M for language. Bear with me, this is a leap of faith.
"Matt? Matt? You hung up on me?" After one last disgruntled bark into his phone, Mello tosses it in the mud. He breathes a sigh before returning to the totaled vehicle.
Bet he didn't realize his car was the one I crashed. After nervously running his fingers through his blonde locks for a third time, he glances down at the muddy phone. "Crap." Grunting as he leans over the puddle, Mello picks up the phone and pockets it for another day. Another day, another argument. His last chance to make amends as shattered as the car's windshield.
Stopping to recall what had happened, Mello can only run his fingers over his own vodka-stained lips. Yes, there was drinking involved; yes, he was bleeding. Leaning over the wreckage, he finds the shattered remains of a bottle of Kauffman. He realizes then that this time, he really has fucked up, and gentle, forgiving Matt won't let him back in the house.
As for now, Mello has fines to pay for the stop sign he flattened, phone calls to make to more mechanically-inclined acquaintances, and a ghost of a relationship to repair.
…
Matt lays down the phone on the dirty kitchen counter. His breath hitches. Raking his trembling hands through the still-wet mop of hair on his head, he lets out the few short sobs crawling up from his stomach. Something hasn't been right lately. With Mello, things were never right – but now he knows that something is seriously wrong.
Clearing his mind, he slides on thick plastic gloves and scrubs down Mello's vomit. Blood and tears and alcohol have stained the counter, and Matt would gladly inhale the ammonia he's using to tidy up. It was his apartment, his booze, and his party that left it contaminated. Mello has never been under this illusion.
As much as Mello would like to believe that Matt is his bitch, his slave, his assistant, Matt denies that any of this is true. Matt hasn't felt any affection for his best friend since he started drinking. Eye contact is impossible now, and Matt realizes that he needs to break it off soon. He doesn't have the heart.
…
Resting on the curb, Mello starts to hum an old Zeppelin song – something he'll only do when he's nervous. He can feel yesterday's mistakes seeping out of his bloodstream and into his brain. His head hurts like nothing else, and all he needs is a few more shots and he'll be numb again; a few more swigs and it'll be okay, with girls surrounding him left and right and no car to worry about. But Matt keeps a dry car in case the cops pull him over, and Mello can't pry open the glove box anyway. His knuckles are bleeding from when he punched the car in frustration. His fingers will probably be crooked when they heal, but hey, he thinks, this could be worse. It could be my head that's bleeding.
That's when he remembers. He hops up from his seat on the curb (not helping his headache) and kicks in the back car door. Near's still passed out, sprawled across the seats like the sleeping child that he is. Mello scoffs at this display of immaturity. "Dipshit! Wake the fuck up!"
Before he can shake him up, Near is groaning and rubbing his head, complaining about the sleep he didn't get.
Not the best I've written, but I have ideas for future chapters. I will graciously accept any offers to beta this because, quite frankly, something doesn't feel right.