Walls Came Tumbling Down

Right up to the gate, Matt thought that they wouldn't make it. There would be some last minute stoppage - an arrest on the driveway at Wammy's House or roadworks on the M3, or something. Yet here they were, on the home stretch, pulling up to their own darkened house. The reality of it washed in relief over his sensibilities. He realised that he hadn't believed he would see it again.

Mello had appeared asleep in the passenger seat. Pale and uncommunicative throughout much of the journey. But as Matt sought out the key-fob controller to open the gate, Mello's hand snaked out and rubbed along Matt's shoulders to cup the back of his neck. Matt turned in alarm and peered at him, but Mello simply sat back, half lying with the back-rest at practically 45 degrees. He wore a smile, but he didn't open his eyes.

"We're here." Matt breathed, a little unnecessarily. Mello knew.

The Camaro was parked right up by the back door to save them having to walk too far with so much to unpack. Matt helped Mello inside first, holding his uninjured arm and steadying him across the threshold. The kitchen was cold and unlit. The hum of the fridge-freezer was the only sound to cut the silence. The atmosphere wrapped around Matt, as a soothing balm to his senses; his nerves calming into retreat.

Mello whispered, through sheer exhaustion. "I'm going to sit in the front room. I'll go up later."

"Ok."

Matt flicked on the light and settled his husband on the settee, before returning to take the box of perishable provisions from the car. Mello was asleep by the time his hot chocolate was taken to him. Matt didn't mind. He slowly emptied the contents of his car and the trailer into the hallway. He relished the ritual of it; taking his time out of enjoyment and the gentle returning to himself into his world.

But then it was over and all he had was the silence and the slowing of his heartbeat. He made tea and lit a cigarette, then contemplated tidying everything away, from the heap in the hallway, into their rightful place.

It had been part of his malady, hadn't it? To crave home so much; and to want Mello here, just to prove to himself that Mello would come home with him. Matt sat heavily on the staircase and listened to the quietness. All that had been so very nearly lost. His husband, his home, his liberty and his sanity. He smoked, letting the nicotine coat the lump in his throat. This was no place to be crying now. He'd won more back than he'd ever dared dream, in the greatest boss fight of his life.

"Mail." Mello rasped, his voice floating small and lost from the open lounge door.

Matt stood and drifted across. Only the little reading lamp was lit and Mello blinked up from the pool of light it cast upon the settee. "Da?"

"Time is it?"

"Nearly seven."

Mello's head had been raised off the cushion. He let it fall back again now. "Sorry, I went to sleep instead of helping."

Matt smiled at him. "It's ok. I got everything in."

Mello stared at him, feline and watchful, if a little wrecked. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm..." 'Not', Matt had been about to say, but his gloved hand touched his cheek and his fingertips came back wet. He scrutinised it in surprise, then turned to look at his reflection in the large mirror over the mantelpiece. He looked silvery in that, drained of all colour. The room around him seemed ghost-like. Alice Through the Looking Glass. He resisted the urge to pinch himself, to check that he wasn't dreaming.

On the settee, Mello groaned and unfurled, hoisting himself up into a sitting position. Then staring at the carpet, while he gained a grip over his pain and emotions. "Want to put that casserole in to warm?" He asked, quietly. Matt interpreted it as 'I can't deal with your crap right now, Matt.' "I could do with something to eat. Blood sugar."

Matt nodded and hurried out. The unpacking could wait. It suddenly felt like it wouldn't be necessary. That Mello was about to tell him that he couldn't stay. He'd just come to ensure that Matt got safely home. Matt took the casserole from the box on the kitchen table and shoved it in the oven. He ignited the flames to gas mark four and closed the door. Mello would hate that. Mello was a great believer in letting the oven warm up first, before any food went into it. He had physics and food hygiene behind him, but Matt countered that with convenience.

Matt stood and jumped to find Mello standing just inside the doorway, watching. "I, erm..." Matt began, but had nothing to finish his sentence with.

Mello had chocolate. He ate a chunk of it, in his shattered surveillance. It shouldn't have felt as eerie as it did. "We'll leave the shit in the hallway." Mello murmured. "I can't be arsed with it tonight."

"Ok." Matt replied, his heartbeat returning to normal. He saw Mello reaching into the Wammy's House box and extracting his painkillers from its depths. Then he soundlessly turned around and disappeared back into the front room. Matt exhaled, feeling like he'd dodged a bullet and not knowing why.

"Mail!" Mello called out. Matt sauntered after him and found his husband sitting back down, contemplating the cold mug of chocolate. "Will you nuke this please?"

"Yeah." Matt took it and Mello's hand closed over his own. "What?"

Mello smiled. "I see you, Mail Jeevas-Keehl." He slowly blinked. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not."

"Like fuck you are. I'm just in pain, waiting for these to kick in, and my blood sugar has dipped." Mello reassured. "Just give me a moment, eh?"

Matt nodded, understanding. "No prob."

But Mello didn't let go. He sighed. "What is it?"

"Nothing." Matt replied, because he honestly didn't know himself. Perhaps it was relief. It was replaced with horror. "Oh God! You're reassuring me in my environment!" [i]The disorganized child is looking into a mirror broken into a thousand pieces[/i]. "You're being an adult, telling me that everything is alright, because I can't tell for myself!"

Mello stared. "And you're nuking my hot chocolate, because it hurts too fucking much to get up and do it myself. Problem?"

"I don't want it to be this awkward! It's never going to be like it was before." The words spilled out of Matt. He didn't quite remember thinking them. "I shot you."

"And I fell asleep instead of dealing with a big transition moment."

Matt gaped, "I am not a fucking child!"

Mello nodded. "Very glad I am to hear it, because I'm not Pedo-bear. Now, if I tell you that all my base are belong to you, do I actually get the hot chocolate?"

"You're pacifying me with memes?" Matt glared; and his second thoughts, analysing away with precision cruelty, told him that it was working.

"You mad bro?" Mello grinned, and suddenly everything was alright. Just like that. Like a switch had been clicked. Matt was laughing, and taking the hot chocolate into the kitchen, which just as suddenly felt warm and homely.

Matt shoved Mello's mug into the microwave; then placed both hands on the work-top, leaning in, trying to make sense of everything. He didn't do this. He didn't let his own emotions spiral out of control. That was Mello's job. It had to be that he was noticing things that had always been there, because he knew about them now. His infirmity. His mental instability. His drug addiction. His general fucked-upness that was never going to go away, no matter how many times Mello made the right noises.

The microwave pinged and Matt lit a cigarette. He didn't even know what he'd done with the first. Probably smoked it and stubbed out the butt, without registering a thing. He took out Mello's hot chocolate and carried it into the front room. "Hi."

Mello appeared deep in thought, or reining in his pain, whatever was the case. "Gracias and sit down." He waited, tensing slightly, until Matt was perched on the settee beside him. "My situation - the ride here took more out of me than I imagined it would. I'm fine, I just need to take it easy for the rest of the evening and then have an early night. Your situation - everything wasn't sweetness and roses the second we stepped through the door."

"Oh, come on." Matt began, but Mello didn't let him finish.

"I'm your Master, shut up and listen." It was said curtly, but not with any real menace. "What I really want to do is slap you up the wall, over-power you, tie you to a bed and fuck you into the back of tomorrow. But my body is betraying me. My body is saying food, drink, rest and curl up with a nice book or film. Preferably with you alongside me." A sidewards look. "Reckon that you could survive that?"

Matt nodded, contrite. "I'm sorry I'm spinning out."

"You've got every fucking right to be. You must have been scared to death for a week or more." Mello leaned into him, cradling his hot chocolate so not to spill a drop. Matt took the hint and put his arm around him. "You've been exposed like never before. You've had people who had no business even looking at you, dissecting everything you do and say. That's over now, baby. We're home."

"Mihael."

Mello took a sip of his drink. "Yes?"

"I'm going to go cold turkey."

Mello nodded slowly, "Yeah. I know." They both waited and the seconds ticked by. "And I'll look after you while you do it." He didn't add a request, like waiting until he had regained his own strength. Mello would find it within himself, if only not to appear too weak.

"And pull my weight in this marriage."

Mello smiled, "You've always been half of it. No complaints here." Then grew more serious. "But only so far as what's been agreed in our contract. That's your framework now. Your boundaries." His grin grew again and he chuckled. "I nearly said 'mainframe', but that really would be fatal." He stopped. The word 'fatal' hung around them, like a tangible black cloud, threatening their tenuous peace. "Mail, would you humour me in something please?"

"A saucer of milk outside the back door for the fairies?" Matt smirked, but he knew he was going to do it, even as he ridiculed the suggestion. It wasn't all on Mello's behalf either. His husband hadn't replied, just grown tense, then grimaced, as the stiffening of his shoulders struck his injuries. Matt softly told him, "I'll do it." And kissed his cheek. Mello turned, lowering his mug to his lap to keep it balanced, as his lips sought out Matt's and they snogged away their fright. Drawing away at last, Matt whispered, "It shook me up."

"It didn't exactly do much for me either." Mello gave a tiny smile. "Assuming that we're talking about the case and not the kiss."

Matt nodded. "The conclusions that kept me out of prison didn't sit well with my ethos. They still don't."

"File it away with Death Notes and shinigamis?"

"Can I say something, Mello?" Matt breathed, not at all sure this should be said. Mello seemed to discern the fragility of the moment, as he didn't say a word, just nodded once and waited. "You called it. You dared them to do it."

"Dared who?"

"The fairies. The spirits. Whatever was in that place." Matt blinked at him, his stomach twisting. He sounded foolish to his own ears. "When we were there the first time, you told them that your life had three phases and that they couldn't get you on Yugoslavia nor Wammy's House. They had already tried and failed. You practically threw down the gauntlet, in telling them to try and break you and I. So they did. Didn't they?"

Mello stared. It took him a long time to answer and then it was meekly, in the tiniest of voices. "They tried."

Matt faced him. "Do you believe in fairies, Mello?" No response. "Did you believe in fairies, Mello?"

His husband swallowed. "By which you're asking if those were idle words, or if I deliberately set us up for a fail?" Mello's eyes fell heavily shut, then opened again. "I don't know. I was cocky as Hell and full of bravado then. I believed that we were stronger than anything that they could throw at us." He paused and Matt's heartbeat thundered in his own ears. Mello surveyed him, longingly, then smiled. "And I was right."

"Oh?"

"We're still here, aren't we?"

"Don't bargain with our relationship again." Matt told him. "Please."

Mello bit his lip; then raised his mug and took a deep gulp of hot chocolate. Eventually he said, "Sorry." And he sounded like he meant it. Matt relaxed and, after a while, Mello did too. "This is why you've been so angry with me?" Mello ventured. "Low-level angry, I mean." Though his eyes flickered towards the plastic cast holding up his shattered arm. "You thought that I valued what we had so lightly, when it was everything to you. Which implied that I valued you lightly as well."

"Dunno." Matt said, honestly. "Bit deep for me."

Mello breathed a laugh, but didn't reply. They sat in companionable silence, feeling like something had shifted from between them. Mello finished his drink and, after a while, the smell of casserole took Matt back into the kitchen to serve it up. Mrs Carnegie's home-cooking, in their very own kitchen. Matt felt himself landing, subtly and slowly, back down to Earth. He carried bowls of it through, on trays laden with home-baked bread rolls too.

Mello shifted, straightening in theory, if not actually moving much. "That smells bloody great!"

"Ok with it on your lap?"

"Bring it on!" Mello grinned and remained still, as Matt arranged it across his thighs. He was attempting to break off clumps of bread, one-handed, when Matt returned with his own. Mello looked up and, in a teasing tone, said, "Can you cut my food up please?" He waited patiently, while Matt abandoned his own tray on the floor and did just that. Then Mello spoke up. "Mail, you're not a burden. Whatever they made you feel like back there. This is my home too, with you in it. I don't have to pretend here, you know? I get to be me as well."

Matt peered at him, through his goggles, not sure what Mello was getting at. "'kay."

"Eat your casserole."

He sat back beside Mello, neither one of them speaking as they devoured their food. It gave Matt time to think and to contemplate their unravelling realities; not through the kaleidoscope of anxiety, but as a series of shapes falling into place. This thing between himself and Mello felt fledging and new now. It had form and a floor. They couldn't slide past the tenets of the contract now. It existed as something solid upon which to build a future. He had his own chapter and verse to quote. He didn't like to call them rules, because that just inspired an instinct to break them.

"Mell?"

"Si?"

"Thank you for the slave contract." Matt chased a last piece of carrot around, in the remains of the broth, with his bread in the bowl. "It was genius actually." He both saw and felt Mello's ego puff up at that. "Saved my sanity in that cell and I think it's going to really help in the future too."

Mello attempted a shrug. "I do my best." Modesty did not become him.

"I can't believe that it was rules that I needed."

"Slave contract." Mello replied, quickly and firmly. "Not rules."

Matt laughed. "Yeah."

"And the rest?" Mello prompted, now that they were speaking again. "Do you feel like it was failure, that Wammy's House is still standing, after your grand vendetta against Roger?"

Maybe Mello wasn't so genius after all. Matt gave the smallest of smiles. "You talk like Guy Fawkes failed."

Mello frowned. His lips moved soundlessly, then he stared at Matt, his expression demanding that the gauntlet actually be thrown down. "Hit me with it."

"'I see no reason, why gunpowder treason, should ever be forgot.'" Matt reached to take Mello's tray from him and to pile one bowl on top of the other. The trays were layered beneath them. "'Not with a bang, but with a whimper.'" He stood. "'I know this like I know the sun will rise tomorrow and beneath that new sun, our work will begin.'" And sauntered off into the kitchen to collect dessert, leaving Mello to mull that over.

Mello called out, "I can't place the last quotation. The first is 17th century folk verse, 'Remember, Remember, The Fifth of November'. The second is Yeats, 'The Hollow Men'."

"'Expect us.'" Matt called back, enjoying himself.

Mello was silent. He was also pouting a little, when Matt returned with tubs of half-melted chocolate mousse. He had ignored Mrs Carnegie's instructions to put them into the fridge when they got home. He supposed that they would taste just the same. Mello received his snippily and ate it like he was still starving. He quietly commented, "I'm a bit tired."

"Last line of 'V for Vendetta', the film."

Mello's lips formed a vague 'o' and he dipped his spoon in to get the last of the mousse. He murmured, "All referencing Guy Fawkes, several decades, centuries even, apart. Except the last one. That's Anonymous, who, oh." He licked the spoon and stared despondently at the empty bowl. Matt took it off him and inserted his own, untouched tub in its place. Mello smiled gratefully. "Thanks." Then added, "Anonymous wear Guy Fawkes masks." He paused before he ate. "You're saying that it's not over."

"I'm saying that Wammy's House did fall. It just hasn't made it to the ground yet. The foundations are terminally undermined and there's no fixing it now. The best fuses are left unlit. It allows the gunpowder to get updated with the age."

Mello stared into space for the longest time. Eventually he articulated his thoughts into a question. "Are you happy now? Satisfied that you did all that you needed to do?" He waited, watching, while Matt nodded. "Ok. And you need do no more? You don't have to be hanged, drawn and quartered to spark a revolution spanning all future generations?"

Matt laughed. "No."

"As long as you're happy, guapo." Mello said, softly, precisely. Then he ate his chocolate dessert.