Ninety-eight coins. If only he could find the last two, he would finally have the perfect score! Matt dashed his character forward, flying towards the end of the level.
It had been three days since Matt had brought Mello back to his house. They had moved to an abandoned room above a warehouse in one of L.A.'s ghettos. Matt had cleaned his apartment and car as much as possible and had left his home in apparent repair. The car was below them now, hidden in the depths of the warehouse.
Mello had not regained consciousness the whole time.
Matt had done a lot of reading on the internet about first aid for burns. He had now become practiced in disinfecting and changing bandages. He dripped water and tomato soup into Mello's mouth twice a day to make sure he stayed fed and hydrated, and had learned how to ensure that he was able to void his digestive tract cleanly—something for which Mello would be indebted to him for life. So far, so good; Mello was alive and breathing and seemed to be free of infection.
Mello's abrupt stirring caught Matt's peripheral vision. He snorted in annoyance. He was so close to beating his level, but now it would have to wait. He hit pause and approached the secondhand bed.
Mello's eyes had fluttered open. They shifted rapidly over the scenery, but focused on Matt once his face entered Mello's field of vision. He blinked blearily, his lips forming silent sounds that defied Matt's understanding.
Then he surged upwards. Caught by surprise, Matt reacted according to an instinct that had been ingrained in him as a kid through years of dealing with Mello. Within seconds he was straddling the blonde and pinning his wrists against the bed, heedless of his injuries. Mello writhed and bucked beneath him, but he lacked the strength to throw him off.
Mello stilled, his breath coming in shallow heaves. "I really need—just a few lines—just a line—" Then he collapsed again, consciousness leaving him as abruptly as it had returned.
Matt stared. Cocaine. Mello wanted coke.
He shook his head in disbelief. Sure, the Mafia probably trafficked the stuff; there was big money in that. But—who had been stupid enough to let Mello get his hands on it? He raised enough hell with mere caffeine as his aid. Wasn't it obvious that adding coke to the mix would be a toxic combination? Granted, he had undoubtedly demanded rather than asked, and no one who wanted to stay in one piece said no to a demand from Mello—but giving him hard drugs in order to stay his temper had to be like trying to put out a blaze by suffocating it in gasoline.
Matt stood up. This new development complicated the situation, but he found himself paradoxically taking heart. The fact that Mello's first words when returning to consciousness had been "give me drugs" rather than "holy mother of God half my body is burned to a crisp and hurts like hell" might mean that the drugs were actually the bigger of the two problems right now. And while Matt knew fuck-all about burn care, drug withdrawal was a whole different story. It was practically his oldest friend, other than Mello himself.
He shook his head and grinned slightly as he regarded the unconscious blonde. "What are you doing using such dangerous substances? I honestly thought you had more sense than that. Than me." Cocaine had one of the more manageable withdrawals as hard drugs went, but even so, he would now need a completely different set of supplies to complement the bandages and disinfectants he had stocked. Matt heaved a regretful sigh as he switched his DS off and left the room.