Drywall
Anger.
Frustration.
It would build up and then be released in one harsh blow, his knuckles left stinging from the impact.
His past, Wammy's, always being second to Near, leaving Matt behind, the mafia, Kira, his sins—Hell, sometimes even his religion pissed him off; and just one look into dark blue eyes made him snap. One word from nicotine-stained lips and he would lose his cool; emotions he kept in check would flood to the surface and break through, threatening to crush him under their weight. Something about the redhead always set him off. Later, he would accuse the other boy of pushing his buttons deliberately, and at best he would get a shrug and an indifferent "maybe" before things returned to normal—or as normal as they could be.
This time was no different as Mello clenched his teeth, turned on his heel, and lashed out with a fist. His knuckles connected with the drywall, and, for a moment, he felt nothing but the sweet satisfaction of hitting something. Then the pain exploded sharply through his hand and laced up his forearm. Shit. He let his arm fall back to his side as he seethed, leaving a small stain of crimson on the dingy, white gypsum.
He knew it was broken and it hurt like Hell, but...
Fuck.
Hitting Matt would have hurt even more.
Author's Note: I'm not overly happy with this, but I just needed to write. As always, reviews are welcome, but I don't need flames as I'm already warm enough, thank you.