AN: Firstly, thanks for the reviews, everyone! Our readers are what keeps us going, and it's wonderful to know what you guys think!
In other news, AX was awesome! Anyone interested can visit the cosspace link on my profile, where I should have pictures posted by the end of the month.
Anyway, notes on the chapter: It's a little short, but the next one should be longer... Hopefully. The title refers both to Mello's thoughts of himself and Matt's situation. Also, major angst warning! Other than that, Paul will be playing a major part in events from now on, so any feedback on our OC villain is much appreciated! Thanks for reading!
--Tora
Mello watched his breath gust in front of his face, forming thin white tendrils which were borne gently away from his lips by the icy breeze, reminding him with a painful twinge in his chest of smoke from a cigarette.
He bit his lip, then cursed aloud at the pain he'd forgotten would obviously come from digging his teeth into the already torn flesh.
But it was hardly worth the muttered profanity when he knew that…
Shiiit… the voice in his head wailed pathetically.
The blonde sighed, vaguely aware of the frost clinging to his hair, his breath misting and blowing back into his face to warm his frozen, bloodless cheeks for the briefest of seconds. The thin rays of light on the horizon behind him failed to reach him and his involuntary shivering would not stop no matter how he willed it.
But he didn't go inside.
He stood there, in front of the door, staring blankly at the wood and the little silver numbers in the middle, and apparently having forgotten how to move.
After all, there was no point in going in if he couldn't answer his own question first.
The same question which had been running madly through his head for the last twelve hours or so.
The same goddam question which made him hate himself, loathe himself with every fiber of his being.
Why?
He tried to tell himself he had been provoked. Matt knew, he knew Mello had problems controlling his anger, even if the blonde had never openly admitted the fault. He knew Mello would act violently if instigated. He knew Mello had already been irritated and his judgment was clouded so quickly, so damn quickly, by even minor aggravations. He'd known…
But that didn't make it any less Mello's fault and the blonde knew that so well it hurt.
His fist tightened on the white bag in his hand, filling the air with quiet crinkling as he twisted the plastic anxiously, warping the large letters on the front that had once read EB Games but were now only a faded and stretched bit of twisted plastic wrapped tightly about a smallish rectangular object.
He knew he was at fault and regretted every second with all of his being, the look in Matt's eyes a dull green stare lingering in his mind. The disbelief, the hurt, the distrust.
God, what had he done, and why, dammit, why?
Ignoring the pain this time, Mello bit his lip again sharply, brow furrowed and eyes down to stare at the doorknob, still without moving.
The hand that wasn't steadily decimating the plastic bag reached up suddenly to grasp the silver crucifix which hung against his chest, gripping it so hard it dug into his cold-numb fingers painfully. The only remnant of his Catholic mother, claimed so unjustly by the goddammed wars he'd hardly even been aware of before he'd read all the history textbooks in Wammy's.
The only proof of the vague presence he sometimes used to remember as a gentle warmth without a face before it disappeared forever. Replaced instead by pain, and coldness, and shouts and the strong smell of alcohol.
His breath hitched a little at the recollection, memories he had kept suppressed for over ten years now pressing in at the edges, trying to force him to remember. Wild flashes of white and red and pain and noise and the man who had claimed to be his father though all the books he'd ever read said he couldn't have been anything of the sort with the way he beat him and shouted and cursed and hurt.
In those days, striking back had been a defense mechanism, an automatic, natural reaction. Even as a small child, he had never been meek, had never given in, had always been cursed with a headstrong nature and often-foolish stubbornness, and even before he could remember anger and destruction had been the only way out. Anger, and violence, and then when he was left alone and nursing his welts hidden away in the attic, he would curl up and clutch at his mother's cross and read about the glory of a wonderful being known as God.
The same God who delivered him one day when he was almost nine, though it seemed now possibly a little too late.
The same God who had forsaken him a few short years later when he was fifteen and the world had betrayed itself to be the same damned thing he thought he'd left behind in the chaos of the Balkans with the crumpled mess of a man he'd seen sprawled on the dirty living room floor surrounded by mountains of empty liquor bottles as he was being ushered out by foreign gentle hands.
He'd sworn once, through tears and blood, on the name of all that was Holy, that he would never, never become like that man.
Well, he thought now bitterly, staring at the door he dreaded opening, he was doing a hell of a good job becoming exactly the thing which had led him into the frenzied dark pit of fury in the first place.
He thought he'd gotten better at managing it. He thought he'd gotten over the past. He thought he was in control of his emotions for the most part now.
He must've been wrong, terribly, terribly wrong. He should never have let his guard down, never have let himself drink, never have let himself be so carelessly stupid, never have let himself be carried away in ire like that.
F-ck, f-ck, F-CK.
He knew better than anyone else how easily he got carried away, how f-cking easy it was to just lose himself in that red haze and hit and scream and kick and hurt until he felt better and everything around him was demolished.
It had been the life beaten into him for the first eight years of his life. It had been the life he so stupidly had drifted back to some years later. It was the life he didn't want anymore.
Well, way to go, Mello, he thought bitterly to himself. Way to f-cking go.
Maybe if he'd at least had more of a reason than a bit of a hangover and an annoying reminder of the emotionless boy who had taken his place in the world because perhaps God was rightfully punishing him for something. Maybe if he'd had more of a reason to strike out than because he was simply suddenly angry and he just needed to strike out at whatever was there, and Matt just happened to always be there.
Mello finally managed to collect himself enough to take a step, reaching slowly forward.
It occurred to him vaguely that he'd forgotten to put the apartment key on his key ring and thus it must still be sitting uselessly on the table.
He'd have to knock. Slowly, he unclenched his numb fingers from the cross which in the end had failed to bring him any solace, lifting his fist to rap sharply against the wood.
Matt probably wouldn't let him in.
He waited for a moment in the silence, the sun slowly rising red behind him.
Of course Matt wouldn't let him in. He'd attacked his best friend for no reason. Nobody would let their own abuser back into the same room.
What a ridiculous notion.
After all, if he'd ever had a choice in the matter, he'd have locked his father out forever in a heartbeat.
Matt had every right.
But as the dismal blonde slowly turned away, the door creaked open slightly and he whirled back, eyes wide, for he was sure as hell he hadn't turned the knob.
Yet there it was, swinging open just a crack and he stared uncomprehendingly, noting vaguely the slightly twisted hinge, as if the door had been thrown open aggressively and never been properly shut, as if his simple knocking had pushed it to open because something in the knob was broken perhaps.
It was dark inside as he stepped cautiously over the threshold with bated breath and gripping his package so tightly his scraped knuckles almost glowed white in the dimness.
Everything was the same as he remembered when he'd stumbled out half a day ago and ran away and spent the night driving himself into a numb frozen mess, and at some point punching some large rocks he'd found somewhere in the hills, and praying fervidly for forgiveness he knew he did not deserve.
The overturned furniture. Spots of blood here and there.
But Matt was nowhere to be found.
Almost afraid to call out to him by name, Mello finally managed to squeeze the sound past his throat in a soft miserable murmur. "Matt? Matt, where are you?"
His chest constricted tightly, painfully, when no answer came and the slowly lightening sky illuminated the empty apartment in shades of gray. He wandered around for a bit, checking in impossible places, even opening a cupboard though of course it was ludicrous to imagine Matt hiding from him in a space the size of the microwave.
Finally, Mello stood in the middle of the living room, at a complete loss and staring forlornly out the door, coming to the only reasonable conclusion that Matt had left.
His throat tightened, stomach twisting into painful knots as he gently set down the brand new DS he'd bought sometime last night (though he didn't really remember when except it must have been late because the store was supposed to be closing but somehow he'd managed to get them to open it again; guess nobody had ever looked so desperate for a DS before).
He looked over at the kitchen counter, dull blue eyes focusing on the cell phone he hadn't bothered to grab last night, and he instinctively picked it up, staring at the little screen which declared the time was 5:35am.
Maybe he should call?
He won't answer.
Mello wanted to throw up, guilt washing over him in burning tidal waves which scalded his entire being. Of course not.
He'd pointed a gun at his best friend.
Sure, he'd done it before jokingly or half-threateningly or even just for the hell of it when he was screwing around.
But never, ever before had his finger been on the trigger like that; never ever before had he been blind and deaf and running on pure killing instinct and wanting to just shoot and destroy because it felt so good to be so in power; never ever before had he almost pulled his finger back and squeezed…
Mello shuddered, softly shutting the door and finally able to feel his hands and face a little again. His whole body was so frozen it goddam hurt but he knew he deserved it so he did not turn the heater up and stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed onto the unmade bed with his head in his hands and his stomach twisting and clenching in knots and his chest hurting like f-ck for no physical reason at all.
After a few minutes, he reached for the cell phone again, pressing the button with a trembling thumb and listening to it ring in his ear for an eternity.
And then Matt's voice floated over from the device, his message system laughing at him and spewing some stupidity about zombies.
Matt's voice… but not Matt.
Mello clicked the phone shut with a loud snap, throwing it against the wall with a cold wrenching feeling in his chest that may have been despair but he was too exhausted and hurt and full of self-loathing to know for sure.
Falling back with a soft thud onto the mess of blankets, Mello stared at the ceiling forever. He'd overreacted. That was obvious enough. He'd done something stupid. It was all too true.
But he'd done it all before.
He'd done things like this several times before, much as he regretted to remember.
And every time he'd come creeping back with uncertainty in his eyes and a tremble in his voice and called out that familiar name…
Every time he'd been forgiven. Even if he knew he did not deserve it. Every time, since they had been children and Matt had first learned of Mello's… shortcomings. Every time since the first time when they had been ten and Mello had beaten his only friend into a bloody pulp for some half-assed reason he couldn't even remember anymore.
It had taken some time, and Mello had hidden in the upper floors of the orphanage and skipped classes and angered Roger (though in retrospect it was not anger but worry) when he stopped appearing at the meal hall for several days in a row.
But Matt had forgiven him and grinned at him with the band-aid on his cheek going all crooked and his arm in a sling but it hadn't mattered because…
Because…
Dimly, Mello felt his eyes slip shut, his exhausted body finally giving up, one arm hanging listlessly from the edge of the bed, his fingers still tingling painfully from the lingering effects of barely fighting off frostbite.
Because they were friends, he reminded himself, the thoughts swimming thickly through the dark mist creeping over his consciousness.
Friends…
He didn't deserve a friend like Matt.
The thought was bitter and cutting and true.
But Matt had always disagreed, since the day he'd first voiced his thoughts years and years ago when Matt had come to find him slumped in a corner of the attic with his ashen face buried in the Bible and despite the fact Matt was the one bleeding, it was Mello who had cried then, holding onto his loyal gamer so tightly neither could breathe and trembling and sobbing into his shirt.
The memory hurt, but was somehow calming. Or maybe that was just his half-frozen body surrendering to much-needed sleep.
Mello tried to reach for the cell phone again--just in case--his fingers stretching out to brush against the plastic, struggling for a moment before he was able to slowly pull it into his weak grasp and then drop his hand over his chest just as his breathing slowed, his skin still cold despite the warmer air indoors.
No, he did not deserve Matt.
But he still needed him. Needed him so much.
— — —
Paul Mercado strode into the room with an easy, satisfied gait, swathed in shadow, crisp ebony curls twirling snakelike around his neck and brushing his shoulders, amber eyes gleaming dully with dark satisfaction.
Those were the eyes of the Devil himself, glinting with twisted glee as he watched another damned soul come to his gate.
Those golden heathen eyes lighted with grim delight upon the figure in the middle of the empty storage room, bathed in the dim light of the single working fluorescent bulb on the far side of the room.
The young man was no more than twenty or twenty-one years in age, still a boy really; his thick, unkempt hair shone dully in the light, a soft reddish brown, his skin fair as though he never stepped outside.
He was secured firmly to the lone chair in the center of the room, arms tied together at the wrists behind the backrest, a thick cord around his waist strapping him to the back of the chair. The black and white horizontally striped shirt he wore was ripped in a few places, specks of dark red visible where they had spattered upon the white.
Only the boy's shallow breathing marred the delicious dark silence echoing all around with the promise of imminent revenge.
Paul smiled slowly. The silence which would soon be pierced with the cries of his vengeance. His eyes danced with anticipation as he drank in the sight of his prey.
Ridiculous, really, but he'd seen the proof himself. This slip of a boy, this completely average young man with his plain street clothes and messy hair, this vulnerable, weak, and tethered creature before him…
It was friends with that monster.
Paul's smile twisted into a grimace as he surveyed the still form tied limply to the chair, a vulture circling his victim. A soft, scoffing growl escaped his throat.
How very… distasteful.
A knotting, twisting heat rose up in his chest, a feeling he'd grown so familiar with he was almost fond of it. His fists clenched, nails digging sharply into his palms as the hatred took over his mind, the pure loathing coursing through his veins in burning waves of fiery resentment as he thought, tried to imagine…
The look on his face.
The look on that damned bastard's pretty little pale face as it twisted in wretched inner agony and guilt and pain--
If a monster was capable of feeling such things, in any case.
Well, he'd find out soon, wouldn't he?
The black-suited Latino man grinned, a rabid wolf eyeing his catch, and stepped closer as the figure shifted slowly, hands pulling feebly against the cords as the prey realized it was caught.
His only regret was that it was not the golden-haired demon himself in his grasp, but that would come later, Paul assured himself with a menacing gleam in his golden-brown eyes.
No, this was better.
The bastard had taken everything from him. Now he would feel the anguish of loss, the tearing, empty sensation in his chest as he realized the truth, the helplessness of knowing and being able to do nothing.
Paul licked his lips, tongue flicking out just barely, tasting the anticipation on his grimly eager grin.
He wanted to hear the pitiful note of panic in the vile demon's voice, see the vulnerable terror in his eyes, watch him writhe miserably under the weight of all his sins. He wanted to hear the screams reverberate through the room and watch the blood drain from the bastard's face and see his eyes widen and tremble and beg. He wanted the anguished pleas to echo futilely and wanted to laugh wildly as he denied them. He wanted that despicable creature on its knees and broken before him and beseeching him pitiably so that he could refuse him everything and tear his world to shreds.
He wanted to make him pay.
No, he would make him pay. He would torment his mind and his soul and then finally he would crush that ridiculously thin little body, crush the life from it as it begged and pleaded pathetically, uselessly.
The captor's amber eyes gleamed dangerously as his hand struck out, a well-muscled copper snake, to grasp the fettered boy's chin roughly, jerking his head up to meet the still drug-clouded emerald eyes watching him uncomprehendingly.
Paul grinned, flashing long, sharp canines, his eyes lighting with a sinister, ravenous gleam upon his catch, upon his means to securing his ultimate revenge.