A/N: Welcome to Chapter 1 of Finite. Finite: having limits or bounds; not infinitely small.
Warning: Graphic violence, swearing, criminal activity. This is not a sweet hurt/comfort fic. If you are looking for something sweet, this is not the fic for you.
"Bite the fucking curb."
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Jesus fuck.
"Don't fuck with me! Get your fucking head down!"
Matt felt himself shoved roughly forward, his knees scraping the concrete and gravel of the road. The lamplight buzzed and flickered. His knees felt wet; he couldn't decide if it was blood or drainage from the street. He didn't care. The scent of asphalt and earth filled his nose.
"Open your fucking mouth, you stupid little bitch."
Matt couldn't even pretend to be brave. His heart felt like it would explode. He stared at the curbside, the concrete and graffiti blurring with unshed tears.
"Bite. The. Fucking. Curb."
He felt a hand in his hair, shoving his face down. A calloused thumb dug itself into his jaw, forcing his mouth open. He quickly found himself sucking concrete, breathing frantically through his open mouth. Gravel dug into his knees, and dirt filled his mouth.
Fuck, this was going to hurt.
Not just hurt - it would be agony. It would be worse than the time he was shot in the shoulder. Worse than the busted knee from his motorbike. This would kill him, if he was lucky, and it would hurt every single moment until his body finally gave out.
Oh fuck. Oh god, oh fuck, oh shit.
"Better say your prayers," a voice spat. Matt cringed when he felt a thick string of slobber running down the side of his face. "Go ahead and cry, little bitch."
Matt did. He felt tears pouring down his face. His jaw ached from the awkward position, and his mouth felt dry as stone. His mind replayed over and over all the horrible scenarios that could play out; his jaw shattering, his skin ripping, his tongue falling down his own throat. He imagined in agonizing detail how horrible the next few minutes would be.
This was not how he imagined his death. Not even close. He had hoped to die doing something cool; maybe a flaming bike wreck, or a massive shootout, or doing something heroic. He never once guessed that his death would occur while kneeling in the street, sobbing like a child, with his head kicked in by a pair of Doc Martins.
"This will teach you to spy on people who are stronger than you!"
"Hold the fuck up," a voice called. "Sit down before you hurt yourself, Santiago. For fuck's sake."
Matt felt himself blacking out; he clung to consciousness by a thread. He felt rough hands in his hair, jerking him up to his knees. A light shone in his face. He squinted, slowly feeling the blood rush back into his head.
"Did any of you brain-dead fuckwads think for a moment that we could possibly use this guy?"
A chorus of murmurs signaled the negative.
"Didn't think so. Listen, if he's good enough to get intel on our affairs, what the fuck do you think he could do to the 14th Street? Or Las Llaves? Fuck, we could spy on the whole god-damned coast if we use him. And you were about to send him packing to the Pearly Gates? Fucking idiots."
Matt felt cold leather wrapping itself beneath his chin. He squinted hard against the light, looking up into the face of someone oddly familiar. The voice wasn't right, but the face…
It was as if he were dreaming. There's no way…
WHAM!
Matt felt his face explode with pain. Fuck, this guy could throw a mean punch. Matt opened his mouth to try and defend himself, only to be greeted with another heavy punch to the face. That cool leather glove tangled itself deep into his hair and held his face still while the man's other hand cracked against his face over and over. Matt felt his cheeks swell; his lip split, his eyes both blackened, and his nose was almost certainly broken.
There's no way. No way. He wouldn't ever-
"Mel-?" Matt tried to gasp, but before he could finish his question, the blonde cracked his head against the street light. Matt felt himself float off into darkness.
"You're awake. Good."
Matt groaned, trying to open his eyes. It was that voice again - the one that sounded so wrong, yet so familiar.
"I wouldn't bother, if I were you. You've been out for two days, but the swelling still hasn't gone down. I didn't detach your retina, though, so that's a plus!"
How could this guy be so fucking cheerful over something like that?
Matt heard the sound of swishing leather, then felt a weight on the end of his bed. Bed? Yes, he was definitely lying on something softer than concrete… but perhaps "bed" was not the right word. A thin mattress on a slab; that's the only comfort Matt had. From the sound of their voices, he determined that the room was padded with some sort of sound-proofing. Every echo was immediately absorbed; Matt couldn't tell how big the room was, nor what was in it.
"We're fine to talk while we're in here," the other man said. "Nobody else can hear us. I wouldn't do that to you."
Matt made a grunting noise; his tongue felt too swollen to form proper words.
"I don't apologize for anything," the man continued, "but it's unfortunate that you recognized me. I really didn't want to have to do that much to you. But if they knew that we're familiar, it would not end well."
Familiar? No way. It wasn't a dream or a hopeless hallucination…
"Mello?" Matt choked out, tasting blood in the back of his mouth.
"Shut up before you hurt yourself. Yeah, Matt. Who the fuck else would it be?"
"You're alive," Matt coughed. Everything hurt. His face, his ribs, his head… Every ounce of him throbbed with pain. But Mello was alive. He had developed an American accent, and his pitch was much lower, but the underlying notes and rhythms in his voice were most certainly Mello's.
"God, don't you listen? Quit talking. Let me do the talking." The surly blonde swatted Matt on the arm, making the redhead cringe in pain. "Look. You're up shit creek, my friend. I don't know exactly how you did it, but you somehow found out way more about us than you should have."
Matt tried to shrug, but his shoulder refused to cooperate.
"You were ten seconds from St. Peter, mate," Mello continued. "You're fucking lucky that I happened to be there. And that I recognized you. Right now, I've got them convinced that I want you for your skills. You'd better be fucking willing and able to deliver, Matt. If you don't, you're a dead man. Period. I can't compromise my position, and we can't keep dead weight. Do you understand?"
Matt tried to nod, but the room was spinning. He was still stuck on the fact that Mello was alive.
"It's stupid to talk when you're in this state…" Mello grumbled. "Rest up. I'll have someone bring in food and water later. Technically, you're a prisoner for now. The door is bolted, and the room is soundproof. We typically use this room for recovery after an interrogation, but you're one of the lucky few who gets to stay here with all your fingers and toes still attached. Consider it a blessing."
Mello stood and paced the room for a moment, the distinct sound of a chocolate bar wrapper rustling between his fingers.
"Listen, man. I don't know how the next few weeks will play out. This is a dangerous fucking game that you roped us both into. Frankly, it might have been kinder to you if I had just let you die on the street…" Mello trailed off, snapping into the chocolate bar. "But for whatever reason, I didn't. So now you're playing to keep us both alive, you got it? You don't know me. You call me 'Sir' or 'Boss.' You keep your head down, your mouth shut, and you do what you're told. And you'd better do it damn well, or I can't guarantee your safety."
Matt could sense Mello hesitating. Years of watching the blonde pace around their bedroom at the orphanage caused Matt to be very attuned to Mello's habits.
"...Don't hold it against me if I have to beat you, Matt." Mello said quietly. "It's nothing personal. It's just how things work around here."
Matt swallowed the lump in his throat. Judging by the pain and swelling in his face, he knew Mello could deliver one hell of a punch. He prayed it wouldn't come to that again.
"'Kay," Matt mumbled.
"I should go. I have a lot to coordinate. There's this raid… You'll hear about it when you've recovered. Get some rest, and remember what we discussed. I'm counting on you, Matt."
Without another word, Mello left the room. The sound of the heavy steel door locking felt deafening to Matt. The silence in the room was amplified; the soundproofing prevented any noises from the outside world from reaching Matt's ears. He could imagine men going crazy on this mattress.
Despite the throbbing in his lips and cheeks, Matt forced himself to hum a tune - the repetitive, melodic music from Tetris - as he played imaginary games of Tetris in his mind's eye. Meanwhile, in the back of his mind, he began to plan ahead for the next few weeks. He imagined scenario after scenario, carefully crafting what to say and how to say everything for any situation he might come across. More than anything, he practiced over and over to never call Mello by name.
