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It was the eve of liberation.
For him and for the whole damn world, smothered in fear and sin. He’d watched as the world rotted before his eyes, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand the smug grins, the dismissive white, the raw pain as everything that ever mattered was ripped out of his hands.
He was Mello, damnit, and he acted. He wouldn’t hide behind card towers or monograms or computer screens. His breath, his body, his mind, they belonged deep within the grit and grime, where accomplishment was drug down to earth by his own hands. The hands of God’s divine judgment. Of the most horrible of selfish desires. Mello acted because he wanted to, and he could coat it all in a layer of divinity and righteousness, but underneath there would always be that base desire to stand over his rivals and crush them beneath his boot, so that the last thing they saw was his triumphant sneer.
It would have been glorious. It would have been heaven. And it would forever remain a dying dream. His hope had burned away with half of his face, and nothing, nothing, could bring it back to life. He was left to stare at empty hands and wonder why he had been forsaken.
He still wondered, even as the pilfered truck rumbled over forgotten roads and kicked up dust into the chilled morning’s air. His mission was nearly finished, and so he was left to wonder how this lamb of God had been chosen to be led to the slaughter. Why this lamb had not been the only sacrifice. Why he’d ever allowed Matt, his Matt, to mark the finish line with his innocent blood.
He knew. Knew how likely it was that Kira’s bitch had a piece of the Death note on her. He knew the sort of opportunity he was handing her, wrapped up in a blanket.
He didn’t care.
There was nothing worth living for. Fighting for. All he had left was death, a bleak certainty that had overpowered the last light he had. Even if Mello could win, it would mean nothing. He could have his moment of triumph, that one brief instant of righteousness when Mello proved he was better than his rival, when he showed Near just how badly he had underestimated him. Mello would shine in that moment. But the moment wouldn’t last.
And that moment, that singular moment he’d worked towards his entire, pitiful life, would feel empty.
Because in that moment, Mello would stand alone.
More alone than he’d ever been, before crimson had shone like the sun and he knew what it was like to be warmed by another body, pressed up against his own. Before obsession had set in and he’d forgotten what should have been treasured because there was too little time left. For either of them.
Near would carry on. Near would win. Near would restore the world to its former semblance of normalcy and justice. Near would take on that revered letter and make it his own. Near would be the one to avenge their mentor. Their brother. And Mello. . .
Would stand aside.
Near could have his hollow victory. Near would defeat Kira, but Near would never live. He would never fight. He would never know what it was like to latch onto the last bits of strength you had just to survive, to crawl through the wreckage of your life because there was something more important than dying.
Near would never love with everything he had and more.
But even Mello would never know if that was any consolation.
Mello had lost. He had lost everything, and worse than that, he’d killed his Matt as surely as if he’d pulled the triggers himself. He and Matt would both be plunged into obscurity, their memories dying with their bodies, because the only ones to mourn them would have been each other.
They had deserved so much more.
For an instant, Mello wondered why the agony in his chest felt so real this time, the pain tearing through his heart and surging through his blood. Then the knowledge snapped into place.
He was dying. For the last time. He could have cried out in joy. Never again would he have to endure the anguish of being passed over. Never again would he have to push beyond his limits towards something he could never reach. Never again could his love fail to be enough.
Never. Never again. Whether it was heaven or hell or nothing that awaited, this, this empty life full of pain, broken up by shards of something almost akin to peace, was over.
Mello hoped for heaven. But though he clutched his blood stained rosary in his final moments, he didn’t beg for forgiveness. God knew everything and the judgment had already been made. But still, he hoped.
Because Mello was certain of one thing: If he could just reach that eternal bliss, he’d find Matt once more.
You had better be waiting, Matt. I'm not going to let you go, in life or death.
With blue eyes wide and blonde hair spilled over a tarnished steering wheel, Mihael Keehl breathed once more, the second, and the last, peaceful breath of this war.