Chapter Text
December 31, 2003
Knowing that my room and its furnishings once housed a murderer was unsettling. I couldn’t help but be extra cautious every time I opened a drawer, feeling the rough sandpaper-like underside in search of more engravings like the one under the desk, but nothing else turned up. It could’ve just been a coincidence, I’m sure plenty of other students of Wammy’s picked aliases that started with B, but something about the vexed hashing, the red marker, just clicked together with Mello’s retelling like a jigsaw puzzle. A satisfying snap as the strawberry jam-eating fien Beyond Birthday just so happened to carve similar letters in the chest of his first victim, all scabbed in red, red like the marker he outlined his wood engraving with. Two puzzle pieces. Click.
It was already daunting enough to know he wandered the same halls and had similar taste in condiments to me, but now learning that my room was his old one, seemed uncanny. I guess I should just count my blessings that I didn’t end up with the room A hanged himself in.
Besides the overhanging melancholy of my withheld information, today was filled with excitement and anticipation for Wammy’s students; what Roger called a once-in-a-blue-moon opportunity. The skies were clear of snow and we were invited to prowl the outdoor premises and stargaze as a linear comet was expected to pass by. In the meantime, Roger masked his restlessness with a happy expression as he told us this year was picked by L to create a time capsule, buried right in The Wammy’s House yard. We tried to ignore the fact that its implications suggested L’s uncertainty about his expected and long-awaited victory against Kira. Maybe that was L’s New Year’s Resolution, and if the case coming to a close helped the other successors be any less tense, then I guess it was mine too.
“Magic 8 Ball, Magic 8 Ball, am I gonna die of hypothermia tonight?” Matt asked, peering down at the shiny sphere clasped between reddened fingers. It didn’t quite make sense that he always wore fingerless gloves. Wasn’t the point of gloves in the first place to stay warm? He exhaled in a vapourous cloud and clicked his teeth. “It says ‘It is decidedly so.’ You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
The three of us snuck away from the rest of the group, shadows extending out across the snow-coated grass, white and crispy like it was freezer burnt, and just enough to cover the ground with some lone yellow dead grass blades peaking through, and brown decaying leaves in other spots. The weather was consistently wet and cold here, a monochromatic seal of grey hanging over Winchester, but whether we saw much snow varied. Some days, it was white and blizzarding, other days, the rain and lighter temperatures painted it back to November’s hue.
“Can you really trust an eight ball?” I laughed lightheartedly, and Matt quirked an eager brow, about to respond before Mello snapped an answer for him.
“Why don’t you ask the ball?” He yanked it from Matt’s grasp with tactile leather gloves and palmed its cool surface, then gave it a shake hard enough you could hear its inner mechanics. “It says, ‘Ask again later,’ ” Mello snickered, tossing the ball up in Matt’s direction who lunged to catch it as if it were a crackable egg.
“Great, Mels, now you made it shy,”
Matt and Mello’s contrasting appearances were lit by the bright streetlight above, casting artificial cool light across Matt’s goggles, tinting them green, and splayed across the beige sherpa of his denim jacket’s lapels; it bounced delicately off of the strands of Mello’s blond hair made lighter by the light, poking out from the hood on his jacket. Mello’s free hand ensnared his third mug of hot chocolate, steam wafting the warm, homey scent of cocoa through the air. It was a mystery how someone so chocolate-enthralled stayed so lithe, but I supposed he had the same metabolism as most of the other high-brain-powered students. He took another deep sip of the beverage, leaning back on his hands beside a cross-legged Matt, sure to have matching wet marks from where the snow missed their coats and seeped through their jeans. My backside was feeling numb and chilled already.
Roger then appeared with a large metal crate, bending his knees as he dropped it to the ground before fully lowering it, then placed a hand to his back and cracked it, grunting in demise.
“Gather around, children,” he huffed through a wincing inhale before Petra appeared beside him in her same black and white leopard print furry coat, whistling to get the lot’s attention. The three of us exchanged a brief look before sauntering over to meet the group, rosey faces illuminated by the clash of The Wammy’s House's warm exterior lamp posts and the cooling street lights. “I have been in contact with Quilish Wammy and have been notified of our orphanage’s long successful history-”
“Successful?” Mello guffawed, too soft to be heard besides the few around us. “As if A and B were so successful .”
“-Due to this, we have been asked to create a time capsule of what our time spent here at Wammy’s is all about.” Roger croaked, clearing his throat as his reddened nose threatened to sneeze again. He dug in his long grey peacoat’s pocket in search of a tissue, unearthed a previously used one, and as he unwrapped it, Simon spoke up.
“You can’t fit competition in a box,” he snarkily remarked, then shot his soulless eyes toward me. “Unless you’re suggesting we put our competition in that box?” As Simon’s eyes glanced over mine and his shark-like teeth made an appearance, Mello scowled and shoved me behind him with enough force to knock me off my feet entirely. I bumped into Matt’s lanky frame, whose hand immediately reached out to stabilize me.
Roger finished his nose blowing, a deflated trumpet-like hymn as he finally faced us again, expression a bit glazed over and weary.
“You will in no way be allowed to dedicate personal belongings to this box. Nothing that can be traced back to you, students will remain anonymous here at all times. Your utmost safety is our priority-”
“What are you putting in the box?” Matt asked, leaning close enough his warm breath tingled my ear, unaware it was so cold before his appearance.
“I’m not sure, maybe strawberry jam?” I returned, and he nodded supportively.
“Mels?” he asked.
“Chocolate.” he returned curtly, aquamarine eyes sharper under the harsh light, as he peered across the group, tucking a few steps away from where Roger stood, were Salem and Iza wearing matching cropped puffer coats, each in their signature colours of purple and pink, with suede fur-trimmed boots. They looked straight out of the teen’s clothing catalogue for this month, and it made me wonder how they managed to get their hands on so many trendy clothes in an orphanage.
“Hmm, but they’re both perishables. Won’t that get all mouldy?” Matt also appeared to be off in thought, though his body language was certainly more open than Mello’s was, as every chance he got, each time a gust of chilled wind blew misty flecks of loose snow from the ground, the brunette seemed to hover closer to me, so much so that the entire left side of my body was warm when in collision with his.
“Not my problem.” Mello tightly replied.
There were crunchy steps through the snow, and suddenly, another appeared in our group. Near, short and stout like a cherub, blending in perfectly with the snowscape aside from his blushed cheeks from the cold. He removed a hand from his pocket, then beneath a wool white mitten was a single finger puppet, made with tiny felt details and little black beaded eyes, shiny and spherical like Matt’s Magic 8 ball.
“I will be inputting one of my hand-crafted finger puppets.” Near reached his other - still mitten-clad hand - to his milky hair and attempted to twirl it, but faltered and lowered his arm in mild discomfort. “Puppets are representatives of youthful qualities in humans. Intricate and whimsical,”
“Kind of like you,” I responded softly, turning to look at him as did the others, Mello only for a second before he scoffed and turned his pointed nose elsewhere, and Matt as he glanced between us with an element of uncertainty, maybe even slight consternation. Near didn’t say anything. He was moments away from smiling his eerie cat-like grin when his grey eyes slipped down to the jar of jam I held, condensation marking the foggy glass, and his impassivity remained, robbed of expression as he kept whatever irked him to himself.
Momentarily, the orphans, in an orderly fashion, placed their goods into the metal crate, with Roger paying careful attention to what was brought, ensuring none of it incriminated us. Matt lagged behind, still searching for something to bury without much consideration, as he busied himself with the eight ball again. Mello had taken off after attempting to place his chocolate, off across the field with eager strides to where Salem and Iza stood whispering about something he clearly feared was about himself, as Dove made tentative strides toward me.
“Hi,” she whispered, ginger locks cascading beneath her white winter beanie as her buggy eyes flicked behind my shoulder to Near who stood within earshot, hand now removed from glove and twirling his hair. His gaze was unyielding, though not that of a laserbeam like Mello’s, his was more dangerously docile, like looking at a foreign species, an alien with owl-like features and child-like proportions. I bit my lip and turned back to Dove, side-stepping further away from Near.
She smiled uncomfortably, casting her eyes to the rest of the split-up successor group, then back at me, cool light reflecting off of the silver rims of her octagonal glasses.
“Are you ready for mid-terms?” she started meekly, speaking more than I’ve heard her in one consecutive time.
“No, I’m more focused on the end of Holiday break exams, right now,” I sighed, my hands finding my coat pockets without the purchase of the jam jar to hold, worming deep into the inner sleek fabric as they discovered a tiny hole.
“Right, I forgot about that. Successor stuff…” She offered a grin; she had a gap between her front two teeth, not large enough to be made fun of but prominent enough to make her smile distinct. “Well, I spoke to Roger yesterday…” She took a few calculated steps, the crunch beneath her cowboy boots echoing in the silence. “He says my performance is getting shaky. I used to get by on art being my best credit, but I guess my improvement has stunted compared to the other geniuses…” She laughed awkwardly, then looked back at me.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I responded tactfully, unsure of what else to say. Why was she confiding this news in me anyway? Sure, she seemed a bit left out from Iza and Salem’s intense bond, but I was sure she was closer to them than me. We only ever exchanged minimal words in the art room on Mello’s birthday.
“You’re a great artist, Y/N, and to be truthful, you’re the only successor I’m not entirely afraid of. I was wondering, after your holiday exams of course, if you wouldn’t mind taking some time to study with me? Even just once a week, or whenever you have time-”
“I’m not sure…” I drawled, teeth clenched in a straight-lined smile. “The workload has been increasing, Roger’s rules have been rigorous…”
Maybe this was exactly what I needed. Some time away from my room, away from B’s old belongings, away from Mello and Matt, who told the story without much concern, and away from Near, who seemed to be constantly scrutinizing me. Glaring at me every chance he got with eyes of feigned indifference. He was just peculiar, cold in a way that I couldn’t warm with simple understanding, and something I did, was doing, made him that way.
“We can study in the attic, a quiet place nobody knows about. I’m the only one with the key because I asked Roger to see the archives when I first came here considering my expertise in data collection. It’s off-limits, but it's the best place to hide away from the curfew.” She tilted her head, rocking hopefully on her heels as her gaze bore into mine, not with fear or misunderstanding, but an offering.
“Wammy’s has archives?” I questioned, a maelstrom of black and white case files plagued my mind, ones removed from the general public, ones of B. If I actually wanted to know more about him, what made him turn south from the others while in the same facility, maybe this was my chance.
Dove held the key up by the brown twine loop attached to its head and jingled it excitedly.
“Of course it does, and by the way, the key is yours. Roger was dumb enough that he didn’t think the first thing I did when he gave it to me was make a copy,”
I nodded slowly, reaching out to grab the key from her nimble fingers, then set my gaze on the glare across her glasses, fogging with each breath. I gave her a nod.
“We’ll start after holiday exams,”
The conversation ended and I went back toward Matt and Mello, gathered at the halfway point between the group of girls and where Near still stood, and Dove went back toward Salem and Iza who welcomed her with another mug of hot chocolate. I shivered and rubbed my hands together before placing them back in my coat pockets, the right was now notably heavier, and colder thanks to the frigid temperature of the brass key.
“I guess someone won’t be getting a New Year’s kiss!” Matt teased, snickering at Mello’s demise after having officially been dumped by Salem. He currently had his arms crossed and eyes peered peevishly elsewhere.
“Why don’t you put your brain in the time capsule? It's not like you use it.” Mello growled in return and Matt hummed, throwing an arm around the blond who dodged it instantly, leaving it to fall limply by his side with a swoosh .
“Lemme see, Magic 8 ball, will I be gifted with a New Year’s kiss at the stroke of midnight?” Matt shook the ball with enough vigour that his whole body vibrated, and Mello smirked as he looked over at the result, icy eyes flashing.
“All signs point to no,”
“Oh c’mon, let me reroll. I didn’t say Magic 8 ball twice-”
“Oh yeah, 'cause repeating Magic Eight Ball will help you get a girlfriend,” Mello wryly smiled, tone laced with sarcasm as he suddenly noticed I was standing on the other side of Matt. He swallowed thickly and elbowed the taller brunette, clearing his throat. “Newbie,” Mello nodded before instantly trudging back through the crowd.
Matt’s green eyes widened and he turned his sudden fear into feigned excitement, going to speak but nothing came out of his larynx but a dry rasp. He licked his dry winter lips, put on his usual charismatic toothy smile, and slipped the Eight Ball back into his pocket.
Before I could greet him, a bright cluster of light streaked across the sky, painting the violet night with white light and a gentle blue chemtrail following it. Our pupils constricted on demand as all of the orphans gazed up in awe, pink mouths agape, eyes twinkling as a newfound silence encapsulated the schoolyard. Matt shuffled beside me in a cumbersome manner on the crispy snow-coated grass, his doodle-toed Converse caps ruffled the frosty blades, smearing the ink and letting it run over the edges. Instantaneously, the church bells rung loud and plentiful from the cathedral, its silhouette encased in gothic shadow as The Wammy’s House welcomed in the New Year. It was the stroke of midnight, and somebody, somewhere else, was watching the same comet we were, outside of the iron gated property of the orphanage, maybe in another part of England entirely. Free.
I glanced over my shoulder as Matt removed his hands from his denim jacket’s pockets and rubbed his fingertips together, blowing on them with warm air. Mello had gone elsewhere, likely back inside as many other orphans did, ready to head to bed or get a handle on their assigned homework before the break ended. Matt and I were alone now.
He looked over to me slow and indolent, as his eyes traced down to my lips momentarily. I licked them self-consciously, afraid they’d been chapped from the cold, but he only turned away crestfallen yet again.
“Whatdidya wish for… on the comet?” Matt suddenly whispered softly.
“I don’t think you wish on comets, I think that’s for shooting stars,” I answered with a meek giggle. He nodded and shrugged, smile gleaming wide. I could feel his warmth from his breaths, he was standing so close to me now.
“Still. Didya make a wish? I did.”
“What did you wish for?”
“Can’t tell, then it won’t come true,” Matt’s grin stretched his freckles, folding his dimples and even gave the otherwise slender tip of his nose to scrunch slightly. I glanced up at him, eyes tracing his features as he did mine. He was leaning closer, I was leaning closer, profiles lit by the moonlight and the gentle serenade of wind through branches. He curiously, chastely dragged his gaze down to my lips again, when suddenly…
“Last call for placing your belongings in the time capsule!” Petra yelled with her lofty accent, cupping her hands with fuchsia mittens. Matt slunk backwards, making the earlier intimate closeness feel imaginary, as he clicked his tongue and sighed.
“Suppose I better go put something in it. It’d be nice to be a part of history.”
January 12, 2004
As hazy dusk sucked up the vibrant reflections from the snow outside, The Wammy’s House corridors remained still and lifeless, like underground tunnels or catacombs. The classrooms passed, and the lavender-grey sky caressed the world beneath, making the desks ahead sepia-toned. The Hallway night lights had not yet come on, and it was the time arranged a few times before that I would meet Dove in the attic for our study session. In ill light, when the trapdoor hid among a grid-like lattice ceiling decal, in the West wing kitty-corner to the library came down, it lit my nerves with anxious anticipation.
The wooden ladder was beige and dusty, sure to give splinters if you gripped too hard, but folded out like a Murphy bed, study and architecturally sound. Dove crouched at the top, ginger hair and ovular face poking out from the hole like a squirrel in its burrow as she helped me up into the attic, then brushed the dust from her nylon tights. She lit a candle, then another one, filling the room with a fiery hue, and letting untrusting shadows caress the rest.
The attic had a gable roof, and when occupied during the rain, it sounded like a thousand tiny plastic beads were bouncing on concrete, but tonight the attic was silent.
“I started without you, thought I’d brush up on mathematics, considering the light’s too frail for painting.” she hummed softly. Her fingers turned the page of her textbook, and my eyes scanned the lone boxy cabinets and microfiche in the corner, purposely kept away from the others because what was kept inside of it was only for private eyes to see - that and the basket of old yearbooks beneath it, torn and frayed at the edges, waterstained. The longer we spent studying, the more enticing the old archives looked. But I couldn’t just dig through them without an explanation, and I didn’t have much time up here without Dove.
“I brought you my notes,” I turned them over to her, all colour-coded with doodled diagrams in the margins. “Only for Math, Art and Chemistry.” Dove wasn’t in the rest of my classes, these were classes for the higher-ranking students, mainly successors and a few close to the top, like Simon, for example.
“Thanks,” She smiled as she took the paper and placed it next to her notebook of notes, comparing the two. “I appreciate you making time to study with me, I bet you have a lot of work of your own.”
“Yes, but it's fine. I spend most of my time outside of class studying with Matt and Mello anyway.” I pulled the cap off of my highlighter and secured it to the end before highlighting a few passages of my own, jotting down notes with loud strokes in the silence of the room.
“You seem to talk to them a lot, I’m surprised you got so close with them.”
I tucked a strand of hair behind my shoulder - a habit that Near apparently discovered I picked up from Salem and looked back up to Dove.
“It was intended that way. That’s what Roger said, at least,” I highlighted another few words and sighed, putting the cap back on the marker as I watched the candle flicker between us, dancing with the breeze that rattled through the attic’s roof with a whistle. “Sometimes I think about what L said on Halloween. ‘They seek friendship though they do not know how to love.’ I wonder what he meant by it.”
“You’re worried you feel this way, or that Matt and Mello do?” she countered, looking up to meet my gaze. She had this tick, this little gesture she did where she scrunched her nose to move her glasses, and when she went to do it, I copied her wordlessly, unconsciously, like a mirrored image. She blinked suddenly after a beat of silence, and I had realized I had been late to reply again.
“I am worried that, in time, everyone will feel that way. This place catered to geniuses of intellectual merit, with no favour for emotion. Matt said something like that once, that they were trying for a needle in a haystack, another L. But the pressure wasn’t making diamonds anymore it was just making…”
Killers, I wanted to say. Cold-hearted machines? Detectives built to serve the world’s purpose, cut from one dying tree only to be spliced with another. The candle flickered again, dodging imaginary hands as it bent and conformed like the rest of us.
“I don’t think so,” Dove responded shyly, tucked back into her usual mousy nature.
“I know so,” I responded eagerly, the story of B just on the tip of my tongue as my teeth bit it back and prevented me from saying it. I studied her silently, the way Near had done with me, watching her write in long loopy letters, watching her highlight in chartreuse, hearing her boots shuffle on the uneven grime-coated floorboards beneath the table. I sighed heavily, biting the white crescent of my thumbnail in trepidation. “If I tell you something, you have to promise to never repeat this information to anyone, no matter who asks.”
Dove looked up and set her pencil down, s-shaped reddened brows furrowing on command, I leaned closer, nearer to the candle that engulfed my features in warm light, amplifying every curve in what looked to be madness.
“I’m going to tell you the story of B,”
“Mels?” Matt asked, not peering away from the screen as a go-kart filled with two mythical characters was travelling down a road illuminated by rainbows. “Mels? Hurry up and throw the damn banana peel already we’re in fourth place!”
“Twelve FBI agents were killed by Kira,” Mello dryly returned, snapping off a piece of chocolate from its foil wrapper as his other hand held out another newspaper, crinkled as much as the last, while his game controller sat unattended in his lap. Matt responded with a huff and another symphony of dedicated clicking buttons before his cart spun on the track, having been hit by someone else’s arsenal. Matt finally brought himself to give the blond a gander, then did a quick double-take.
“Where do you keep getting these newspapers from anyway?”
“Petra always has a copy; I take it when I leave.” Another snap of the chocolate as it bit at it in a way that would make most dentists grimace.
“Well, maybe ya’ shouldn't,” Matt returned with a tone unusually laced with annoyance and Mello only rolled his eyes and set the paper aside, picking up the controller as he scarfed down the rest of his third chocolate bar.
“You’re the last person that can judge me for stealing , Matt. Anyway, I like to stay informed,”
Matt gave Mello a long look, even after the blond picked up his controller and resumed the game. Between their constant easily provoked arguments, Mello’s obsession with his ranking and if the scattered chocolate bar wrappers were any consolation, Matt was definitely undeniably sure that something was going on with Mello. He just wasn’t sure what.