The sweet, smooth smoke caressed his throat and lungs, as it made its way through his body, destroying his very living flesh, and it rotted him from the inside out. He exhaled, his mouth making love to the hazy mess that dominated his airspace. He watched distractedly as the smoke roiled around in the stain of lamplight that had invaded the bedroom. Calm. Smokes.

He surveyed the apartment, which was so old that it had probably seen the Meiji restoration, not to mention that the décor was brown and puke-green and hadn't been updated since the '60s. Eh, America. Paneling in the most unabashed shade of shit-brown closed in on the tiny space, like so many prison bars, giving the pad the demeanor of a cave. The paper plates and table scraps from last night's dinner were still attracting bugs on the coffee table next to the sorry-looking loveseat, clad in brown vinyl. The trash can was doing a little better, but the garbage bags were starting to pile up. He would have to get rid of them soon. And by "get rid of", he meant "chuck out the window".

The tiny TV didn't even get reception – it sat gathering dust on the floor. The postmodern modular clock hadn't worked in years, as its hands had perished announcing 10:56 pm. The puke-green laminate countertops were covered in cigarette packaging and butts and used matches, and the sink was full of watermelon rinds. And the bathroom…oh, don't even bother. He had to piss in the kitchen to save himself. He usually slept on a broken-down twin mattress, the only consolation in the place, which had no proper dressings, save for a reeking comforter and three lumpy, misshapen pillows.

A sunbeam shot through the rancid window hangings, heralding the dawn. Los Angeles. He smiled. The one good thing in the apartment that wasn't alive had paid him a visit: the sun. The light did a little dance for him in midair, and made him smile despite himself. It was quick on its feet! It leapt and whirled and tossed, showing off for him. He followed the sunbeam with his eyes down onto the bed, where his angel lay sleeping.

"Mihael," he whispered, just incase his angel was listening. Mello was sleeping as if dead, breathing shallowly and slowly. The sun ran its fingers through his golden hair, making it radiant, bringing out the rare white-blond and fiery orange streaks, and it was if he was crowned with the virgin dawn.

He was pallid, though, and sweat flowed evenly down his face and dampened the bandages and soaked the mattress. Matt had clumsily bound the burns up the night previous, rinsing the debris and shrapnel out of Mello's skin. He looked practically mummified. His left eye, shoulder, and arm were hidden beneath billowing clouds of white, and the undamaged skin was cold and gray, blending into the bedding. Matt leaned over the bed, adjusting the ragged comforter and punching at the gnarled, putrid pillows.

"How many times do I have to tell you not to smoke inside?" Mello breathed hoarsely.

"You're awake!" Matt cried, jubilantly. He crawled over Mello and put his face close to him, brushing his nose gently with a kiss. Mello's eyes were still closed, though, and he did not move. He spoke quietly, and his voice was akin to a dry rustle of leaves.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"My apartment," Matt answered. "I hope you're comfy, because I only have one bed, and it's pretty crappy." Mello grunted in reply.

"You need anything?" Mat asked, as he touched Mello's cheek.

"Water," Mello said. Matt jumped off the bed and dashed towards the kitchen, his filthy socks slipping on the filthy linoleum. He brought a pitcher of water from the ancient refrigerator, and grabbed a plastic cup out of the trash bin, doing his best to shake off the orange peels, flies, and coffee grounds.

"Mello?" he said softly. "C'mon, Mello. Sit up." Mello obliged, struggling against his own weight with Matt helping to prop him up.

Matt poured the water into Mello's mouth too quickly, and Mello choked, coughing weakly, trying to breathe. Matt panicked and pulled Mello to a sitting-upright position, so the water ran out of his mouth, as Matt pounded him on the back. Mello coughed more violently and spit all over the beadspread.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Mello coughed, spluttering.

"I'm sorry!" Matt whined. "You said you were thirsty, so I -"

"Yeah, but you weren't supposed to fucking drown me!"

"Sorry, Mello! I didn't mean to!" Matt said quickly as he laid Mello back down on the fetid old mattress.

"God," Mello shuddered. "You'd think that…ugh. Just leave. I'm going back to sleep."

"No," Matt offered timidly. "You need water."

"Mmrff," Mello grumbled. "I feel fine, Matt."

"No, you really aren't. You're dehydrated, feverish, losing blood; you're the color of stale oatmeal."

"Well, I'm okay. Nothing a little bed-rest can't fix."

Matt tried to convince Mello the other way. "Mello," he cooed. "Please, baby, you have to eat something," he continued, layering his voice with all the sweetness he had in him, all the sweet feelings that he saved for Mello and Mello only. Sometimes, Matt thought, being a bitch was useful. Then again, he had always been Mello's bitch, and he was doing this for Mello. So in the end, it all evened out. "What about last night?" he tried. "You didn't feel so great then, did you?"

Mello sighed, his eyes still closed. "That was last night, Jeevas. This is today."

"It was only three hours ago," Matt replied. "You called me three hours ago." Matt would know; it had been the scariest experience of his life, and Mello was brushing it off… How dare Mello toy with his emotions. He might be a bitch, but he wasn't that kind of bitch.

"Hm?" Mello mumbled. "It was only three hours ago? Feels like longer."

"You wouldn't rightly know," Matt retorted. "You were unconscious."

"Well, I'm fine now," Mello said, a tone of finality in his frail voice.

"Don't think you're getting off easy on this one, Mello," Matt said powerfully. "You can't just call me like you did last night and then expect me to walk away. I care for you, dammit, whether you feel the same way or not. I'm not letting you out of my life so easily, not like last time."

"Matt, I…" Mello started.

"Every time I say something you don't like, all you can do is stammer! Is it because you know I'm right, or because you don't care enough to come up with a good cover?" Matt shot out.

"Matt, all I needed was a little help! I was just stuck and needed a ride. You don't need to baby-sit me. I'm a big boy," Mello said weakly.

"That's not what it was like last night!" Matt shouted. "You were crying! You couldn't talk! You…you were dying, and I had to help…"

"I didn't say, 'Matt, save my life,' now, did I?" Mello retorted. "I just said I needed a ride."

Matt took a deep breath. He was mad. Mello had led him on… He said, as if he were swearing, his voice shaking with rage, "If you dared to expect me to just pander to you… If you thought for a minute that I would be okay with you just crashing at my place…without a good reason… If you thought I was going to stand by as you did whatever you wanted with me… You don't love me at all, do you?"

Mello was silent for a time. "Matt," he breathed. "I can't say anything."

"It's not just the fact that you didn't want me to help, but it's the fact that you didn't expect me to help. You brushed me away so casually. Face it, Mello, you need me. The only reason you can stay calm is because I'm here. If I weren't here, you would be scared shitless. I know you too well; you would be. You think you're thirsty now? Wait until lunchtime. You think those bandages are a laugh? Try changing them on your own. You think beds come with toilets built in? Take a piss and see what happens."

"You…you wouldn't…" Mello said shakily, as his voice wavered. "You picked me up last night because you do care, don't you?"

"Let's see," Matt said contemptuously. "And yes, I do care, if I haven't said so enough already." He turned to walk away. The effect was considerably lessened by the infinitesimal size of the apartment, so Matt could only walk about twenty feet away from the bed. He played it out, though, as he sat on the decrepit sofa and whipped out his Gameboy. He was lost in a game soon enough; Pokèmon, by the sound of it.

Mello was doomed, and he knew it. He was doomed. He had let Matt rail at him while he had been dying last night, as he had clutched onto the receiver for dear life, and now this? Hadn't Matt been at his beck and call not three hours ago? Mello tried to open his good eye, the right one, but it wasn't easy. The world forced itself into his vision in the form of a brownish blur, and made him wince. His throat was insatiably dry. He was sore all over, and the left side of his face, neck, and shoulders was burning uncomfortably, almost like his skin was aflame.

Matt was right. Mello needed him. He didn't only need him, he wanted him. He was about to cry out like an infant for its guardian, so desperate was he to see the face of Mail Jeevas again. He wanted Matt, and nothing but Matt, he wanted Matt to sleep with him and to kiss his face, and he wanted to cuddle, he wanted to burst into tears for everything had gone wrong, and Matt didn't care.

Suddenly, it was a replay of the night before: everything was lined up the same way. Mello needed Matt, and Matt didn't care. What had Mello done to get Matt's attention? He had been in trouble. If he was fine, then Matt yelled at him. But if he needed something…

"Matt," Mello called.

"Mm," the gamer answered.

"I'm still thirsty."

"That's nice," Matt answered in a monotone. Mello waited. Nothing happened. Of course, Mello thought, it had to be something more serious. Water was just too trivial. He waited another couple minutes for proper effect, and then moaned,

"Matt," as pathetically as he could without overdoing it.

"Yes, Mello?" Matt said.

"Can you come here for a sec?"

"What is it?"

"I think I'm gonna hurl," Mello groaned.

"Just over the side of the bed, mind you," Matt instructed, clearly still absorbed in his game. "Damn! I almost caught a Parasect, and you ruined it!"

Mello cursed silently. Why wasn't it working? What was going wrong? He thought hard for a moment, and then remembered… He had been in legitimate danger last night. He hadn't been playing around for Matt's attention…perhaps that was the key. Maybe that's what Matt had been babbling about. "I care for you, dammit, whether you feel the same way or not… If you thought I was going to stand by as you did whatever you wanted with me… You don't love me at all, do you?"

Mello's heart suddenly stopped beating. Matt did care. Why had it taken him so long to figure it out… L would be ashamed…not just because he couldn't solve his own mystery, but because it had taken him so long to work out Matt's feelings. No, Mello had just been stupid, he had said it a million times.

"Matt?" Mello said. He spoke with no hint of fear, want, or malcontent in his voice. Matt heard him, and he listened to Mello's pure, comforting tones. Matt was quiet for a minute, taking it all in. He wanted to help Mello. He really did. It was hurting him to leave his best friend laying there, when he had promised himself that he would care for him. He knew Mello needed him, he knew it and cherished that fact from the bottom of his heart, and yet… Had Mello just asked those stupid questions because he was being an asshole? Or had he been getting at something?

"What, Mello?" Matt asked, nonchalantly, nearly ready to scream for the suspense, let alone a straight answer.

Mello took a moment. "I'm sorry I called you a douchebag over the phone last night." Neither spoke. Then Mello continued, "And it wasn't just because I was angry with you, either. It's because I've been taking you for granted. I always kind of thought that I was the leader of us…that I had the more important role, just because I was closer to L…"

"That meant a lot to you," Matt said, his game all but forgotten.

"But that's no excuse for me to treat you this way," Mello said feebly. "I realize…I can get in over my head. You saved my life," he said, and then he broke off, for with the words came with a rush of emotion. Mello knew that he needed Matt more than air, and he said so, "I need you. Not just today or tomorrow, but I'll always need you. Don't ever let me tell you otherwise."

Matt turned the Gameboy off. He got up off the couch and went back over to the bed. Mello kept talking, "The truth is, I don't know what I would do if I didn't have you… Not just for the sake of it, but because you mean a lot to me, Matt. And I just -"

Matt cut Mello off as he placed a delicate finger on his lips. "You don't need to say any more," Matt said, his voice soft and beautiful like the coo of a dove. "I just sort of wanted to know if I meant anything to you, Mello. You know that I'll never leave you, don't you? It's just that…I'd like the same from you."

"It's yours," Mello said. Matt climbed over Mello, and leaned over him, so they were face-to-face. Matt kissed Mello gently first on the nose, then on the cheek, and then on his pale, cold lips, willing them back to life with his warm ones. Mello closed his eyes and partook of it, as waves of liquid excitement cleansed him, washing away all the wretchedness around him, and demolishing the squalid apartment. There was only Mail and Mihael, and his heart sang and roared with heat and triumph and passion, and they kissed for a long while, and Mail was there with him, and they were together, inseparable.

They broke apart. The sun, in its wild dance, caught Matt by the hair and started playing with it. It was precious, precious Phoenix fire, and its red luster made Mello almost blind. He looked at the way the sunlight combed through it, and made each strand shine, and flare up like solar flame. The sun crowned Matt with crimson, not unlike the halo Mello had made himself the night before, though this one was not macabre in the least, but beautiful and lustrous and radiant. Matt was the Master of rubies and blood, but Matt was too common a name for a Master, so it was Mail.

Matt smiled. "What're you looking at?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mello answered. "Just get in bed, bitch," he said, jokingly, a slight smile playing around his lips. Matt obliged, stripping down to his underwear, and crawling under the covers next to Mello. He had to sit on Mello's right side, because it was the left that was burned. Mello was still lying face-up, eyes fixed on the ceiling, and Matt crept up to him precariously, wrapping his arms around Mello's middle, and propping his head up against Mello's ribs.

"There's just one more thing I need from you, Matt," Mello said as he yawned, contented, nearly asleep again.

"What's that?" Matt asked.

"We need to catch Kira before Near or that fake L does."

"With pleasure."