Fandom: Death Note
Word Count: 571
Warnings: NONE WHATSOEVER
Summary: Matt has learned more at Wammy's House than he knows.
Author's Note: lol this one is so sweet and harmless
When Matt first arrives at Wammy’s, he doesn’t leave the house for three full days.
He has his DS. It’s okay. DS; okay. Synonyms.
The first night, he explores the whole of the place in sockfeet, by the light of the cell phone he’d immediately been given, and promptly finds the cabinet in the kitchen where Roger keeps spare batteries. He takes a few double-As for the next time his DS runs out of juice—which it will, inevitably, though it’s a darn sturdy little machine. Reliable.
He has his DS. He’s okay.
By the third day, of course, they have arranged his schedule with the tutors and set up all his subjects, integrated him into their system of learning, tailored as it is to the quixotic and over-intelligent. He’s quixotic—at least a little. His mind doesn’t work the same way as people’s do Outside. That’s why he’s here.
He still has his DS in his book-bag when the cook’s niece, who is fresh-faced and a little too blunt to crush on, entices him into the kitchen for cookies and milk. He looks up at her, through the lens-barrier of his round glasses, and hopes that she doesn’t want to talk about it.
She doesn’t ask him to.
She deals with all the others, too; she must know the drill. She must know when to ask and when to let the cookies say it all.
So it’s okay.
But the third day, after he’s dutifully seen the tutors and told them the things they want to hear, Mr. Wammy knocks on the bedroom door and wants to know if Matt has a bit of time.
Matt doesn’t trust him.
Mail doesn’t want to be alone.
Wammy lets him bring his backpack. The old man leads the way down the stairs and out—out into the sun, the brightness, the garden.
Wammy teaches him how to distribute vegetable seeds and how to ease the flowers, which come half-grown, out of the plastic packages where they cluster like eggs in a carton, and their heavy heads sway as Matt lifts them one by one. Wammy teaches him how to loosen their roots, how to set them apart in spade-hollowed holes, how to pat the dirt down around them—how to bury the parts below, behind; how to hide the source so that only the beauty shows.
When you just have the seeds, though, you have to wait. Those will be beautiful, too—later. You have to have patience. You have to give them time to figure out what to hide and what to let the world see.
There’s dirt streaked up and down Matt’s hands, smudged on his nose, smeared on his glasses. There’s dirt on Mr. Wammy’s glasses, too, and they look down at their work and shake earthy hands. Wammy’s grip is warm and firm but gentle, like the sun beating on Matt’s back.
And this, too, is okay.
He forgets who fought in some of the wars, forgets what the formulas for conic sections are—but he remembers how to love something unresponsive until the flower blooms.
He runs one finger down Mello’s unmoving hand, tracing winding trails, imagining they’re left by sweet, rich soil that smells like renewal. Like hope.
He strokes gold strands away from the gauze, disentangling them, cautious but not anxious, because it’s okay.
Mr. Wammy taught him that you have to wait.