Ow, man.

Matt knows that so-called sixth feeling, intuition, is a functioning tool in the hands of an intelligent person. L always used to follow his gut. Explaining it in more realistic terms, it's simply your subconscious noticing signs before they become obvious enough to be seen with the naked eye.

He's still hurt. A little.

He doesn't blame you, nor does he blame Mello. But it stings. His old friend from the orphanage, who he knows has much more charm than he does—more masculine, braver, dominant, smarter—stuck his nose into his first meaningful relationship (and perhaps any sort of relationship at all) and tried to make you, his lover, choose between them. He doesn't need to ask why—you're great, he has fallen for you, after all, so no wonder that another man or woman would. It was cruel, wasn't it? He would have taken it better if Mello tried to flirt with you in front of his face, because then he wouldn't need to overthink and doubt everyone, which he hates to do. But no, Mello was putting on an indifferent act whenever Matt mentioned you, yet the sly fox found his way to catch your attention when you were alone. Is it fair? Is it stealing? You haven't cheated, as far as he knew, as far as he hoped, and Mello seemed respectful (and quiet) enough not to overdo it. But it caused an unpleasant swirl in his chest to appear, oozing with all the insecurities he attempted to suppress throughout his whole life. He took third place, after all, and Mello was the second. Matt never cared about the ranking; however, the memory suddenly sticks to him like an old newspaper. He lives with variables and numbers—so if he had to calculate something, he wouldn't be the chosen one.

He doesn't want to lose Mello, but he feels like there's a pretty high chance of it. He doesn't want to lose you, but he feels like it's already happening. And he? He already lost himself.

"Hey." Matt greets you with a smile—not stretched high enough to be cheery. He's happy to see you, but it's now interrupted with sadness.

You're the only reason he started to get out in the sunlight more often—the buzzing of the busy streets wasn't his flow, but he likes to spend time with you and indulge in whatever little adventures you wish for. Naturally, his choice of a fancy restaurant is McDonald's, so he's already seated, the order is done by him, and your usual, preferred things are put in the list by him, so you wouldn't have to wait for too long.

"How was it?" He asks, not particularly about your day.

"Did you enjoy the ride with Mello? He has a good bike, doesn't he?"

He doesn't want to sound accusing—in fact, his tone is nothing but gentle. But God, if the words alone wouldn't make one's heart drop. He feels slightly nervous himself, if anything.