Mello thought the apartment was being bombed.
The sudden jolt that reverberated through the apartment startled him out of his sleep. He jumped, eyes barely open, and fell out of bed, landed against the hard wood flooring in a tangled web of sheets, bandages, and irritation. He choked on a gasp when the wood connected with his healing wounds, pain's bony fingers shooting through his side, his arm, his face, breaking past the points of injury to touch base with every inch of his body, and then recoiling back to the starting point. His body ached and throbbed as he forced himself to sit up with a strangled wince, his eyes scanning the room for any hint of intrusion.
The small bedroom showed no hint of invasion, nothing out of place. He expected to see fresh blood staining the sheets wrapped in a haphazard spiral around his legs, the doors busted off of the hinges, the sounds of gunfire returning to his ears after the months that had passed since the escape from his base. He expected for yakuza and police alike to be banging down the doors in search of him, delighted to finally find him in hiding, ready to kill him, to taste revenge.
But outside of the odd, rhythmic booms that resonated through the apartment, pounded against his skin through the floor, the only unwanted visitor in his bedroom was the sun, rays filtering in through the cracks in the blinds.
The red digits on the alarm clock atop the bedside table read 8:03, and Mello's stinging eyes reminded him that he should have been sleeping.
Something was amiss, one way or another, and the adrenaline pumping through Mello's body was enough to force himself up off of the ground despite the pulsing pain in his side. He kicked the sheets off of himself and wrapped his wounds back up in a quick, lazy fashion before tugging on a pair of pants, not bothering to button them as he crossed the room and snatched the gun off of the dresser, dangerous in the soft light amidst a portable gaming system. He flicked the safety off of his gun with his thumb and put his hand on the doorknob to his bedroom, heart pounding in nervous synchrony with the booms shooting through the floor. They didn't sound like gunshots, but the unknown origin of the sound made them threatening, dangerous in their own right.
And Matt was home, he was sure of it. It was his apartment, after all, dumpy and cheap, but acceptable for a man on the run. It wasn't as though the redhead went out often regardless, especially not so early in the morning. Which meant that if there were thugs prowling around the apartment in search of him, they would run into Matt first.
And more than likely, they would run into him with the blade of a knife.
The thought alone was enough to make Mello throw the door open and charge out of the bedroom. He walked down the hallway in brisk pace, uninjured arm fully extended, barrel of his gun seeming to pull him down the hallway and towards the living room, where the sound was originating. The pulsations underneath his bare feet strengthened the closer he got to the open entranceway into the room, but the booms became clearer as he approached, gave way to something else, something entirely different from what he had imagined.
The closer he got to the door, the clearer the sound of Japanese pop music, annoying and peppy, became. He pressed his back against the wall by the open doorway, and when he poked his head out, his growl was swallowed whole by the sound that had rocked him from his sleep.
The club-worthy bass of an obnoxious pop song.
Matt's back was to Mello, seeming microscopic against the canvas of the big screen television mounted on the wall. Animated characters bounced around on the screen, everything bright and happy, too much so for eight in the damn morning. Arrows washed up the screen like a raging river, each and every one caught in an outline, like a cookie cutter made just for the occasion, the word 'perfect' popping up every time. The pop song, in combination with the pounding bass and his stomping feet, caused the tremors that lurched through the house every half-second.
Had Mello not been seeing red, he might have noticed how Matt dancing to the peppy beat was dualistic in itself, just as he was, as they both were. He might have noticed how clumsy he looked as he stomped around the mash the arrows on the screen in rapid succession, yet graceful as the same time, body flowing and rolling in time with the tune, the entire image a picture of fluid motion.
But he paid it no mind as he stormed across the living room, gun swinging at his side like a pendulum, kicking over dead wireless controllers in his path, and came to loom at Matt's side. He glared, gaze sharp as daggers, as the man paid him no mind, as though he had really died in the explosion like everyone thought and was a ghost haunting him. Matt's eyes were fixed solely on the screen, goggles bouncing up and down against his chest as he moved, rolled his hips to meet the rapid arrows. His lips were slightly parted, breath expelling in small pants as he moved, his bangs sticking slightly to his forehead by the sweat he had worked up dancing, his hips never ceasing to rock to the beat as he danced.
Even in his rage, these were things Mello couldn't avoid noticing. He should have been used to it, his eyes travelling the other's form against his will, taking in every part of him until he forced himself to tear his gaze away. He should have been used to the thick tension between them that clogged the air, made it hard to breathe, hard to think, hard to resist. He should have been used to the undeniable attraction he felt to the redhead, the one he knew was reciprocated by the other, though he refused to accept it. He refused to accept the feelings crackling in the air between them, invisible yet so tangible, like static electricity that forced the two of them together.
The frustration of it combined with the aggravation at being woken up caused Mello's voice to come out in a harsh tone, and he didn't try to filter it. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Matt didn't tear his gaze away from the screen, didn't try to feign concern at Mello's anger. He was always angry. "I'm getting my last high score."
Mello remembered it now. A few days prior during lunch, Matt had babbled to him about something involving his video games. The man didn't usually talk with such enthusiasm, but he spent the bulk of their conversation rambling about DDR, about how he was just one song away from getting a triple A score on everything, from maxing out the game and claiming another triumph. Mello didn't pay it much mind at the time. He didn't really understand the other's obsession with video games, but if he wanted to win so badly at a video game, so be it. Mello knew a little something about a burning desire to be the best, to win.
But he didn't know Matt was going to seek out his victory at eight in the morning.
"You woke me up."
Matt's voice didn't fluctuate in tone as he danced, eyes on the arrows, not on Mello, never on Mello, that same disinterest injecting monotony into his tone. "Oops."
Kill him. Mello was going to kill him.
But not yet. He would savor it. He waited with his hands behind his back, watching as the song reached a crescendo, as Matt's pants quickened at the prospect of victory. It was so close he could taste it. With a grin stretching across his face, a rare expression as of late, Matt jumped into the air and landed down on the last two arrows with meaning, the last 'perfect' seeming to stay on the screen for an eternity. Matt wiggled in his excitement, barely able to contain himself as the score screen came up. He totaled over two hundreds perfects and nothing else, the score in the top right reeling as it tallied everything up. But Matt knew he had won. The letters reflected in his elated gaze as they rolled in quick succession through the ranks of letters, until he finally let out an ecstatic laugh as the double A rolled up, ready to roll over into that triple A he so craved.
Mello walked around the dance platform, almost whistling to himself, and crouched in front of the game system, the machine warm against his skin. He reached out and flicked the power button off, hearing the horrified gasp before he caught Matt's distraught, then enraged, reflection in the blank television.
He could barely talk, barely think, stammering in a confused tone as he stared at the blond in disbelief. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"What the hell does it look like I'm doing?" Mello stood at his full height and stared at the taller man, unafraid of him as he loomed over him from the platform. "I'm getting my last high score."
"You shut my game off!"
Mello smirked and leaned forward, voice monotonous and barely above a whisper. "Oops."
Kill him. Matt was going to kill him.
Mello only stared up at the other, amused by his expression, contorted by anger, eyes hard, jaw set. He set his gun on the scratched surface of the coffee table, a silent warning, before he tucked his hands into his pockets and cocked his head to the right, smirk still etched into his cheek, a silent challenge. It was starting, Mello knew, the little game they played. Mello would be triumphant, however. He usually was, his victories only faltering outside of Matt's gaze, when something he'd said would get under his skin. The two were like wolf pups, circling each other with words, ready to jump out and strike at the first chance they got. They would fight with their words until one fell silent or apologized, unable to take any more verbal damage, and the loser with the apology on their lips, pink and parted, was always Matt.
Mello didn't like to lose, even in verbal brawls with his best friend.
But Matt was ready to fight for his own chance to win. Mello could see it in the way he relaxed almost instantly, hooked his thumbs in his belt hoops, rolled his shoulders and let out a low sigh. He gave Mello one apathetic gaze before he hopped off of the platform and plopped back onto the couch, his feet up on the coffee table. He pulled a cigarette from his pack and tossed it back across the table, the pack sliding across the slick surface and stopping against Mello's gun. He pressed the cigarette between his lips and lit the end, the cherry glowing red as he took a long drag, then pulled the stick from his lips and blew smoke out in a long, wispy gust. As the smoke travelled to the air in tendrils, intertwining and vanishing near the ceiling, Matt's gaze followed them, travelled along the cracks in the plaster above.
"It's whatever, dude. I can just do it again later."
The first dart was thrown. Mello hummed, a low and heavy sound, taking in the other man's form, the lazy way he draped himself along the couch, one arm extending across the top of it, the other resting against the cushions. Mello leaned against the wall, not to be outdone in calmness, and crossed his arms over his chest. He watched the smoke drift up towards the ceiling, and had he not detested the act as much as he did, he might have mirrored him for emphasis.
"Can you?"
"Yep." Matt leaned back into the couch, eyes trained on the ceiling. "Play your cards right and we can even play a shooting game afterwards."
"We can play a shooting game now, if you want." Mello stepped off of the wall and grabbed his gun. Matt looked at him from the corners of his eyes then, eyes betraying no hint of nervousness, and watched as the other man crouched down and turned the gaming system on. It buzzed to life, the screen lit up, but Mello was more focused on the electronic sound of the disc sliding from the system. He pulled the DDR disc out between his thumb and his forefinger, leaving his fingerprints behind, and held the item up for inspection. Then, he tossed it into the air and aimed his pistol. A bullet shot straight through the middle, the force of it creating spider cracks extending through the middle, and when it hit the ground, it shattered into pieces.
Mello looked over his shoulder at Matt, he stared with his mouth agape in irritated awe at the pieces of disc on the floor. "You won't be playing that game later. It's annoying. And now you don't have the information, so you'd have to start from scratch, and I don't think you want to do that."
Matt shut his eyes and forced himself to calm down, not willing to lose their little game, not yet. Tranquility washed over his face as smoke filled his lungs, and he rested his head back against the cushion. He rolled the cigarette in his lip once, twice, and shrugged his shoulders. "That's not where the saved data is anyway, so, I'll just go buy a new disc and win like I planned."
Win. Ha. Mello would like to see him try.
He kicked the shattered disc out of his way and turned back around to face the game system. He watched it for just a moment, analyzing it, before he finally crouched down and pulled the memory card out. He wasn't sure what it was at first, but when Matt's eyes snapped over to him, he knew he had found the trump card. He knew he had won.
He looked over to Matt and smirked, waved the item in between them. "Can't win without this little baby, though, can you?"
Matt scoffed and took a long, heavy drag, then leaned forward and put his cigarette out in the ashtray, pressing down a little too hard. He didn't say anything in response to Mello, didn't even seem to breathe for a moment, gauging the other's next move. Mello only smirked wider and turned to face the pile of shards, arm gearing back to throw the memory card into the air.
"Wait!" Matt jumped up from the couch and all but lunged in front of Mello, reached up and grabbed the end of the memory card in his hand, his fingers lacing in between Mello's, the card in between their palms, keeping them apart, always apart, accentuating the awful edges where Mello ended and Matt began. He struggled in vain with the other man, his body pressed up against his, voice almost a whimper. "Mello, please. Please."
Mello paused in their struggle, feeling the other's fingers warm against his, both of them gloveless for once, feeling his body up against his, torsos rubbing, his whimpered pleas almost too much to bear. He stared at the other, remembered his flushed appearance from earlier in the morning, and tightened his grip on the memory card, getting Matt's attention.
"And why should I not deliver the same fate to this little one?" Mello spoke slow, each word heavy, deliberate. "You'll have to pardon me if I'm being a bit harsh. I didn't get much sleep last night. I'm a little cranky."
Matt pouted, trying to save as much dignity as he could, but to no avail. "Because I'm sorry."
Mello couldn't hide the smirk that worked its way onto his face. He crooned, a sarcastic, uncharacteristic sound, and loosened his grip just barely. "What was that?"
Matt gazed into his eyes, hardly three inches away from him, his words soft, hushed, pleading. "I'm sorry."
He had done it. He had won.
Mello let the other take his memory card back, but bent the other's finger in the process, another warning. "Wake me up again and I'll break all of your fingers. Then we'll see who plays games at eight in the morning."
"Well, even with broken fingers, I'll still play more games than you." Matt smiled just barely, playing, and in that moment, the thick air seemed to clear, made it easier to breathe again now that the victor had been declared. He looked down, a little bashful from their unintended contact, and stepped back, scratching behind his head in the process. "Hey, you want breakfast? It's my turn to make it."
Mello watched him, took in his form once more, before he nodded. In his anger, his hunger hadn't become apparent to him until that moment, at the prospect of food. Matt nodded back and tucked the memory card into his back pocket before crossing the small area between the living room and the kitchen. The apartment was small, cramped, inexpensive, yet Matt somehow found a way to cram expensive electronics into it. Mello still wasn't sure, after all these months, how the other managed to do it.
Nevertheless, Matt paid all of it no mind as he walked for the kitchen, hands in his pockets. "How do pancakes sound?"
"So long as you don't smoke over the food, it sounds good." Mello drilled holes into the other's back as he walked away. "Don't get any ashes in my food, got it?"
"No promises." Matt laughed and shook his head then, stopping before the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder at Mello, eyes a bit soft then, but that mischievous glint was forming amidst the green. "I'll make chocolate chip pancakes, just like you like. Okay?"
Then, he winked, and vanished into the kitchen, leaving Mello unable to answer. Not that he could even if he wanted to. The flirtatious gesture, whether it was intentional or not, had rendered him speechless. He sat back down on the couch and set his heels up on the coffee table, hands folded behind his head. He watched the empty television screen as he heard Matt rummaging around in the kitchen, the sound of bowls and spoons filling the empty void between them. As he waited for breakfast, soon inhaled the tantalizing scent of cooking chocolate, he delighted in his first victory of the day. He had won against Matt, hell, had made him beg for his loss. It had been a magical moment, one that filled him to the brim with pride. But as he stared at the pile of broken shards on the floor in the middle of the living room and remembered how upset Matt looked at the prospect of losing his file, his smirk slowly retreated until he was left frowning, and then scowling, unable to wallow in his victory. As much as he tried to relish in it, Matt's sad pout entered his mind and pushed the feeling away, replacing it with something bitter and filled with sorrow.
He had won. He had been the best in their verbal brawl, and he came out on top. But as much as he hated it, and it was happening with more and more frequency as of late, Matt's words, his expressions, even the tone of his voice had gotten under Mello's skin. He leaned back into the couch and crossed his arms, as though defending himself, and looked off towards the kitchen with a frown.
Perhaps he hadn't won after all.