yon.
As the night steadily grew darker, and time elapsed far quicker than Matt would have liked for it to, the redhead discovered that the galaxies were working against him. The wee hours of the morning were fast approaching, but his rate was slowing and he still had much to do to satisfy himself—and more importantly, to satisfy Mello. Even though Matt's own, self-set standards were high, the blonde's were even higher, and Matt didn't want to upset him any time soon after he returned from Near's. Matt would bet one hell of a shiny quarter that Mello would not be in the best spirits when he came back, picture or no.
Juggling the tasks of worrying if Mello had a bullet planted in his skull or not, working on the case, and beating a rather difficult level of his own game, Matt fought off the lull of sleep. Honestly, he was starting to wonder what happened to his years of staying up until the sun started to rise—those days would have been damn useful around now. Lately, Matt just liked to sleep. As things were, though, he had to stay up to open the door for Mello, at the very least.
Matt was perfectly right to assume that Mello would be in no mood. His footsteps were heavy and menacing, as far as footsteps could, and his mind was racing. It was just after his meeting with Near...and although he had retrieved his picture successfully, a couple of things hadn't gone so smoothly.
Like his back and forth with Near. He was only reminded of the fact that even though he was working his ass off to discover Kira, and had found out more than even the younger one had, not to mention that he had been generous enough to share that knowledge, he was still being used.
He didn't outwardly display this the whole time, except of course for when he pulled his gun out. He didn't use it, though, knowing that he would be killed if he did. Dammit. Dammit to fucking hell...he couldn't do a thing. It pissed him off so much. And now, Matt would probably receive the full effects of his anger.
Mello banged on the apartment door, probably assuaging any worries that the blonde had been killed, or worse. Gloved hands muffled the impact; otherwise, he may have coaxed some blood from his knuckles.
Matt jumped, having been dozing during the time that Mello had been storming his way to the apartment. Even the other's footsteps hadn't broken the monotony of his stupor.
"Coming," he called to the door to assure the blonde that he was getting up promptly. He pulled the door open and stepped aside to let the angry Mello in, preparing himself for any repercussions that the other wasn't able to express back in the SPK headquarters. ... Matt was preparing himself for a lot.
"Get the picture?" he questioned as he closed the door, making a stab at civil conversation in hopes of staving off Mello's probable outburst.
Mello reached into his jacket and shoved the photo Matt's direction, palm colliding with the other's chest. He probably didn't want the picture per say, but the older didn't give a damn. He wanted that thing out of his sight, and would probably burn it later on. In fact, that was a given. Keeping it around would only increase its chances of it getting lost again.
"I got the fucking thing," he snapped, throwing off his jacket and fleeing to the kitchen to retrieve some chocolate. Something...anything to calm him down, though he doubted that was going to happen. There were some things even chocolate couldn't fix, believe it or not.
Matt pinned the photo to keep it from falling, pulling it away from him and peering at it quizzically. He hadn't actually ever seen this infamous picture—he hadn't actually ever seen a picture of Mello. Then again, Mello hadn't ever seen a picture of Matt either, not to Matt's knowledge. Pictures of Wammy's orphans were pretty hard to come by.
"I see," Matt commented blandly as he set the picture down on the kitchen counter. He was supposing that the meeting didn't go well at all, but even he wouldn't point out the obvious in a situation like this. "What happened?" he asked instead, although he hardly doubted that this would be any better.
Acting his usual drama queen self when it came to things like this, Mello ripped open the chocolate and shot Matt a venomous look. He wanted to kill someone about now, and if it was any other situation, he could've done it with no problem. It wasn't unheard of for him to sporadically dispose of people. But that was then. This was now. Things weren't the same, and he had to find a different outlet for his ubiquitous anger.
"What the fuck does it matter?" he shouted, a little louder than intended. His mind was engulfed in a warmth only placed by the boiling heat that was rising in his gut. He cleared everything from the couch and sat on it simply, seething as he did so.
Matt backed off at the look that the blonde shot at him—it was one of those 'if looks could kill' sort of moments, and Matt wasn't really going to push Mello's buttons quite yet. If Mello 'sporadically disposed' of Matt, the difference might be that he would actually regret it. One, Matt was useful, and two, Matt would like to think that he wasn't just a lackey that could be executed at the drop of a hat. At Mello's outburst, though, he put his hands up in mock surrender, raising his shoulders in a half shrug.
"Just asking," he insisted, heading back to sit on the opposite end of the couch from Mello, keeping his distance. He didn't want to get too close; he was...respecting Mello's personal space. Actually, Matt just didn't want to get himself killed.
"Yeah, I'm sure," he said, the boiling anger seemingly fizzling out. That would be only temporary, of course. Mello stood up, again not able to sit in one place for very long in fear of having that restlessness build up inside him again. He stomped away, resolving to go to bed soon.
But not yet. The blonde whipped around and stared at Matt. He didn't know what he was expecting. He didn't know what he wanted from the bastard...he was just, so pissed off. Mello glared on, just daring the other to say something. After awhile, he broke his gaze. What the hell...
Matt had shut up, letting Mello alone in hopes that his anger would completely die away. However, he didn't really think that it would—Mello wasn't exactly the 'just calm down' kind of guy. He was more likely to find some way to blow off the steam and then be back to his usual, grouchy self.
He arched a brow at Mello when he abruptly whirled around and stared him down, giving the other a quizzical sort of look.
"What was that?" he questioned when Mello had finally looked away. He'd caught something of a challenge in that gaze, but he wasn't exactly dumb enough to take up on that right away. Who knew what kind of trouble that could get him into while Mello was being like this?
Now, Mello was doing what he did best: challenging whoever happened to be present to blow off his anger. Matt was always the only one there, so he usually got the majority of his anger. The blonde gritted his teeth before beginning his merciless verbal attack.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Probably nothing, but this was a tactic Mello used often to trick himself into thinking it was everyone else's fault.
"There are serious things going on. A serial killer...my picture...people are dying, and you don't give a shit?"
He was thinking of poor excuses. Poor ones, indeed, but he couldn't summon up any other insult on the other's existence. Nonchalance was as close as he could get.
"And you're telling me you give a shit about people dying?" Matt challenged, rising to this one. He would deal with Mello's anger for a while, he could put up with the other shooting off snide comments, but Mello picking at him just to do something—that was what Matt absolutely hated and would not stand for. This was the thing that pissed him off the most about Mello.
"I really don't think you care. Hell, I really don't think you care that I don't care," Matt pointed out. "Kira's crazy, maybe we'll catch him, maybe Near will. But these things usually get solved without my worrying—worrying and being emotional like you are is fucking stupid. That's why L was good at this—he could get at the problem without being stupid."
Matt jabbed, finally expressing a belief or two of his on this whole matter. Normally, he kept his opinions to himself to keep Mello from having too many things to get on him about. If the blonde just thought that he was being indifferent, that was fine. But if Matt started giving things for him to analyze, he might just find something really wrong with the redhead. Matt didn't want to deal with real problems.
If there ever was a conniption in Mello's world, this would be it. His eyes widened at this; the one thing he hated most was being compared to others...whether it be Near or L, though in this case, it was his late idol. He began to shake. If he was capable of such things as tears, maybe he would have cried to release his pent up anger. But he didn't.
"You son of a bitch," he announced, probably overreacting more than he should have. He instigated the conversation, after all. "So is that what I am? Stupid? Then what does that make you?"
His hand fled to his hip, knuckles colliding with the familiar sensation of cold metal. He drew his gun, not really intending to use it, but who knew when Mello got in a mood...
The barrel pointed Matt's direction, aimed with frightening accuracy.
"Pretty stupid too," Matt managed to get out before he froze at seeing Mello's hand drop down to his weapon. Matt silently swore at not keeping a gun on him as well—it wasn't like he would actually ever shoot Mello under any circumstances, but he would have felt a lot better if he had a gun lowered at the other too, instead of just standing there like an idiot frozen in time.
"Mello," Matt stated with far too much rationality in his voice. "I just said that you being overemotional like this is stupid. Not you," the redhead attempted to reason, although he wasn't sure if his reasoning would be much better than the statement that Mello had interpreted.
"Do you get it? Do you think L would point a gun at someone he's working with? I don't think so. I'm just saying," Matt added, hoping—but dreading otherwise—that it would help his predicament. It wasn't likely.
No, that reasoning only pushed Mello further over the edge. He cocked his gun, taking a challenging step forward.
"You're..." He had several different accusations in mind: one, you're thinking less of me, and you're my friend, you're not supposed to, and two, you're comparing me to L, I'm not L, goddammit. The rest fled his mind in a rush, and he didn't know what he was doing anymore. He wasn't mad at Matt. He wasn't supposed to be pointing a gun at his best friend, but these things just happened, and he was ready to explode at any moment. Maybe scream a bit.
But that wasn't like Mello; it was shoot or think less of yourself, and the latter was unacceptable.
So he pulled the trigger.
When Mello took a step forward, fuck—when Mello just cocked his gun, Matt might have moved back if he wasn't sitting down. But as the case was, he just kept his gaze on Mello. Maybe he was thinking that if he kept his eyes trained on Mello's, the other would come to his senses and back down. Inevitably, his plan didn't work.
The last thing that Matt expected Mello to do, though, was actually pull the trigger.
For a second, shock flashed over his features as he felt near instantaneous pain and his body pushing back against the couch as the bullet sunk into his chest, just underneath the left side of his collarbone. Seconds later, Matt was doubled over in pain, gasping something that sounded vaguely like an extremely broken up 'Mello, what the fuck'. He shot a hand down to brace himself against the couch, his hand sliding on blood and leather and sinking into a crack between the cushions.
"M-Mello!"
It was hard to tell if this was disbelief, or a rather slow shock.
He just stood there for the longest time. He couldn't hear Matt, really. Nor did he hear the gunshot when the trigger was pulled. He heard the quickened beating of his own heart, and that was about it. And then...then those thoughts swam through his head.
Mello, you fucking idiot...his subconscious screamed. You just shot him. FUCK!
The blonde dropped the gun, and ran over to his friend's side. He snatched him by the shoulders.
Oh, god.
Matt was going to die.
"Matt."
He hoisted him up. Something...he needed something to stem the bleeding...something...He ran to the kitchen, snatching a washcloth and a roll of paper towels.
He had so much experience with bullet wounds, but right now all he could think of was Bounty brand towels and a cotton cloth to nurse the wound.
Behind his goggles, Matt's pupils were black disks with a faint ring of colour around them. In a couple seconds, his breathing quickened and his skin grew cold and slightly clammy to the touch. He hardly moved when Mello hoisted him up, instead, allowing the other to move him however he so desired. Something clicked as strange to him, though, when Mello came back with a washcloth and Bounty paper towels. It might have been humorous if it wasn't Matt.
"Y-you...shot me," Matt muttered under his breath, seeming more confused about the whole matter than anything else. He stared off to some point a few inches away from the tip of his nose instead of looking at Mello, his trembling fingers raised to the bleeding wound. With the shot being so close to his heart, the wound was bleeding profusely and quickly soaked his front, despite Mello's efforts. It seemed to slow just slightly with the added pressure, though, but there was no guaranteeing that it would really help.
"Y-...you...th—the fuck...th..." Matt blinked heavily, either trying to gather his train of thought, or fight away unconsciousness. Either way, it wasn't really working.
"Shut up," Mello said softly, eyes still wide as he cleaned out the paper towel roll and applied pressure to the wound. He felt like shit...like major shit. He didn't expect to actually pull the trigger. It was all just a vague blur, though he knew it had happened. If it hadn't, Matt wouldn't have been bleeding all over the place at the moment.
Dammit, dammit, dammit.
"I have to get the bullet out," he said. "It'll hurt, a lot..."
Mello pulled away the towel and put his fingers on the wound, gingerly reaching into it to find the metal. Which he did.
"Okay."
He attempted to slide it out.
Matt shut up on request, although the chances were that he'd end up talking again. Matt hadn't ever been very good at sitting still when requested, and at the moment, he felt peculiarly anxious. His shaking fingers drummed against his thigh, the fingers making contact with warm, wet fabric. He found it hard to pay attention to Mello and thusly was caught pretty off-guard by his leather-clad fingers slipping into his wound. He yelped with the sudden stab of pain joining the onslaught that was already there, his fingers reflexively curling tight into his palms. He gritted his teeth and sucked his breath in, more out of instinct than Matt bracing himself, his shoulders hunching slightly as the result.
"Fuck—" he heaved, his breath exiting in a wheeze. "Fuck—fuck—"
"Shut up," he hissed again more forcefully, letting the bullet slide easily from its brief sheath. But with it came more blood, and as soon as the bullet cleared his skin, Mello had to apply even more pressure on the wound. He had never been more scared for someone else in his life, not even himself. It was stupid. He wanted to shoot himself now, after all he had done...it was his fault. All his fault; and it wasn't every day Mello admitted that he was to blame. He began to cuss himself out silently again.
"You're going to have to get up, Matt," he said, his anger completely gone. Besides the anger directed toward himself, of course.
Matt shut up—he was coming somewhat to his senses now, and was at least attempting to cooperate with Mello. His head was still obviously quite frazzled, and he felt completely nauseous from the sudden plummet of the blood and oxygen levels in his body. He swore loudly again when the bullet came free and Mello reapplied hard pressure to his chest, clenching his fists tighter. An unreasonable dread filled him at the notion of getting up, the thought making him even more nauseous than he had been. He really, really didn't want to get up.
"Wh—" He stopped midway, remembering Mello's instructions not to speak. He was buzzing with unanswered questions, but kept them to himself—for the time being.
"Fine," he stated instead, the word coming out breathily and followed by a sharp inhale. Matt made to say something else, but either decided against it, or failed. Words seemed to be obsolete at this point—it was dawning on Matt that he could damn well die right then. Well fuck.
Mello heaved the other up under his arms, and tried to get him on his feet. He wasn't as heavy as the blonde would have guessed, but was still enough to cause a slight problem in the lifting stage. Once he had gotten him at least part-way in a standing position, he draped one arm around his waist and used the other to keep a firm compress on his bullet wound. Staggering slightly, he began to make his way toward the bedroom. It seemed most logical, he supposed...but then again, his logic was currently failing him. There were clothes in the bedroom after all, and those could be used as wraps. Or something.
He reached the threshold with difficulty, limping onward to help the other to the bed. Shit. This was hard. But all he wanted was for the other to sit down, so he could divest him of his shirt and use the bloodstained thing to dress the wound. Which he did, setting him lightly and attempting to peel the wet, warm cloth up and over Matt's head.
Although Mello had exerted far more effort in the task of getting Matt to stand up, the red-haired male was panting by the time Mello got his arm around his waist. He fought to stay on his feet and not pull the pair of them off-balance, finding Mello's weight a good help in supporting what part of him that didn't want to remain upright.
He teetered to the bedroom with Mello, his arm tightly wrapped around Mello's shoulders in an effort to hold up his weight. It was an effort that was failing fast and thusly made Matt quite grateful to feel the bed beneath him. It took him a slow few seconds to realize what Mello was doing and attempt to maneuver out of his striped shirt, the clothing pulling away with slight difficulty. The wound, placed nearly parallel to the side of his shoulder, was near circular with a small laceration off to the right side. Matt—quite the idiot—looked down at it momentarily, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply.
"Remi—not...not doing that again..." he uttered, falling forward and managing to prop himself up with a hand against his leg.
"Stop it," commanded Mello, taking the shirt and wrapping it twice around his chest, feeling quite triumphant that they had made it this far without Matt either dying or passing out. He glared at his handiwork, knowing that it wouldn't sustain the wounded one for long, and that some kind of medical attention would be required, whether it was homemade or the blonde had to go to the one place he would never dream of, not even when his entire side was nearly singed off: the hospital.
"Lie down, idiot," he said. Bed rest was all he could think of at the moment, until he got some kind of infection prevention.
Matt, once more, closed his mouth. It seemed like Mello's repetitive command wasn't really going to have an overall effect—more like a stalling sort of one. He kept still as Mello used his shirt as a makeshift wrap, not really focusing on that, but rather, breathing and staying awake. Matt was still finding it incredibly hard to draw breath in and push it back out—he'd never really given respiration a second thought, but right about then, he felt like he'd been taking the ease of it for granted all his life. Also, he had a good feeling that falling asleep would be a very bad idea. He was attempting to stave that off as best as he could—both he and Mello had his best interest at heart here, seeing as his best interest would be staying alive. Sleep did not promise that reward.
However adamant against the idea of passing out, Matt was much obliged to be offered the option of lying down. He made to ease himself onto his back, but ended up falling most of the way.
"Mello..." he muttered, swallowing the rest of his words with his shallow breathing before resigning to that.
Mello was still panicked. He looked around for a minute, his own breath quickening. He was so...so...stupid...
He looked back at Matt helplessly. What was he supposed to do? Lug him to the hospital? Run off to the drug store, only to return and find him dead? Shit.
"I have to go to the store..." he said dryly. His voice wasn't his own. "Unless you have some first aid stuff here or something. I need to disinfect the wound."
He was surprised at how rationally he spoke. It was amazing how even his tone was, despite the fact that his insides were screaming. He didn't even know if Matt could answer him in his state. Crap, damn, shit, fuck.
Matt was slow to respond, still too gathered in his attempts to remain conscious and breathing. He could hear his pulse thundering in his head as though it was working with him to remain awake here, but it would fade and falter, thus driving him more mad than actually aiding him.
"B-bathroom," he wheezed lethargically, swearing that his heart jumped when Mello told him he had to go to the store. To Hell if Mello left him—Matt would kill his companion if the blonde did that. His eyes stared, unfocused, at the ceiling momentarily before dropping to Mello. It took Matt a couple seconds to see the other clearly, but when he did, the notion was useless. He couldn't tell if Mello was as calm as he sounded, or concerned, or what. He didn't even know why he cared, but for some reason, it seemed to ring a vaguely important bell in the back of his head. It was worth a shot, whatever it was. Eventually, Matt closed his tired eyes and gave up on the matter of Mello's state.
"Top... top shelf."
Mello almost jumped at this. Okay, so that had some supplies on hand. That was definitely good.
"Just...stay awake," he demanded, knowing that that wouldn't help much. Not at all, really, but he was desperate for the other to remain conscious. If he died, he'd never let himself forget it. Matt's life suddenly took priority over the Kira case...and Near. He ran to the bathroom, hurriedly opening and closing cabinets, all the while letting forth a string of curse words. Once he finally found the first aid kit, which was hidden cleverly under a stack of toilet paper and used toothbrushes (for which Mello had no idea why they were there), he scurried back into the room, unwrapping the shirt again and beginning to douse the enflamed spot with disinfectant.
That meant a shitload of Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide.
Matt would swear that he responded to Mello's demand to stay awake, although honestly, he hardly raised a finger. He was just resting. Really. Eventually, though, his common sense got the better of him—or maybe that was the disinfecting. Matt's eyes snapped open and he hissed in pain—he wasn't sure if the disinfectant actually stung, or if it was just the cloth leaving the wound and some foreign substance making contact. He'd had ample time to attempt to doze while Mello was gone, and now seemed more distant than ever. He was still clearly alive, though, that evident by his slow, gasping breaths. He opened his mouth to say something—but then realized that he had nothing to say. This in itself was a rarity, even considering the situation. Mildly deterred, Matt looked to Mello again, squinting at him strangely.
"Smells funny," he murmured, the words lost somewhere near the halfway point of their journey.
Mello began to laugh hollowly. It was probably not because he found this particular statement funny, but because he was damn glad that Matt was alive enough to say something, even something as trivial as that.
"Yeah," he assented, not really bothering to affirm what he was agreeing to. That didn't matter. He finished disinfecting the wound, extremely glad that it had stopped bleeding so profusely. He went to the dresser, pulling out a fresh shirt. He didn't give a shit that it was another one of the redhead's clean shirts. He could get new ones.
"What're you...what're you laughing about...?" He questioned a couple minutes too late, flickering his eyes open to half-slits to look at Mello.
Matt seemed to catch on that the threat of bleeding to death was fading, and therefore relaxed. Either that, or he was slipping off into Lala Land. Either was probable. He didn't protest to Mello's taking a new shirt to ruin-- ordinarily he would, but under the circumstances, he didn't feel up to protesting too much.
Matt ordinarily would have pressed for an answer, but at the time being, he merely did something akin to a shrug and mumbled incoherently under his breath. He closed his eyes again, wanting to roll onto his side to get comfortable but figuring that it wasn't exactly a good idea. Instead, he turned his head slightly and let his cheek half-rest against the pillow. Now that the adrenaline was fading away, Matt was starting to realize exactly how much his chest hurt. It hurt a hell of a lot before, but now it positively burned against the aching.
"Fuck, fuck, Mello." He muttered, expressing his discomfort.
Matt was complaining.
"Shut the fuck up Matt," he snapped for a third time, losing his patience. It was all his fault, and now he was reminding him of that. "Quit your complaining. You're alive, right? So shut the fuck up..."
He felt bad, and so, he would probably yell about something or another. Or leave for awhile once the redhead got better. At one point, he was actually considering suicide, but he figured he wasn't that upset. He stomped away. Fine. Matt could take care of himself now…
Now that Mello was being a bitch again, Matt groaned and muttered something profane, shifting uncomfortably on the bed as Mello stomped away. It couldn't be helped. It wasn't like Matt was going to get up and go find the other. Eventually, he might just do that if he got bored of his own company, but at the moment, he was fairly contented with just dozing off. Despite his tire, though, he was finding that he was having a difficult time falling asleep. Whether that worked to his benefit or not, he wasn't exactly sure.
Eventually, however, Mello came back.
How could he not? Drowning your sorrows in chocolate could only do so much, and with no developments in the Kira case, guilt consumed his idle mind. He returned with an unfathomable expression on his face, something akin to discomfort lurking behind topaz eyes. There was a pause, in which the blonde mulled over what he was supposed to say. There wasn't much you could say to someone you just shot, especially when that person was now half-asleep on the bed, covered in dry blood.
"Sorry," he said. Lame. That didn't compensate much for what he did.
Matt slowly opened his eyes again and turned his head so that he could see Mello. Matt laughed, immediately flinching. Unfazed, though, he just continued to give a faint smile.
"I've heard that…what... twice today? Must be a world record..." Matt joked, forcing himself up into a sleeping position. He grunted and wheezed slightly, leaning back against the wall with a relieved exhale.
Matt was never notorious for sitting still too long.