A transparent, vibrating curtain of milky yellow, white hot blue, streaking crimson…all shrouded in pulsing pink. The sense burned his lungs, squeezed his heart, and tickled his veins in an intimately uncomfortable manner. Mail could still sensitively and physically feel the remnants of the dreamy haze he'd entered. But it was over now; the sapphire sky had parted to onyx storm clouds.

The blond's eyes were purely enthralling. Mail had never seen such a shade of unblemished, untainted cerulean bleached ice in his life. His emerald lined pupils expanded and shrunk as he treaded water in the stranger's churning wake. Taking advantage of Mail's lack of clarity, the blond aggressively drove forward in a surge of muscle. He slid his etched hands around the redhead's shoulders and jaggedly flipped him onto his back. A soft squeak left Mail's chapped lips as his delicate spine made fast friends with rigid metal springs. The blond was significantly stronger than he initially appeared.

Mail opened his mouth in an attempt at conversation but found his throat compressed by the other man's firm, unyielding grip. Naked bronzed muscles molded themselves to a vulnerable pastel stomach. The stranger seemed to be making himself quite comfortable. Mail's throat felt stuffed with scratchy cotton and he wheezed quietly. He was very aware of the possibility that he could be seriously injured. Or worse, he could end up another nameless body in a black plastic bag. But logic could not reach him any longer. He wanted to hear the stranger's voice.

The blond pinned Mail the way a predator crushes prey. His pants for air were steady but heavy and labored with injury. Splayed, gold tinted locks made him look like a feral animal. Icy eyes violated Mail's form enough to cause the redhead's high cheekbones to blossom red. The fingers of the stranger's other hand played with the rims of Mail's carroty eyeglasses until he slid them off completely. As Mail's visionary world turned into a blur, he heard a muted sound of amusement from his captor.

"You're prettier than I thought."

His voice was low pitched, viscous; melodic. It dripped with sarcasm like nectar dripping from a swarming hive. Mail felt a pleasantly pathetic shudder move through him. He was a fidgeting fly snagged in the sticky lace of a black widow's web.

"But you have to be the worst hitman I've ever seen in my life."

Hitman? Under the blond's grasp, Mail made a murmured sound of protest and indignation. The blond blew hot air next to his ear and cradled his throbbing throat. Mail felt his heart stuttering in short, electric pulses. He wished the pressure on his neck and collarbone would subside just a bit so he could say something. He hoped that his voice wouldn't crack horribly if and when he did get a chance to speak. Mail pitifully shut his eyes in subjugation and let long cherry lashes tickle his checks. He tried not to feel helpless. Or rather, he tried not to like the feeling as much as he did. A velvet voice teased his eardrums.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you have something to say?"

The weight from his larynx was lifted and Mail's head buzzed from oxygen loss. He took a hoarse breath and willed his swimming vision to settle. Still holding him bodily captive, the stranger set his glasses back on his freckled nose. Mail blinked his dry eyes and met those wholly animated blues for the first time.

Christ, the stranger was gorgeous.

"Well don't just fucking stare at me. Surely you have something to say after dragging me to this filthy place and putting your hands all over me?"

Apparently, he was quite agitated as well.

Insensitive hands pulled Mail's face far too close for comfort. Warm breaths mingled and Mail was positive his heart was beating loud enough for the both of them. He'd never been so physically near another human being before. He'd also never felt so terrified in his life.

"Listen Ginger, I don't have time for this shit. Your silence is fucking irritating. Just tell me who hired you and why exactly you couldn't finish the job."

Somehow through the suffocating heat of blushing pink, the logical intellect pockets of reason, and the blossoming meadow of warped courage, Mail found his stammering voice.

"No, you've got it all w-wrong. I-I'm not a hitman. I'm a computer programmer! I honestly could never be capable of hurting anyone."

"Then what the hell am I doing here?"

"That's-I mean, I found you in the snow. You were bleeding really badly and I know the hospital takes awhile p-plus I wasn't sure what happened so I brought you here to my apartment. I tried my best to bandage your wounds and you sort of ended up in my lap so…"

The ice lined black orbs dilated with barely concealed suspicion. The blond's tone lowered to a fearsome, crooning purr. His hot lips traced Mail's jawline.

"So you took off my clothes and made out with my corpse?"

The pale translucent skin of Mail's face seemed to become saturated in a crimson flush. His obvious discomfort seemed to propel through every part of his body as he visibly reeled with distress.

"N-no! I mean yes, but I only undressed you so I could access your injuries! Your clothes are folded right over there-I swear! I wasn't trying to take advantage of you or a-anything. Please, you have to believe me. And I didn't make out with you-it was just a peck…like how you would kiss your sister…err I mean brother…shit."

A generous silence breached the heavy air of the room.

Mail shut his eyes again, sinking into an unpleasant pool of coiled apprehension and intense humiliation. There was no way he was escaping some sort of penalty. He should really learn to keep his damn mouth shut. And his hands-no, his lips to himself. Mail could felt wild vibrations coming from the body above him and he was positive that the golden man was quivering with anger. That is, until he heard a bubbling silky chuckle slip out. It turned out that the blond chap was actually completely hysterical with laughter. The stranger gasped as he tried to form words and failed.

His maltreated burly chest was quaking with hilarity. He was sniggering somewhat uncontrollably. Uniform white teeth were exposed in a carefree, almost childlike grin. Just like his voice, the stranger's laugh was captivating and euphonious. Mail observed in silent amazement just how young the guy looked when he was content. He'd seemed so mature when he was all distraught and battered before. But now he was as light as a canary's feather floating down from an iron cage. It was honestly charming and Mail couldn't help a small, anxious smile of his own. Coming down from his high, the stranger seemed to be trying to regain control of himself.

"I…believe you now. There is no way in hell you could ever be a hitman. You're just a babbling, spineless idiot."

The stranger was still glowing from the aftermath of his hysteria. Looking down at Mail, his glittering blues danced like sunlight touching the sea. Mail sighed softly under the passionate gaze.

"I guess I sort of am."

The redhead's face visibly fell. It wasn't like the stranger's statements were lies, so why did they sting so much? The blond picked up on Mail's distress and took some form of pity on him. Fingertips were tracing his throat again but they were much gentler this time.

"But a kindhearted idiot, who didn't let me rot in the cold. Right?"

"Y-yeah, that's right!"

The blond man had to work to suppress another wave of laughter at how quickly the redhead perked up at the simple praise. The ginger boy was pretty damn trusting to help a questionable stranger in the first place. What type of a moron did that nowadays anyway? Didn't this kid watch the local news? But without this trusting idiot's help he'd certainly be dead. He met the gleaming puppy dog pupils with the intensely purposely gaze of a predatory feline.

"Well Ginger, I suppose you're my knight in shining armor. I guess I owe you one, huh?"

His words turned the redhead into a flustering teenage girl for the second time that night.

"N-no! You don't owe me anything! I just wanted to help…I'm not looking for payment. But…"

"You want me to sleep with you?"

"NO! O-of course not! Jeez what is wrong with you?"

"Well, you wouldn't be the first."

"I was going to say that I would like to know your name."

"You can call me Mello."

"Aren't you going to ask my name now?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're Ginger to me."

"I'm not going to respond to that!"

"Why the hell not?"

"It's degrading. It's like, a dog's name."

"I think it suits you."

Mail's face contorted into a weak attempt at anger. Just because he wasn't all rugged and rough didn't mean that he deserved such a humiliating, meager nickname!

Mello smirked and caressed the redhead's burning cheeks. It was refreshing to be around someone who didn't get violent when they were angry, or even had trouble mustering anger in the first place. This kid really was kind of cute. Under different circumstances, Mello would fuck the shit out of him-consent or not.

But there was no way that could happen now. Now that he was aware that this kid had saved his life, he would never hurt him. Not physically at least.

"Ginger?"

"...Y-yes?"

"What is there to eat around this dump? I'm starving."

Mail let out a sigh that was muffled by the weight of Mello's torso.

"I'll see what I can do. But first you have to get off of me!"

About an hour later, the two men were huddled around the cracked counter top of Mail's kitchen area. Mello had dressed again in his leather pants and heavy jacket and Mail was still wearing his crumpled work clothes. Rich aromas of cheese and bread filled the previous stale air of the small room. A timer beeped, liquids were poured, and there was the clank of cheap silverware. Mail and Mello sat side by side with two steaming bowls of soup, which they voraciously began devouring. Between their furious slurps, Mail somehow found time to interject awkward conversation.

"This soup is…delicious!"

Mello glanced over at his companion, who was lapping up soup from his tarnished spoon furiously. Mail's freckled face shone with so much glee it was almost pathetic. The redhead swallowed the hot contents of his ceramic bowl eagerly and sopped up the muddy broth with the crust of his bread.

He perversely thought about another circumstance that would make Ginger swallow like that. He could see those soft pink lips hollowed as they sucked his cock, his leather gloved fingers tangled in shaggy red locks, that pink tongue frantically licking his tip like an ice cream cone, the soft gagging noises as he forced him to take the whole organ down his throat…God, he needed to stop.

Downing a mouthful of his own, Mello managed to keep himself in check by providing a hostile exterior presence. He narrowed his eyes at Mail in mock annoyance.

"What the hell are you talking about? It's an old onion, some milk, and some cheese. I wouldn't even feed this crap to a stray cat."

Mail choked a little on his spoonful.

"Wha-I was just trying to compliment you! It seems like you really have talent at cooking. All I can make is cereal."

"Well, thanks I guess. I'm used to cooking for one so I'm glad you like it."

"Yeah of course I do! I mean, I usually just get takeout but it's nice to have company."

"I suppose."

"So…I told you I was a computer programmer, right? What do you do for a living?"

"I manage a nightclub."

"Um, what's your favorite TV show?"

"I don't watch much television. I suppose I like violent shows the best."

"Well what about video games?"

"Video games are for little boys."

"Your favorite food then?"

"Chocolate."

"How about-"

"Ginger, you sure ask a lot of questions. Why do I get the feeling you're a loner or something?"

Mail briefly gazed down into his now empty soup bowl.

"Uh, well I guess that's because I kind of am. I was an orphan, a loser in college, and I'm a bit of an outcast at work."

"Well that's…pathetic."

Mello felt a tiny lump flowering in his throat and he swallowed it instantly. He couldn't believe that he felt sorry for this sap, let alone that he was physically attracted to him. He seriously needed to get out of here. Besides, he had pressing business to attend to. Mello slid out of his rickety chair and affectionately ran his fingers through Mail's chaotic tresses.

"Listen Ginger, I actually have to run…"

"You're leaving?"

Mail was visibly distraught. Mello felt like he was violently kicking a puppy.

"Well yeah. I have a lot of professional matters that need to be taken care of."

Mail suddenly experienced a very unpleasant flashback of a beautifully battered body lying in the crimson snow. He twiddled his thumbs nervously.

"Oh okay, um, I understand. Just make sure you follow up on caring for your injuries."

Mello leaned towards Mail again with another forceful visual connection. His hands grasped Mail's shoulders and his face became hard with solemnity. His lips erotically brushed Mail's as he practically sat in the boy's lap. He slipped a tiny piece of cardstock into the pocket of Mail's shirt.

"Ginger, I was serious before. When I said I owed you my life it's true. I don't have that much to offer but you can have my protection or my body anytime you want. I mean it. You have my card."

And with that bold declaration, Mello pressed his mouth to Mail's in a voluntary, steamy kiss. Mail moaned softly as his throat was viciously fucked by Mello's tongue. The natural dominance that seemed to radiate from Mello's pores was a helpless turn on. Mail couldn't believe that this perfect man wanted to do this with him and whether or not he was willing or ready to admit it, he wanted it too.

The wet kiss was hot and desperate, and neither man seemed to be able to get enough of each other. Mello was the first to pull away; forcing himself to disengage from Mail's warm body before the situation advanced to a point where he knew he would lose control. Pants of suppressed lust filled the room and Mello tried to keep his voice steady and his face blank as he hastily headed for the exit.

"Well Ginger, it's been fun. I know I'll see you around."

"Bye, Mello..."

Then the rickety door unceremoniously slammed shut, and Mail was left alone with a tiny business card and a stomach full of churning emotion. He hadn't realized how much he hated being alone until he'd had someone stay with him, even if that someone was possibly involved in illicit activity and a tad rough around the edges. Mail still thought Mello was the greatest thing to ever happen to him. Mello seemed like some sort of elusive dream, and Mail wasn't sure if he would ever be ready to wake up. Would he even get to see him again? Or take him up on one of his offers?

Mail laid on the couch that he'd been pinned against just a few hours earlier. He could still smell Mello's metallic musk infused into the worn fabric and for some reason it made him feel oddly melancholy.

It was definitely time for a smoke.