inked in blood
karierte
03: let jesus return
Bang! in Mello's face, the door goes. That is, until he realises that his new neighbour is standing outside in the light November morning drizzle, holding his milk hostage–smug with the knowledge that Matt will have to eventually open the door to retrieve it. Bastard.
The rain, in perverse anti-pathetic fallacy, slows to feeble drips.
He might as well leave him out there a little longer.
The apple juice is tipped resolutely down his throat, the bottle clinking against his teeth. Matt sets it into the scratched stainless steel sink and he can feel the bruise on his hip from the day before; aching dark as his room with the curtains closed. The purple pain is as beautiful as a Van Gogh painting and just as meaningless to him.
"I thought you'd never come." The blond swoons sarcastically, suspending semi-skimmed milk out to him with a smile that shows most of his teeth. It isn't a nice smile. It makes Mello look as if he's going to eat him. Like he's going to eat him and enjoy it.
There's gentle pitter-patter all around them, a little anti-climactic.
He bends down to dump the rinsed glass bottle by the flowerpot and—fingers; fingertips trickling suddenly down Matt's spine, counting vertebrae through the cotton. "Fuck," Matt mumbles to himself. Straightens and shivers.
He obviously doesn't want this. Obviously.
Slammed against a wall letting lips ghost across his own, no, not at all. Mello must be awfully good at his job.
Matt, open-mouthed with a door bell pressed excruciatingly into his back, has never been this aroused in his life. The blond should put that on his CV. Do…do gigolos have CVs? –God, he doesn't even care…sweating under his skin as Mello forest fires down his neck. Burning and burning, like looking at the Sun through your eyelids and the soundtrack to their passion is a tinny ding-dong, repeating loudly and annoyingly over his heavy breathing.
He flicks a damp lock of yellow hair out of his face and the redhead's eyes are dilated and verdantine green with jealousy. He sags, boneless against the brick.
Then Mello says, "Here's what's going to happen."
He steps inside, wipes his expensive-looking shoes on the welcome mat.
Bang! in Matt's face, the door goes.
A/N
when you see yourself in a crowded room, do your fingers itch, are you pistol-whipped?
fff, sorry for being short and full of alliteration (I cannot stop, really I can't). B-but it was worth it, yes? And reviews, pretty please with cherries on top, everyone on the alert list have revealed themselves to be very awesome~