Mello's POV. Experimentation in writing style.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing at all.

I am home.

You are here.

I am home and you are here and immediately I lose myself in your arms, and I feel like maybe, maybe this time I am really home. Even though this place is not home, no place has ever been home; not where I was born, not Wammy's, and certainly not here. Never here, this dingy apartment with the stained carpet and the noise that never stops, even at night, and the bitter- never sweet- memories that don't belong to us.

But it doesn't matter because this not-home is barely a ghost of a memory as I bury my head in the gentle curve of your neck. You sigh and I wonder if it's because you know this softness, this sweet moment cannot last, could never last under the reality of us. But just for this moment, when my breath is hot on your neck and we're both just imagining lives that never happened, we can pretend that it will be different this time.

It won't be- different, that is. This is our routine, our old song and dance, that we memorized because the world outside forced us to. I don't know if I want you, or if you want me, but each other is what we have. And it's our job to keep each other sane because we are children; children for God's sake! And this responsibility has been pushed on us since birth. To be better, to be smarter, and to be ruthless and heartless, and they have done a good job- because that is what we are.

In that same callous way that everything else in our lives is done, the material that covers your vulnerable chest is clawed aside. Hair is yanked up and out of its roots, and I'm not sure if it was yours or mine, but for the moment, I don't really care because I'm imagining what it will look like after. When our hair is splayed out on white cotton and mixing together because we are laying so close- but never close enough to fill the gap- blonde shot through with red like blood.

Except maybe it isn't just your hair mixing with mine, maybe it is blood. Because I have killed today, just as I killed yesterday, and I will kill again tomorrow. So why wouldn't there be blood on me? There should be, but I'm too numb to notice. Maybe you notice, but you never say anything.

I imagine for a moment as my own shirt is pushed up and over my head that you can see right through me. That you are looking through the skin, the bone, the muscles and tendons, the blood and cartilage and the complicated, beating mess that classifies me as living- even though I'm not. Do you notice anything missing? I have always wondered if you do, because I don't feel human. In my mind, there are gaping holes where my heart and brain and conscience should be, and I hope to God there are, because then I have my excuse. My excuse for what I've done.

More and more is pushed away until at last we are naked and bare to the world. And for a moment, I believe that it's not just cloth that has been pushed away, but layers of ourselves. And when these layers are gone, we are both exposed at the core- that secret places that makes us who and what we are. There should be shame, but there is none, because you and I are so very similar. We are both made of sin, both people who shouldn't be allowed to exist. But we do.

And now we are at the bed, on the bed, and I lose myself in an entirely different way. We are exploring hidden places, but there is no mystery in them- not for us, not anymore. Our lips have not met yet, nor will they meet. That would imply feelings that are not there- and we cannot have those non-feelings destroying what we have right here and now.

You and I have an understanding; we have had this understanding for years. There is no love, no personal feelings tied up in what we are doing. Sometimes I wish I could say it was purely a physical need but that's not true. It surpassed fulfilling a want a long time ago and became a necessity. During the day I am a killer, a thief, a monster with no conscience, but at night I am no one because I am lost in you.

And that is what I need the most- to be no one. To disappear.

It takes skill, but losing yourself in another person is an art form. And I, Mihael Keehl, Mello, am the world's most practiced artist.

Reviews? Let me know what you think of my experiment in writing style.

Beta-ed by: Emo-Nerdy-Insane-Writer