Mihael on his arm; his oldest friend, his greatest (and only) lover, his husband. "Food would be good. Yeah."

Mello afforded him a tiny, painful smile. "Let's get some then."

"Yeah."