Always crossposted Goodknight on AO3. Pushing the envelope with the M rating to flex on nobody

Nietzsche argued that religion breeds weak Men because he had never seen Mello – disgraced journalist for the German Press, somewhat of a wanted man, and aesthetic catholic - browbeat a complete stranger into telling him what he wanted to hear. In Matt's opinion, Mello's power of interrogation was the most fearsome force in all the world.

Matt had been enjoying a beer, Mello's hand on his thigh, and the sun over the Karwendel Alps in the passenger seat of the car before they'd pulled up to a rural OMV where there was a gas station attendant who knew a guy, according to a guy. He was slouching around the pumps in a cotton shirt and a nametag that confirmed him to be their man: Eddi Fischer.

'We heard you saw them.' Mello needled, while Matt swung his legs out and put a cigarette in his mouth. 'Back in April.'

'Who told you that?' The attendant parried. He had a schwäbisch accent and only eight fingers. He looked at Matt and at the car like he'd never seen wheels before. Matt really didn't want him washing the windows of the Camaro, but it was on that pretense that Mello had drawn him over to talk to them.

'You brag enough, I hear about it eventually.' Mello said smoothly.

Matt liked to watch Mello hound innocents – Mello's brute force method was funny when you weren't the one squirming - but he liked smoking, too, so he stepped out of earshot to light up. One cigarette, a stop at the washroom, and the purchase of a red bull later, and Matt returned to the car in time to witness Mello getting up in Eddi Fischer's face.

'Get me a date. Get me a time. Get me a fuckin' location.' Mello was demanding in a dangerous timbre.

'I don't know anything.' The attendant insisted. 'I only saw the one time; I can't talk to you about it. We just got lucky. I don't know anybody in it.'

'How was it structured? How does the location get out? How do they choose where to run it?' Mello pressed. 'Matt,' he added in Czech, 'you're supposed to be recording.'

'I seriously don't know. Be lucky.' Eddi insisted. Matt wasn't sure what about the conversation Mello thought would be good worth preserving, but he took his phone out just to appease him. Travelling with Mello was an exercise in taping and then deleting what he'd taped.

'You're gonna have to seriously give me somethin' to go on, or I'm gonna be sittin' here until you get off work. Then we'll be having an entirely different kinda talk.'

'Jesus.' Matt cut in. 'I do not have the patience for that.'

Mello had promised him they'd be back home in Augsburg by the weekend. Mello wasn't even supposed to be hunting stories. He was supposed to be in court on Monday.

'You can try asking the cops when I call them.' Eddi suggested, pushing at Mello's encroaching chest.

'Touch me again.' Mello hissed.

Eddi shoved him.

Mello decked Eddi so hard his head snapped back and forth like a spring, which was exactly the sort of thing that had gotten Mello fired from his job at the newspaper.

Maybe a good boyfriend was supposed to intervene, but Matt preferred to watch with loving interest while Mello ducked away from Eddi's enraged charge, opened one of the doors of the Camaro, and let Eddi run into it. Mello was so capable. It was a shame the law didn't see him the way Matt did: as the superhero of investigative journalism, the unstoppable force against which the unmovable crime object met it's match.

'We won't get anything helpful from this idiot.' Mello decided, watching Eddi scramble up off the ground with gravel in his palms.

'Sorry to hear that.' Matt said. 'I'll drive for a bit.'

Mello nodded and stalked around to the passenger's side.

'I don't think the police would help either of us at this point. Agree?' Matt asked Eddi, who had just come back from taking a lap around the parking lot to kick rocks and swear.

'Pig fucker.' Eddi replied, spitting with impressive force on his own shoe.

'You probably shouldn't be picking fights.' Matt said reasonably. He got behind the wheel, turned the key. The windshield was streaky.

'At least we know we're close.' Mello said as they pulled out, taking Matt's phone out of the cupholder where he'd tossed it to scrub over the vague video of the horizon narrated by the sound of Eddi's nose crunching. 'How far do you think Eddi is willing to drive at 5am to watch a horse race?'

'If he didn't stumble on it drunk after a night out, I'll spit on my shoe.' Matt said.

Mello tapped 'diskothek' into the GPS.

'Or a friend's place, I guess.' Matt added. 'So any residential area within 25km.'

'We'll start around the bars. And I'd rather not knock on doors.' He leant his back on the headrest and rolled his eyes up. 'Fuck. That was our only real lead.'

'I'm sort of impressed. Everyone in Austria can sure keep a secret.'

Mello nodded. 'All of Europe's protecting the fuckin' Mafia.' His hand was back on Matt's thigh, squeezing every other word. 'You want head?'

'I don't want to crash the car.'

'Course you don't.'

'But I guess it's not busy.'

'You don't need your full attention just to drive in a straight line.'

'I think technically you do, but... I mean, go for it, sure.'

'Encouraging, Matt, thanks.' Mello shoved his hand down the front of Matt's jeans, anyway, a little rough. 'You're unique, you know that?'

'Yes, because you tell me.' Matt just kept his hands on 10 and 4. 'Isn't there hand cream in the glovebox? Jeez.' Mello had the coldest hands of anyone he'd ever met. Not that anyone else had touched his dick much.

'Is there?' Mello didn't check. 'Put up with it for a second. Whiny bitch.'

Matt put up with it for the one second it took Mello to bend over, and then lost a significant amount of the indignation that had risen up at the insult - but not all of it - when Mello closed his lips around his cock. Emboldened by Mello's inability to reciprocate verbally, he let him know that he was a bit of a mean twat sometimes, and followed that up by saying 'Oh, Jesus you're the best, though.' It was his habit to talk too much when his emotions were high, and he was embarrassed to be one of those people who feel mushy about sex. On average, he would prefer to call Mello, with whom he had been in a committed relationship for almost 7 years, "dude" over "Schatz" or "Baby"; but when Mello's hands were pushing his thighs open, he was suddenly a coherent thought away from proposing.

'You flatter me.' Mello said, after he'd spit out the window.

'Bad for the environment.' Matt mumbled. He'd caught a glimpse of his own beat red face in the rear view mirror and felt properly ashamed of himself. Mello looked like nothing had happened. His hair wasn't even messy, and Matt's somehow was.

'Not really.' Mello shrugged. 'I'm gonna fuck you in the backseat.'

'Fair enough.' Matt agreed. 'That was sort of badass, actually. Maybe we could just switch spots. I'll give it a try.'

Mello looked amused. 'Next gas station, then.'

'Yup.' Matt punched the cigarette lighter. 'Do you think that blue car saw? When it passed us?'

'I couldn't give less of a fuck, Matt.' Mello was looking at his phone again, casual. 'I have a contact who thinks about 30% of the local hay from his neighbours in Niederbayern is coming into this city. These horses are being stabled in residential buildings.'

'Sure, why not.' Matt didn't know anything about farming except that he preferred animals to stay outside and a good couple arm lengths away from him, at the very least.

'How do you hide a 1000lb racehorse in an alley?' Mello mulled. 'People have to be seeing them. They can't just be standing around all day. Where do they train? Where do they dispose of the dead?'

'Rubbish bin.' Matt suggested.

'I need to find the fucking money.' Mello complained, ignoring Matt. 'I want to look for people with trailers, people with lorries, anyone who might be transporting horses between race locations.'

'I can do that.' Matt offered. 'Easy enough to find the registered ones.'

'I don't want to be too suspicious and call around... but I think I could pass as an involved party and see who's hiring out their vehicles if you get me phone numbers. We'll visit the casino, too. There's bound to be overlap between legal gamblers and illegal ones.'

'But we'll be home by Monday.' Matt said, looking sidelong at Mello's determined expression. 'Yes?'

'Eyes on the road, Matt.'

'Right.'

'I know when my own fucking court date is.'

'Right.'

'This is more important than that bullshit, anyway.'

'Right.' They'd turned off the main road and were rumbling over the narrow, curvy streets of a grey town. A club called Knast was at the end of the street, sitting squatly between a clothing shop and a large unmarked beige building with four separate staircases, the first of four clubs in the area that sold alcohol after 2am. 'This place is definitely not open yet.'

'No, I just want to drive around the district.' Mello said, sounding a little put out.

Matt took the hand that had returned to it's usual place on his thigh for a moment and squeezed it. 'Hey, we'll get to a gas station soon.'

Mello snorted, and then frowned again. 'I hate wasting time,' he said. 'I've been going in circles on this story since February.'

Frustration wore on Mello. Failure made him certifiable. Repeated failure made him preternaturally frightening and very, very attractive. 'Is that a gas station?' Matt wondered aloud, putting an arm out to push Mello against his seat and get a look down a side street. 'Nope. Damn.'

'You made me drop the phone.' Mello snapped, shoving at Matt's arm.

'Sorry.'

'Take this seriously.'

'Sure.' Matt nodded. 'Hypocrite and you started it and it's your fault, but yeah, I will.'

Matt wasn't expecting to find anything driving around aimlessly in the middle of the day, and he doubted Mello was hopeful either. They stopped for kebap in the early afternoon, where Mello tried to weedle something useful out of the owner and his acne-covered son, but neither had much to say except that they went to bed early and had never seen anything ever, in all their lives. Mello looked pissed off and disbelieving, but when Matt went to snoop around behind the shop on the pretext of getting lost on the way to wash his hands, he was greeted by a toddler behind a baby gate in the hall beyond the bathroom who looked like she wasn't about to let anyone have fun past 7pm.

'Maybe Fischer was visiting some other town when he saw your races.' Matt suggested, sitting back down across from Mello. 'We don't have to find these things today, anyway.'

'You think I'll be better off researching this behind bars?'

'Well, no -'

'Then we do.'

'You actually think you'll get charged?'

'Yeah.'

'Maybe I'm biased, but I don't think you deserve that.'

'You're biased.'

Officially, Mello had "caused bodily harm". Unofficially, the dude he'd brawled with had been being a total cunt and was a squealer who should have kept his mouth shut after Mello punctuated an interview-gone-wrong by breaking his teeth with his knee. Matt had heard about it all secondhand, mostly in growls and with the frequent interruption of Mello banging some available surface like a table or wall while he stormed about their apartment, and then not heard much about it again. Mello didn't like to talk about his problems overmuch, and he seemed to consider anything Matt hadn't witnessed firsthand a private matter. Mello was a bloody island, the fucker.

Matt ate slowly and onehandedly, splitting his attention between the mess of sauce he was letting drop onto his plate, Mello's suggestions about where local law enforcement could shove their steel toes, and a cross reference of van owners and people with relatively secluded ground floor apartments. Shockingly few matches resulted – only one man in the entire town owned a pickup truck, a Kenneth Hart.

'I'll talk.' Mello said, grabbing Matt's phone from his hand while the line rang. He'd finished eating an age ago, and had been waiting with his arms crossed for Matt to find something worth looking into. 'Kenneth?' he asked in his usual commanding voice when someone picked up, 'You haul? None of your fucking business right now, Kenneth. It's a simple question, just give me an answer. That's up to you, Kenneth.'

It always baffled Matt that people liked Mello. Not that Matt didn't like him, because he loved him, but because Mello was rude as fuck and always got away with it. Something about him made people say "yes". It was unfair, really, because Matt had no friends and he'd never been as mean to anyone as Mello was to everyone.

'That was lucky.' Matt said when Mello hung up.

'No, it was obvious.' Mello started putting his coat back on. 'All this confirms is that we're in the right general area.'

They visited every van owner on Matt's list, driving slowly by their houses so Mello could glare at flowerboxes, old front doors, license plates, and driveways. There saw a few horses, but it was impossible to tell the difference between animals that were running in illegal Mafia races and the law abiding ones.

Twice, there were people sitting outside drinking beer and enjoying the sunny afternoon. Both times, Mello threw the car in park and stepped out to say Hallo.

'Tourists?' The first couple they talked to asked when they heard Mello's Czech accent. 'Speak German?'

'Yes, and yes.' Mello replied. 'I wanted to ask about your horses.'

And they told him all about their daughter, who rode in some youth programme and had won all the silver plaques that were nailed to the barn door. The horses were ponies. Mello thanked them quickly and declined to drink a beer with them.

Their second encounter was with Kenneth, an aging bald man, standing in his driveway like he was expecting them. His tall, dark wood garage had a hay loft which was barely visible from the sidewalk.

'You didn't expect to go unnoticed, did you?' The man asked Mello when he opened the door of the Camaro. 'Calling around?'

'I hoped I wouldn't.' Mello answered. 'We're recording.'

Matt took the hint, and started recording.

'You don't know what you're looking for.' Kenneth warned them. He was taking swigs from an unlabeled bottle with one hand, holding a running hose in the other.

'Are you gonna tell me something straight or keep talkin' shit?' Mello asked, leaning against the car and crossing his arms.

'I'm telling you the most important thing you'll hear in all your life: think about your safety, and go away.'

'Why my safety?' Mello pressed. 'Who's threatening me? You?'

'Not me. There are many invisible faces. You don't know what you're looking for. You don't know who you'll piss off.'

'But you know. You're keeping horses in there. Racehorses.'

'None of my business what kind of horses they are; they're boarders. And none of your business, either. I mean it.'

'That was scary as fuck.' Matt hissed when Mello finally broke eye contact and settled back into the driver's seat. 'Holy fucking shit, Mello! That was scary as fuck!'

'Pussy out, then.' Mello snapped. He set the GPS to instruct them to a site outside the town where there had been a report of illegal dumping of animal remains. 'I'll drop you off at a bus station.'

'Chill out, I'm just saying!'

'Herr Empty Threats can hardly do anything to us.'

'You always assume I'm not on board, and I am!'

'One drunk hobby farmer is the least of our problems.'

'You're not even listening to me!'

'You're not saying anything I feel like engaging with!' Mello banged the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. 'We were supposed to turn right. Fuck! You're getting me pissed off.'

'You can U-turn.'

'I fucking know I can, Matt! Shut up!'

'I'm not the one being touchy.'

Mello growled and turned the radio on.

'So,' Matt drawled when they pulled onto an empty road flanked by fields, 'I guess you don't want head.'

Mello took a steadying breath, held the wheel like he was trying to strangle it. 'What gave you that impression?'

'I can't believe you just assume I'm pussying out just because I think it's freaky as shit that a weird stranger thinks we're in some sort of danger from, what, invisible faces? Invisible faces, Mello. It's disturbing. Admit it's creepy.'

'Come the fuck on, Matt, you know I'm not leaving you behind. Don't get huffy.'

'I don't know that. You have done that before.'

'Fine. I apologize for giving you precedent to believe that I would leave you at a bus stop in Austria because a drunk man said something that scared you.'

'At the mercy of the mob, who are apparently aware of us. Both of us.'

'You're not at anyone's mercy, Matt. If you left they wouldn't give a flying fuck about you anymore.'

'Nice.'

'Are you over it, now?'

'I guess I am.' Matt conceded. 'I was kidding about not sucking your dick.'

'I know.'

'It would take more than a drunk stranger to stop me.'

'What an interesting way to phrase your intentions.'

Matt had a solid 9 minutes, according to the GPS, before they would drive over the bridge where the carcass had been found. An old lady had called in a complaint about it when she found it on her daily walk with her pet ducks, none of which was very sexy to think about.

Apparently Mello didn't think so, either, because he was soft when Matt wrestled his laces open. 'You're not even happy to see me.' he groused.

To his embarrassment, Mello started laughing at him. 'Oh no, do you have to work at something for the first time in your life?' he said. He'd moved one hand onto the top of Matt's head, scratching his scalp with his painted fingernails.

'I shouldn't have to!' Matt insisted, which only made Mello laugh more. Though it wasn't the reaction Matt had hoped for when he'd started putting his hands on Mello's crotch, he actually didn't mind. Mello didn't laugh much. Not genuinely, not without composure.

Mello didn't stay barely-hard long once Matt pressed the flat of his tongue to the head. He drove in purposeful, concentrated silence. When Matt looked up through the disastrous mop of his bangs, he could crane just enough to see the underside of Mello's chin and the bottom of his lashes and his warmed blue irises. He felt, if it were possible, even mushier giving head than he did receiving; actually liked it. Something about making Mello happy in a tangible, measurable, way. Something about actions being stronger than words, about his inability to express romance verbally, his persistent awkwardness.

'You're really committed to that environmental thing.' Mello mumbled when Matt swallowed, sat up, and wiped the drool off his chin with the sleeve of his hoodie.

'Nope, just you.'

'Could you use a fucking napkin, at least?'

There were baby wipes, tissues, hand sanitizer, two switchblades, lube, and pen and paper in the glovebox only because Mello was organised and cleanly. Matt hadn't even thought about it. He passed Mello a wad of tissues a bit sheepishly.

They'd pulled onto the side of the road over the bridge while Matt was still trying to see if he could make his nose touch Mello's stomach without suffocating. The river slid behind farmhouses and through empty fields before disappearing into a forest that thickened on a hill in the distance. It seemed a conspicuous place to dump a body, even if it was just an animal.

'Do you think it washed up here?' Matt asked as they were descending the bank under the bridge. He lent on Mello's shoulder to jump down a cinderblock onto a patch of grass and wildflowers. He was starting to understand why Mello was wearing thick tan military boots and jeans – he'd anticipated this. Matt never anticipated nature walks, being adverse to most natural things, so he'd worn converse and was already suffering from wet socks.

Mello shielded his eyes and looked off into the horizon at the blush of treetops. 'You think they're dumping in the woods upriver? I agree.'

'If you say we should take a hike up there...'

'There's no road. It's farmland and trails.'

Matt groaned. 'I already stepped in the water.'

'Someone's precious.' Mello sniggered meanly.

'Rich coming from you.' Matt muttered.

'Caring about your appearance and being a little bitch who's scared of water are two vastly different things.'

'Well, nature sucks.' Matt argued. 'Can't we come back when the bugs are gone?' As soon as he'd rolled the damp cuffs of his jeans up, Bremsen the size of elephants had started trying to land on Matt's exposed calves.

'No. We'll go to the casino then.' Mello led the way down the stream.

It took nearly half an hour to reach the treeline, and from there they could have taken any of 6 paths branching into the heart of the wilderness.

'We'll split up.' Mello said, pointing down the leftmost path. 'Start that way, I'll start far right.'

Matt crossed his arms. 'Fuck no.'

'Matt. We are on a time limit.'

'You're not ditching me in the woods. Fuck. No.'

'I'm not ditchin' you! We're splittin' up!'

'No. Fuck no.'

Mello sighed, exasperated, grabbed Matt's arm, and pulled him along after him. 'You have a complex,' he hissed, 'or somethin'.'

'If I did, who's fault would it be?' Matt snapped back.

Mello's mouth quirked up. 'Your father's?'

'Cheap.' Matt lit up, pulling ash against the onset of a bluster. Inside the trees was dark, broody. Bare-bottomed trunks kaleidoscoped into an unknowable muster. Matt felt a gaping existential dread settle on his shoulders like the talons of a broad winged raptor. Yes, he had a complex. He had a fear with roots firmly tangled in reality. He would be lost in the woods, he would be lost in an open mawed city, he would be lost in an endless bare meadow. He shook away from Mello's grasp to link their fingers; squeeze his hand, instead.

'There's too much ground to cover.' Mello complained. 'It's unlikely they use the paths.'

'And it's not like we're going to meet anyone out here.' Matt agreed. There was a broken down treehouse ahead. Splinters of wood splattered the forest floor, rope hung from branches. 'Even if we did, it probably wouldn't be a good thing.'

Mello obviously disagreed, but he didn't say anything. He was strolling with Matt, being nice, keeping their shoulders close. 'I didn't wanna sit in the car bein' useless. I had to try.'

'I'll take some shots of the trees or something.' Matt offered. 'At least you can talk about the illegal dumping.'

'Exactly.'

They gave in after an hour and left without finding so much as a leg bone, emerging from the riverside under an aging orange sun with video of the water crashing through the countryside, a shot of a kingly tree on a hill, and a lot of mud on their soles. Matt took his shoes and socks off before getting in the car, and made Mello do the same. Mello had had the foresight to bring three pairs of boots, though Matt doubted it was because he'd anticipated getting dirty. Mello was a chronic over-packer and a committed fashionista; three pairs of shoes for a weekend was sparse compared to his normal extravagance.

'I need a beer.' Matt said as they drove towards the city. He'd pushed his seat back and shifted onto his side so he was watching Mello's hands shift gears and turn the wheel. 'Can we get a six pack for the hotel?'

'Should be a EUROSPAR on the way. I'd rather pick up something for dinner and eat in the room than sit in a restaurant, anyway.'

'Salt and vinegar crisps.' Matt grunted.

'Get what you want.'

They had booked a hotel near enough to the casino that it was convenient to buy groceries, check-in and drop them off in the mini fridge, and change their soggy jeans before going. Matt shotgunned one of his beers, first, to drown the apprehension he'd been nursing since their encounter with Eddi at the gas station.

'Play some slots.' Mello instructed Matt when they stepped through the doors. 'I'm going to get a racing form.'

Matt shrugged and sat at a machine. He didn't care for the monotony of slots. Three losses were enough to bore him. It was pointless playing a game over which he had no control; he didn't like leaving anything to chance. He kept his attention on Mello's blonde head moving near the television where a Chinese horse race was playing and mindlessly pulled the slots lever, disinterested in the result.

Minutes passed. Four other men were watching the horse race, too. One was loud, shouting 'KOMM!' with red-faced vigour at the number 4 horse; he ripped his ticket to shreds and beat his thigh with a fist when his horse came in 5th, and Matt watched Mello slap his shoulder in solidarity. Mello won some money, and bought a round for two of the men who had been betting alongside him. Mello lost, and they bought him a mineral water. After another few races, Matt was sick of waiting. He pulled out his phone and texted Mello a photo of his middle finger. Gambling on Mello's temper was more interesting than three cherries in a row.

Instead of texting back, Mello stalked over to him and snapped, 'I was working you into my persona, you impatient piece of shit.'

'Couldn't your beloved Mafia gamblers have been into something cooler? Drift racing? Paint drying?'

Mello glared. 'You're gonna love this, Matt: they fuckin' are. That's why we're fuckin' here.'

Matt offered his hand so Mello could yank him to his feet, starting to grin. 'I love you.' He said. 'I loved you when I was blowing you.'

'You can't possibly be drunk. I will kill you.'

'I can't possibly; only had three beers and a shot of jaeger.'

'When was the third beer?'

'Behind your back, prude.'

'These people know something.' Mello hissed. 'I can feel it. I'm so close, Matt. I'm about to get lucky. If you ruin it... I won't make an empty threat. I'll think of something suitably – fittingly - punishing.'

'Cool. I won't ruin it, but go ahead and do that anyway.'

Mello flexed and relaxed his fingers. He had, tragically, been born with a droll little mouth so he always looked angelically mad. He'd learnt, with time, to lean into his fury because he couldn't control it. He'd learnt to bottle it up and use it. To Matt, he was insanely beloved, and moreso when he had become unhinged. Matt hadn't had to learn to walk on eggshells around Mello, angry or not, because he'd had a crush on Mello when he used to rage without purpose or self reflection.

That was why Mello couldn't have anyone else. If he were ever accidentally vulnerable or weak, Matt was the only person who could be trusted to want him through it. If he made a mistake... Matt had already seen him make mistakes. It was thanks to Mello's perfectionism and tendency towards self-improvement that he'd become a better, more stable man as he'd progressed through his twenties (despite what his looming assault charges might suggest), because Matt didn't seem to care whether he was good or not. Something wasn't right about Jeevas, and thank the Lord for it. 'Follow my lead.' Mello instructed, charmed and disarmed in a swoop. 'And record, damn you.'

Mello's new friends were a German in a bomber jacket and an Italian in leather, one tall with roped forearms and the other dark and slight.

'Emiliano.' The Italian introduced himself, grabbing one of Matt's hands in both of his own and looking up at him from under a heavy brow. 'I'm a jockey, too.'

Oh, fuck. Matt thought. Mello was overestimating his improvisational abilities. 'Matt.' he said. 'I need a smoke.'

'I'll join you.' Emiliano said. 'Fixer?'

The big German shook his head.

Matt had the sinking, swooping feeling that he and Mello were about to split up. He tried and failed to catch his eye.

Luckily, Emiliano turned out to be a good natured tough guy; Matt's type. He insisted that Matt try his skinny Italian brand, bitched about an upstairs neighbour who loudly fucked his Cello player girlfriend in the early afternoon when he was trying to sleep after their almost daily classical jam sessions, and asked Matt if he wanted any M. Matt let himself relax, breathe. He hadn't had to fake his way into pretending he knew what was going on, thanks to Emiliano's forthright conversation.

'Sure' He said, 'thanks. I'll pay you.'

'Yes you will.' Emiliano chortled, backhanded his chest. 'I wasn't gifting you shit. 19€ each. Okay, one for free.'

'Hey, I know.'

'Here's my phone number.' Emiliano said. 'I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, anyway, but here's my phone number.' He pressed a piece of paper and the pills into Matt's hand with the same pressing force he'd given him the smoke. 'Call me whenever you're running. Call me when you want something.'

Well, if Matt could only make friends through transactional drug use, at least he'd learnt something from this. He entered Emiliano's number into his phone and texted Mello that there would be a race that morning. 'I'm not riding in this one.' Matt said, finishing his cigarette. He reasoned that was a safe thing to say, since he wasn't. 'I could swing by and bet on you.'

Emiliano nodded. Matt felt confident that, having shared in illegality, he'd earnt his trust. 'I'll see you there, then. I'll be wearing -' he pulled at his shirt, 'this.'

'Why don't I buy you a beer, first?' Matt offered, 'we could meet up around 3 at, er, Knast. For luck.' This way, they could follow Emiliano to the race location without having to ask any questions. It never looked good to have to ask.

'I like it. You owe me that.' Emiliano said. 'Let's go back.'

'Sure.'

Mello was betting silently, standing an arms length away from Fixer. Vindicated, Matt approached him and put his mouth to his ear. 'We're meeting Emiliano at 3. Then we're going to watch him race.'

'Good boy.' Mello purred, face lighting up like fever.

'... thanks.'

They left Fixer and Emiliano to their studious poring over the race form to return to the hotel and take advantage of the 5 free hours they now had before they were due at the club.

Matt swiped his bag of crisps off the TV stand where he'd left them when they'd checked in and took a running leap to flop onto the mattress. 'My feet are killing me,' he complained. 'And I can't believe you trusted me to fake being a jockey, of all things. I've never even touched a horse.'

'You pulled it off.'

'No, I bought ecstasy. He knew I wasn't a pig because I bought ecstasy.'

'You didn't take it, did you?'

'Not yet.'

Mello rolled onto the bed next to him, crossing his ankles and settling against the over-abundance of pillows, a microwaved bowl of quinoa and black beans in hand. 'I was thinking...' Mello mulled, 'that since our success is all thanks to you, you deserve a fitting reward.'

'Huh.' Matt said, mouth full. 'Like what?'

Mello shrugged, tilting his foot so his leg knocked against Matt's. 'What would you like?'

'I already got salt and vinegar.' Matt muttered. 'You're the creative mind between the two of us.'

'Those are vile.' Mello sniffed. He ate his health food garbage with the same urgency he ate all normal food, and then polished off the first half of a 300gm Milka bar before violently snatching the crisps out of Matt's hands and tossing them across the floor. 'Finish chewing.' he ordered before kissing him.

'Maybe I wasn't finished eating,' Matt argued without feeling. He shifted so he leaning against Mello's chest, his fingers at the hard zipper on his vest. 'Take this off,' he suggested. 'Not comfortable.'

Mello acquiesced. His outfits were always beyond Matt's comprehension, but he didn't mind watching them come off. Inexplicably, Mello was wearing boots that laced up his thighs. A casual casino look, apparently.

'Those have to go, too.' Matt said, a crooked smile stamping a lopsided dimple into his cheek.

Mello threw the boots at the door. The sound was awful.

Matt laughed. 'Fuck, ok – throw the belt, too.'

With languid, practised ease, the belt was chucked across the room onto a yellow armchair, where it slid to the floor. Again, loudly, thanks to it's illogical enormity.

'Is my reward watching you fuck up this hotel room?'

'Is that what you want?' Mello asked in a voice like smoke.

'Yup. Pants. And break a lamp.'

'There are limits to what I'm willing to do for you.'

'Already?' Matt pouted. 'And here I thought I'd earnt something special.'

Mello rolled his eyes. He shucked his pants. Matt was impressed watching them go on, and impressed watching them come off Mello's ankles. Even Mello's work jeans were too tight. No room for underwear; lines were unsightly, or something. Naked, Mello stood with arms on his hips and an eyebrow cocked, totally cool.

Matt clapped; half-assed. 'Pretty good show.'

'You fucking asshole.'

'A bit quiet.'

'Yeah?'

'Nothing I haven't seen before.'

'That so?'

Matt nodded, grinning ear to ear. He'd pulled his shoulders up to his ears, waiting for Mello to snap and come get him.

The mattress bounced when Mello jumped heavily onto Matt's legs. He was shaking his head, rolling his eyes. 'You're incorrigible, Jeevas.' he said, grabbing at Matt's skin under his shirt so he squeaked. 'You can consider your reward renounced.'

'Wanted you to break something properly.' Matt said. He let his arms fall out to the side of his head, looked Mello dead in the eyes. 'You're so hot when you're mad.'

'Are you trying to make me mad?'

'... No.'

Mello bit him a few times around the collarbone, chastised him for lying and being the weirdest, most depraved sort of voyeur, shut Matt's mouth with a hand when he argued that Mello had stripped of his own will, said that wasn't what he meant.

'I just like everything about you.' Matt said, when they'd pulled the converter up and turned the lights off, to set the record straight.

'Go to sleep, Matt.' Mello told him in a lazy voice. He'd stretched over to the bedside table to set an alarm, and then tucked his arm under Matt's head, hand against the base of his spine.

'Yeah, yeah, I am, but I love you.'

'I love you, too, Matt.'

'Can you take some pictures of your ass before you go to jail so I don't forget you?'

'Shut the fuck up.'

Mello's alarm came on slowly at 2.30, a rising piano crescendo. He rose, piled their things by the door. And then, because Matt could sleep through industrial blasting, he played an air horn and stripped the blankets off of him with an unceremonious tug.

'Shower. Dress.' he barked.

'Gonna.' Matt grumbled, tucking his nose into the sheets. 'In a sec.'

'Now.'

Half asleep, Matt submitted to being pushed over the lip of the bathtub and scalded in Mello's preferred temperature. 'Do that.' he said dozily when Mello started to wash his hair.

'I am.' Mello sniggered, 'Idiot.'

Mello had had the good sense to lay Matt's wet jeans out before falling asleep, which meant he'd gotten up to organise after Matt had dropped off. Matt dressed quickly while Mello tied up his hair in front of the bathroom mirror.

The front desk accepted their parting with chipper suspicion and released them into the night. Matt dug a beer out of the duffel Mello had slung over his shoulder and conceded the driver's seat to Mello, citing exhaustion and a pulled hip flexor. Dedication to clear-headedness made Mello the perfect designated driver.

Matt had only suggested Club Knast because it was the only place the name of which he'd remembered under the pressure of forced undercover socialization, but he didn't regret it when they arrived. It wasn't busy, and instead of claustrophobic booths, half of the floor was comfortable couches arranged in broad squares around large knee-high tables. Emiliano, Fixer, and a woman in chaps were waiting under the dull lavender lights, drinking tequila and lime.

'I'm not paying for those.' Matt said, pointing at the cluster of glasses in front of Emiliano.

Emiliano swept up with a smile to grasp his forearms and smack his shoulder. Everyone kissed. The woman, Lena, was lending them a bike, since Emiliano had seen and disapproved of Matt's bringing a car. Apparently Mello had told Fixer that he was licensed, and Lena was Fixer's fleet-owning mob girlfriend. The more Matt learnt about his new drinking buddies, the heavier the fear of them sunk in his stomach.

'Beers? Beers?' Emiliano asked the table when they'd finished their introductions. 'What about toasting?'

Mello slung his arm over the back of the couch so his elbow fenced Matt's shoulders in. He asked after a water, and took the remainder of his chocolate bar from dinner out of the lined pocket of his fur coat. Matt was content to let him do most of the talking and blow smoke into the understated strobe patterns in relative silence. After two rounds (both of which ended up being on Matt), Lena stood to dance. She ordered them to be ready to leave after 4 songs.

Mello's excitement was palpable. He had taken up an air of nonchalant boredom, a purposeful relaxation that Matt knew was his counter-action against anticipatory tension. Each song passed like a ticker on a prison wall. Emiliano asked how long they'd been together. Mello said a while. Emiliano asked Matt how long he'd been riding. Matt said a while. Fixer asked if they'd like him to handle their bet, since he could. Mello said that was fine and gave him 200€. Emiliano thanked them for their support, and Matt said of course. Two more songs. One more.

Lena returned with a thin sheen of sweat, told them to 'chop chop', and sashayed away to the door. 'Here is your bike.' she told them when they'd walked around the block to a weed infested parking lot, 'If you crash this bike, I will find you to cut you. Doesn't matter where you are. I love to travel.'

'Ok, nice.' Matt said, grinning in abject terror.

'Understandable.' Mello agreed.

It was a shitty bike, not like the intense Kawaski Mello had at home. Halfway between dirt bike and bad mod, it was almost insulting. Matt was unable to weigh the harsh delivery of Lena's threat against the custom wheels and dirty green frame of their gift. Maybe it was the principal of the matter, because crashing it might be the kindest thing they could do to it.

Emiliano hugged Matt for luck before getting into his own car, and Fixer and Lena climbed onto an equally poorly looking bike to lead the way out of the city centre and down a long, paved, semi-rural road that snaked right past the gas station where Eddi Fischer worked. Matt shouted 'lying twit' into the wind as they passed the OMV.

The race meet was a spider's nest of clenching activity. They were absorbed into a vehicular mass, pushed and pulled on by a group gravity, battered by the suggestion of MVA. Twenty horses – an improbable number – were being herded between engine roars. Emiliano parked in a field while the party swayed along the road under a greying sky. When he clambered out of his car, a team of men in jeans and buttoned shirts were waiting to hoist him like he was a sack of flour onto the back of a plain bay thoroughbred with rolling white eyes.

Mello did his best to stay level with Emiliano when his horse drifted onto the road, but staying close to the horses was the goal of an entire collective of bikes just like theirs, of sedans and hatchbacks with illegally tinted windows. Matt wasn't the only person filming, which was what gave him the confidence to hold a camera up.

The race start was a muddled jerk into a gallop, a clatter of aluminium on pavement, and the rise of cheers from the wheeled audience. It lasted a coursing five minutes, during which four horses fell and were abandoned by the motorists to their fate in the ditches beside the highway. Emiliano held third, dropped back, took seventh. There was an unnatural length between the fast horses and the slow.

Emiliano's crew veered off onto a side street after the finish, tossed him off the horse and onto the sidewalk, and the animal disappeared into the emerging glare of sunrise led by two tanned men in loafers. It was like it had never been.

'Another day.' Emiliano said to Matt when they pulled even with him, beaming.

Fixer flanked them, not looking particularly unhappy, either. However they were making their money, Emiliano's winning didn't seem to have much to do with it. 'Lena's getting your car.' He told Emiliano. 'She's got the pullout if you want a sleep at ours.'

'I wanted champagne.' Emiliano bobbed his head from side to side, spit on the brick.

Fixer grunted noncommittally. His gaze was steady towards the road, looking out for Lena with the car.

The race dissolved into the early light. By the time early morning settled over the town, cars started in driveways, and coffee shops opened their doors, no one was left on the streets.

'Were we had?' Matt asked Mello privately in the parking lot where they'd traded the Camaro for the bike when they'd moved back towards Knast. 'He lost on purpose, didn't he?'

Mello nodded tightly. 'Seems that way.'

'Damn.'

'That's the business, I suspect.' Mello whispered. They were leaning against the hood of Matt's car, watching Lena and Fixer rev their engines, looking for fault in the bike they'd loaned.

'Should we... get out of here?'

After a beat, during which Lena crouched down to tap a wheel with her blunt fingernail, Mello squeezed Matt's arm and peeled away from the hood to swing open the driver's side. Matt threw himself into the passenger's and closed the door as Mello's foot punched the gas pedal. In the rearview, Emiliano was running after them with his arms up in a questioning shrug.

'I was starting to feel outnumbered.' Matt admitted. 'Got spooked.'

Mello nodded. 'Good instinct. I stick around too long, sometimes.'

'I would've bailed, like, before we even went to the club, if I'd been alone.'

'You'd've pussied out before we left Augsburg.'

'Sure. Fuck off.' Matt crossed his arms over his chest.

They pulled onto the main road, marveled at the bare strip where an hour earlier there had been an entire race meet. The OMV was closed. The sun was almost fully risen over the peaks of the Karwendel, sucking the pink out of the sky.

Mello reached over and put his hand on Matt's thigh. 'I'll let you take a picture of my ass if it makes you feel better.' he said in the same voice he used to ask Matt to add something to the grocery list.

'Yeah.' Matt said, relaxing back into his seat and grabbing the last of his beers. 'It does.'