A/N: Avolition is defined as "a psychological state characterized by general lack of drive to perform activities or pursue meaningful goals." Chapter 1 in a series of drabbles centering around our favorite Wammy Boys and the demons they live with day by day.
I don't want to do anything today.
The hum of the laptop computer lulled the young man in and out of sleep, the dim rays of sunlight filtering past the blinds into the dingy apartment. The ceiling fan overhead creaked with each unsteady rotation.
I need to do things.
He turned his head, staring dully at the numbers flashing on the bedside alarm clock: 1:24 PM. The first time he looked, it was 9:27 AM.
I'm going to get up now.
He rolled onto his side, the world tilting with him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He stared at a patch on the wall, a distasteful faded rosebud nestled in a nicotine-stained wallpaper pattern.
It's too bright in here.
His cell phone rang. He glanced at the side table, the name "He-Man" plastered on the caller ID. Mello. He watched as it transferred to voicemail, the Missed Call sign glaring angrily beside the timestamp, 2:10 PM.
Maybe I can sit in the living room. I think my game is still paused. What was I playing?
His eyes darted to the ceiling fan, watching the lopsided blades swoop around again and again. Dust motes floated in the streaming sunlight.
Too fucking bright.
He let his arm dangle over the edge of the bare mattress, fingertips brushing the floor. He hooked his thumb around the strap of his goggles. He rolled over, shoving the goggles over his eyes, breathing in relief as the world became orange-tinted and less harsh on the eyes.
Mario Kart 7. That's what I was playing.
The phone rang again. Matt reached out this time and grabbed it. He stared at the cool plastic in his hand, "He-Man" and "3 Missed Calls" plastered all over the screen.
"Hello?"
He barely recognized his own voice. It sounded hollow, distant. He watched the ceiling fan until he realized that Mello was talking.
"Sorry, repeat that?"
"I said, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Mello's voice said impatiently. "I've called a hundred times. I need those fucking files, Matt. Quit being a useless git and finish your damn job, you arsehole."
"'Kay," Matt said. He sat up in bed, resting against the stained wallpaper, one sock scrunched around his toes. He didn't bother fixing it.
"That's all you can say? You absolute dickwad. Do you realize what's at stake, Matt? This could mean the difference between catching Kira, or getting killed. I need the fucking files, right the fuck now. Do you have them, or don't you?"
"Yeah," Matt said. He blinked, watching the doorknob. Beyond that door was the living room, where his computer systems and video game systems lay in a tangled mass on the carpet. Empty cans and cigarette butts. Burnt-out matches.
"Yes you do, or yes you don't?" Mello's voice sounded far away. An echo, like chatting from different platforms of the underground station.
I need to do things.
"I know," Matt said. He glanced at his empty cigarette carton. The corner shop was less than a block away.
I don't want to do anything today.
"…f you can't get it done, I'll hire someone else, you fucking arse! Do you hear me? I phoned you because I thought you could handle it, but apparently I placed my trust in the wrong fucking person."
"'m sorry," Matt mumbled.
The silence on the other line nearly let him space out, until Mello's voice came very quietly at his ear.
"Matt, I need you."
The ceiling fan squeaked.
Sorry.