The Annals of Fear

It was the middle of the night. A short sob gulped from Mello\'s lips before he could stop it. He clasped his hand over his mouth and hurried on, not into the chapel, but the kitchen. The images from his dream had been so real, so stark, that it felt like he was still almost there. He ran water into a pint glass, trying to block out the childish cries inside his head. "Mama." He spoke, inserting a blandness to his tone in an attempt to eradicate the same word screamed in hysteria inside his head. Flashes of carnage whipped through his memory with a brutal suddenness. Replayed as it had been in his dream. A four-year-old\'s incomprehension overwhelming an adult\'s understanding. Mello knocked back the water, draining half a pint before he stopped for breath.



He felt a little more settled now. At least more awake and therefore able to shut out the nightmare. But he was naked and that felt too exposed. He rushed into the utility room and pulled on a pair of leather trousers that had been destined to go to the dry-cleaner\'s. Now Mello leaned against the cold wall and assessed what the fuck had just happened to him. It had been just a dream. Memories of Yugoslavia and the loss of his family. That was all. A traitorous image returned to his mind. Just a quick flicker of a scene of fallen rubble and the Cathedral burning. Darkness and smoke. People screaming. A woman, mostly buried, silently trying to pick the bricks off herself. That terrible smell of something indescribable. Like someone was cooking meat. And a little boy screaming, "Mama!" Mello felt tears pricking and angrily swiped them away. A childhood in Wammy\'s House did not lend itself to him crying over being orphaned now. And Matt, the bastard, hadn\'t even woken up.



Blinking and shivering in the depths of the early hours, Mello emerged from the utilities room and wandered back into the kitchen. He raided the fridge for chocolate bars and set five of them on the table, before sitting down and systematically eating them. It was obvious, when he reasoned it out. There was a case concerning death in religious buildings. It was little wonder that his subconscious had returned to his own similar trauma. It didn\'t usually hit him so hard though. Only once, in fact, could he remember ever feeling this upset since it had happened. That was after they had covered the Second World War in class at the institution. Operation Moonlight Sonata. The destruction of Coventry by the German bombers and the levelling of that city\'s Cathedral. Mello hadn\'t been able to stop himself. He had rushed from the room and hidden down in the orphanage\'s basement. He had broken his heart for long minutes, pinching himself to make himself stop, because it was wrong then and it was wrong now. It wasn\'t even like it was exactly the same! Individual suicides alone in churches nor the aerial bombardment of a city; neither of those were the same as what had happened in Gorskica. That had been explosives in the crypts being deliberately ignited. It wasn\'t the same!



Mello face was in his hands, the tears in freefall. He angrily kicked out at the leg of the chair beside him, sending it scraping, crashing into the next. There was no ultimate effect, but a couple of chairs moving a few inches to the side. It didn\'t even make him feel better. "Majka Božja." Mello snapped at himself, craving comfort, but nothing on Earth would move him to wake Matt. In that mood and in the half-light, Matt was a Wammy boy. Nothing more or less. And Mello would die rather than let a Wammy boy seeing him crying for his parents. "Hillyer. Fucking shit." He stood up so suddenly that the chair, in which he\'d sat, clattered backwards against the unit. Crockery, piled up waiting for someone to put them into the dishwater, rattled ominously, but none of them fell. Mello glared at them, then swooped down on a plate and threw it angrily at the wall. It shattered in two large and several small pieces all over the radiator and floor. Mello stared at it, hardly believing that he\'d just done that, then leaned against the worktop, wiping his eyes. "Spustiti balun, Miho. Smiri se."



Mello was aware of a footfall in the hallway and inwardly cringed before Matt even appeared in the doorway. The redhead blinked groggily from behind his goggles, clad in a dressing gown with a gun in his hand. He took in the smashed plate and the red face of his husband, then glanced around the rest of the room. Mello could feel himself falling inside. He wanted to react in anger again, to ward away the sense of failing. He wanted Matt to just go away, though a tiny, only half acknowledged flame of emotion deep inside wished to be held. Matt just passively stood there, though eventually he sniffed. "What does \'smiri se\' mean?"



Mello flicked back his hair, straightening his whole form as he stood up from the worktop. "Calm down."



Matt nodded. "That\'s useful to know." He wandered across to the cupboard and brought out the dustpan and brush. Mello watched in disbelief as Matt just started clearing up the crockery. "You\'ve been crying."



"Matt!" Mello danced forward. "Just leave that! I\'ll do that!" He reached his husband and took the brush from his hand. "You shouldn\'t be clearing up my mess!"



"That\'s my job."



"Mail!" Mello yelled. "Just fucking stop!" He could feel the anger rising and just wanted to hit Matt so hard. But Matt turned from his crouch and wrapped his arms around Mello\'s back, holding him. It felt like restraint, it was almost a cuddle. Mello\'s fury flashed in the pan and was extinguished. He returned the hug, burying his face into Matt\'s neck and shoulder. "I\'m sorry I shouted. I\'m sorry."



Matt muttered. "S\'ok."



Mello refused to cry now. He also refused to acknowledge that he was clinging, holding Matt to him as something sacred that had survived. Matt had never died on him. Matt was still here. Matt was not in that Hellish, blackened pit. Mello remembered the heat. The way that the Cathedral bricks had glowed red. They hadn\'t even been sandstone, that was just the colour of the temperature inside. Red and black. Mello bit so hard on his tongue that he had to release it for fear of severing it. He did not cry. "Te amo, Mail Jeevas. Never, ever forget that."



"Volim te." Matt replied, but it had the air of an automatic response.



"No!" Mello lifted his head, the intensity blazing through him. "Listen to me. I love you! If anyone harmed a hair on your fucking head, I\'d..."



"I know, Mello." Matt risked a tiny smile. "It\'s taken as read. And ditto." His hand rubbed up and down Mello\'s back. "What\'s brought this on."



"Just understand it!" Mello snapped, grabbing at the dustpan and pulling away to crouch down into the pieces of crockery.



Above his head, Matt swallowed. "I do understand it."



"No you don\'t." Mello countered, his irritation made worse because it didn\'t have a definiable source. "You\'re a victim of infant neglect and every psychological study in the world says that you can\'t possibly..."



"Mello, I understand."



"Fine." Mello attacked the shards vigorously.



There was a short shuffling behind him. "Will you tell me about it?"



"About what?" Mello asked, already knowing. A click and a snap of flame, then Matt was lighting his cigarette. Mello peered backwards to see where he had got them from. He must have had a packet in the pocket of his dressing gown. Matt surveyed him steadily, only subtle details betraying his unease. "What?"



"About what happened to you."



Mello\'s gaze dropped, focusing on the red hairs on Matt\'s bare legs. Memory threw up a disorientating view of reds, black and smoke; the stench of it; the terror; and a woman\'s face, half-burned to the bone. Mama. He shook his head, not even wanting to think of it anymore. "No." He stood, though most of the smaller shards were still on the ground. "I don\'t want to talk about it."



Matt was staring at him. Green eyes searching behind the orange lense, but Mello didn\'t care what Matt saw or what he made of it. The larger pieces of smashed crockery went into the bin, without being wrapped in newspaper, but Mello just shrugged away the mistake. He would fish them out tomorrow. Matt enunciated his response carefully. "Ok."



"Let\'s go back to bed, Mail." Mello replied, decisively. The voice of authority, even though he was trembling inside. "It\'s fucking cold. Come on." He held a hand out and Matt took it.



"Mihael. It wasn\'t your fault."



That irritated Mello. He glared at Matt, like his husband was beneath contempt. "I know it wasn\'t my fault." He snapped, more so because the guilt was rising inside, as it always had. "I was only four!"



"Just so you know."



Mello narrowed his eyes. "I know, Mail." He pulled the redhead towards the stairs and led the way up them. His heart was pounding more than it should have. He watched Matt climb back into bed and nearly asked for a cuddle. But who was he kidding? It was Matt he was married to. He might as well have asked the wardrobe for a hug. For a moment, Mello looked cornered. He caught Matt watching him. "What?"



Matt spoke softly, "I can\'t help you, if you don\'t tell me how."



"I don\'t need your help." Mello scowled and threw himself back onto his side of the bed. He still had on the leather trousers. He growled and removed them, all under Matt\'s watchful eye. "Go to sleep, Mail."



"Not until I get a cuddle."



Mello froze. His head turned slowly to survey his husband. "What?"



"Get under the covers, it\'s freezing. I want to cuddle you." Fierce intelligence gazed back from behind the goggles. Mello knew that this was something that Matt had reasoned out. Mello supposed that it wasn\'t rocket science. In fact, if it had been, Matt might have had more of a clue, but he was getting it right now. Mello pulled his trousers fully off and shuffled under the covers. There was still a wall of quilt between himself and Matt, but his arms were reaching over it and that was the best that Mello knew that he would receive. He snuggled in and claimed the comfort. For all of his agitation, he was asleep within minutes.