Time was a flashing light bulb, energy pulsing in and out in violent electric waves.
Sensation was a ticking clock, jumping sharply under bones for every minute and smoothing gliding over flesh for every second.
And love?
Love was a lone ripple on the surface of a whirlpool, dissolving and fading yet still somehow existing in a sea of chaos.
Mail Jeevas was vaguely aware of the blinking headlights of passing vehicles,
the low chatter of after partying teenagers,
and the leaden pre-dawn clouds that greedily filled the sky.
But mostly, he was aware of the feeling of Mello's gloved hand wrapped so intimately around him, pumping him in careful yet demanding strokes.
Mail tried and failed to not be aroused by how easy he was to please, or how damn experienced Mello was, or the fact that they were doing this in public.
He writhed in the blond's powerful grip, but this time he moved closer instead of further away. He'd never felt anything like this, never trusted anyone to touch him or give him pleasure, and he hadn't expected it to happen like this.
"Fuck, Mello…"
As the hand pleasuring him sped up, he knew that he wouldn't be lasting long.
"Yeah, baby? Feels good like that?"
Mail's response was a strained masculine groan and an arch of his back. He tangled the fingers of his right hand into Mello's free hand and tried to keep his fluttering lashes open.
Mello hadn't taken his eyes of the redhead since he started pleasuring him.
Mail's closed bliss green eyes, his freckled cheeks contorted in pleasure…even his hands, which were white and gripping onto anything they could all blatantly expressed his reluctant desire and inexperience.
Mello had felt a bit guilty forcing Mail to indulge in his sexual urges but now, listening to Mail's desperate stream of moans, feeling his length pulse in his hand, he knew that he'd made the right choice.
He was surprised that he could control himself; be content just giving the redhead pleasure and not expecting anything in return. This wasn't very common for him; normally he was quite a selfish lover, but Mail was beautiful, virginal, and worthy.
So Mello continued to ignore his own need and gave the ginger haired boy one final pump.
"Ahhhhhhmmm…"
Creamy released coated Mello's gloves and Mail made a noise of completion that sounded almost like a sob.
One, two, three moments of silence passed; the air occasionally penetrated by Mail's soft gasps. The red haired boy looked more like he'd been fucked hard than just given a simple hand job; his mussed hair was plastered to his sweaty forehead and he was flushed from head to toe. After catching his breath, he warily regarded Mello.
Mail looked genuinely nervous, as if more was expected from him.
"Are you alright?"
Mello's voice was a hoarse whisper, and Mail was relieved that he wasn't the only one shaken up by their sudden intimacy.
"Yeah, yeah I'm g-good…but you still need…"
Mail awkwardly gestured to the blond's tight pants.
Mello shifted his leg and tried very hard to physically calm himself down. There was no way he could've done something like that to Mail and not get excited, but he didn't really want the other to know that or feel pressured about it.
"It's fine. I just need a couple minutes…"
"No."
The defiance in Matt's tone took Mello by surprise. Wasn't this what the redhead wanted? Did he feel taken advantage of?
"No?"
He hadn't thought that it was possible for Ginger to get any redder, but he was wrong.
"I-I mean…can I? Let me…"
With a swallow of nervousness, Mail tentatively pinched the teeth of the blond's zipper between his fingers and pulled it down completely to reveal silky black briefs.
"Mail…"
Mello's voice was low and strained, almost as if he was in pain, but Mail knew better. He kissed the blond's temple and smiled bashfully.
"It's okay, I…I want to…"
Shit, there was no way he could argue with that offer.
"Alright. But stop if it…if it's too much."
Don't you dare stop, Mello selfishly thought to himself as he parted his legs to allow Mail better access.
At first, the redhead was hesitant, treating the blond to teasingly gentle strokes and looking up every couple of seconds to make sure he wasn't hurting him.
Then he got progressively bolder, swirling his thumb around Mello's tip and eagerly fondling his shaft.
Pre-cum made the job delightfully slick, and soon he was swallowing the blond's moans in his throat. The blond rocked his hips, making his job easy and smooth.
It didn't take long before Mello thrust desperately forward; muffling his hoarse cry of release in Mail's mouth.
"That was…"
Mello paused in a somewhat pathetic attempt to come up with a response.
"That was really great, Ginger."
When was the last time that sex of any kind had left him speechless?
Let alone sex with an awkward red headed kid…
An awkward red headed kid who was currently sputtering in embarrassment and blushing rather beautifully and trying really hard not to look at his still exposed dick.
"Y-you're welcome."
Mello swallowed the disgustingly affectionate lump in his throat and pulled his pants back up. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring and not perverse manner.
"Are you hungry?"
Mail's eyebrows knitted together in a somewhat suspicious arch.
"Hungry for what?"
"Breakfast, dumbass. Do you seriously think I have the stamina to go again so quickly? I'm good, but I'm not that good."
Mail drowned in yet another deep flush.
"S-shut up! Don't flatter yourself."
"What, you didn't enjoy it?"
"Of course I did!"
The still flushed redhead looked up at the pink tinted sky and sighed softly in contentment. It felt good to spend a night with Mello; it felt incredibly right in a way he couldn't describe, and even though he still hadn't gotten to really talk to him yet he was happy.
Like, foolishly, ridiculously happy. Beat the final boss happy. Fairy tale story ending happy…
"Earth to Mail?"
Mail realized his mind had been furiously weaving its typical webs of imagination and he'd been ignoring Mello this whole time.
"Yeah?"
"Do you like breakfast food?"
"Is that a trick question?"
Mello rolled his baby blues in teasing frustration. He was still glowing slightly from the aftermath of orgasm, and Mail basked helplessly in his contagious light.
"Just answer the question."
"Yes Mihael, I do. I love breakfast."
Although the redhead didn't realize it, he too was radiant from their intimacy. He let out a genuine giggle as he cockily answered and the blond felt like he could get lost in the lushly tangled underbrush of Mail's glossy irises.
It was then that very moment Mello decided that he had never heard a more lovely sound than Mail's laugh. It was rich and throaty like a cup of hot apple cider by the fireplace in winter.
He found himself wanting to hear such a sound of pleasant innocence all the time and he felt instantly guilty.
A sinner like himself didn't deserve the opportunity to be near someone like Mail.
Maybe he could get away with just being around the redhead; hearing his voice, pleasuring him, learning everything about him.
That had to be enough.
People like him didn't get the opportunity for love or friendship; usually the best they got was fleeting lust.
But somehow when it came to Mail, that wasn't enough.
"Now who's spacing out?"
Mello started, he noticed that Mail had been watching him with obvious interest and his cheeks were dimpled with merit.
"Oh, shut up."
He stifled the redness threatening to bloom on his cheeks and Mail gazed at him in precious curiosity.
"Let's get you something to eat."
"Alright!"
"Dammit."
"What?!"
"D-don't act so excited; It's just breakfast for Christ's sake."
"Okay, okay…but can I at least be excited about riding again?"
Mello's face morphed into something quite seductive. He gave the redhead his Cheshire cat grin.
"Ginger, you can ride me anytime."
"I-I was talking about the motorcycle!"
"Of course you were."
"Let's just go already!"
A couple minutes later, Mail was cheerfully digging into a heaping plate of syrup drenched pancakes.
Mello sat calmly across from him, slowly sipping a cup of black coffee.
They were seated in a rundown but comfortable old fashioned diner. There were a few loners and couples occupying the plastic booths, but the two men had managed to beat the morning breakfast rush.
Mail stopped mid mouthful to observe the predatory eyes of the blond sitting across from him.
Had they seriously spent the night together?
He swallowed loudly and took a breath.
"So, tell me more about yourself again?"
"Ask away."
"Like, your childhood? What was it like?"
Mello closed his catlike eyes in brief, but painful contemplation.
"I grew up in a poor part of Russia. My childhood was violent and rather lonely."
Mail visibly cringed, but he wouldn't be deterred that easily.
"Well, how about your parents? What are they like?"
Mello's smirk almost hid the indescribable pain that threatened to bubble up from his very core.
"My mother was a whore and my father was a drug dealer. They're dead now."
The redhead visibly paled.
When he thought about what his parents were like before they died he only had happy memories. Long walks in the forest with his crimson haired dad and starry nights of listening to his mother sing softly in the moonlight. He wondered if his life would have turned out the same way if he'd had Mello's upbringing.
"What about your parents? Do you go fishing with your daddy every weekend and does your mommy bake you pies every Sunday?"
The blond's voice was crass and taunting.
"N-no. I wish."
Mail let out a weak chuckle.
"My parents are dead too."
An unpleasant, drawn out silence permeated the atmosphere. Mail looked like he was on the verge of tears, but they wouldn't quite fall. Mello looked obviously stricken with guilt.
"Oh. Mail, I didn't-"
"No, it's cool. I actually should go-I need to get ready for work. I have to be in the office in a few hours."
"I could, I could give you a ride-"
"No, I'm going to take the bus. But uh, this was fun and everything so thanks for hanging out with me."
The redhead quickly placed a bill on the table, slid off of his booth and walked rapidly out of the diner, leaving the shaken blond behind.
Mello put his head in his gloved hands and took a heavy, painful breath. What the fuck had he done?
He was seriously unbelievable sometimes, and not in a good way.
But he barely had time to think about it before his phone vibrated violently in his pocket.
He picked up and heard the familiar rumbling voice of his fellow gang member, Rod.
"Hey blondie, you ready for another coke raid?"
Mello ran his free hand over the shiny pistol hidden in his left pocket.
He longed to shoot it without abandon, smell the copper of blood in the air, snort heavenly white powder up his nose, and party uncontrollably at his club.
Violence and greed cured everything.
The lure of the mafia was calling to him, whispering in his ear, licking his throat, wrapping its arms around his waist. Mello was always powerless to the seduction of illicit activity and today would be no exception.
He told himself that he didn't belong with someone like Mail and he never would so it was pointless to try.
In fact, he was doing Mail a favor by not getting close to him.
Such a thing would only end in pain for both of them…wouldn't it?
"Of course I am. I'll be there in ten minutes."
Mail tried desperately to stop the tears that seemed to be spilling out at a rate that was far too fast for his liking.
He staggered down the street, bumping into a few other pedestrians as he searched for the bus stop. A few minutes later he hopped on the bus, tossed his change in the slot, and took the seat behind the bus driver.
His mind swirled around in a sea of confusion and pain. He wasn't sure why he'd reacted so intensely to the blond's insensitive comment but he knew that he regretted it. It was obviously from the shell shocked look on Mello's face that the other man hadn't intentionally hurt him.
He really, really missed his parents. It made him want to cry when he thought about being eight years old and lying on top of their flower adorned gravestones. It wasn't the blond's fault that they died.
But what about Mello? He had it even worse, having parents that weren't worth missing…
Mail felt a pang of guilt stabbing him in his ribcage.
He needed to go back, make sure the blond was alright and tell him that he'd overreacted. He didn't want their evolving relationship to come to a halt because he was so hypersensitive.
Mail pulled the string located next to his seat and got off at the next stop. Using every ounce of strength in his lanky legs he propelled himself down several blocks until he saw the familiar red awning of the diner.
He opened the glass door and scanned the now jam-packed area for the familiar leather clad figure.
He saw babbling toddlers, serious businessmen, and glossy women participating in all stages of their meals. Silverware clanked and low chatter made the air cheery and open.
But Mello was gone.
Mail suddenly felt lightheaded and he slumped against the doorframe. A plump gray haired waitress waddled over to him.
"You alright, kiddo? You look like you seen a ghost or somethin'!"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"I'll be okay. Did you see a blond man leave here about half an hour ago?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. He's a real looker, ain't he?"
"Do you have any idea where he went?"
"Hmmm. Not sure about that one. But he seemed pretty fired up and he was talking in hushed tones on his cell phone."
Mail had a flashback of Mello's eyes, flattened with pain and burning into his.
"My father was a drug dealer."
The dizziness instantly returned, accompanied by nausea. Somehow through the poisonous daze of his revelation, Mail managed to speak.
"Thanks, I appreciate it."
He moved unsteadily out of the door and sat on a small bench outside the diner.
Damn it, what had he done?
Mail knew that he was going to cry now, and he did nothing to stop the blotchy trails that stained his face.
As he sat the sunlight warmed his cheeks and made the saltwater on his face glisten. When he could finally control himself, Mail let out a wavering sigh.
He hated the feeling of not knowing if and when he'd see Mello again.
He also detested the feeling that Mello was involved in something illegal, just like his abusive father had been.
Something in his gut told him that the blond was not alright but he was powerless to stop anything from happening to him.
He hated being weak and useless.
And shit, he still had work in an hour.
What was he going to do?
Mello panted aggressively as his delicate nostrils inhaled the intoxicating scent of blood and ashes.
His fingers, which had been tightened in a death grip around his pistol, loosened and reddened as his circulation gradually returned. The filthy warehouse he occupied was littered in bruised bodies and gold bullets. The smoky aftermath of gun shots made Mello's eyes sting.
He stood proudly on top of a very large maimed corpse. Using a booted toe he tipped the man's body over to reveal a large briefcase. He snatched it up and glanced around in satisfaction.
They hadn't had a bust like this in ages; they were going to make at least five hundred thousand from the drugs they'd confiscated.
Stepping over the remains Mello noticed a fallen enemy still shuddering slightly. He strode over cockily, intended to gloat over the last few minutes of the man's life. He glanced down at the twitching figure.
It was a red haired boy.
There was blood smeared under his left eye. An oozing gunshot wound marred his pale, freckled throat and his green eyes were dotted with burst vessels. He panted softly; the terror in his pupils bloomed then faded into the peace of death. Mello silently watched until the spark of life in his eyes was permanently dulled.
He forced himself to move away from the body. Something acrid burned the back of his throat and he instantly fell to his knees and vomited uncontrollably.
The boy he'd killed looked way too much like Mail.
Mello became filled to the brim with indescribable loathing. Physical sickness overcame him and as the world began to spin; he crouched painfully down onto his stomach.
He continued to heave, even when he was only spitting up blood and the lining of his stomach. His chest felt too heavy for his body and his head pulsed.
Distorted images of the beautiful redhead slurred with abusive snippets from his past pumped aggressively through his mind.
He could hear his mother's hoarse voice shouting at him, along with Mail's lighthearted laugh. He had a vision of himself running down a bustling carnival market street from his childhood in Russia, which turned into a violent, dirty urban alleyway clustered with dying bodies.
Roses bloomed under his feet, and then morphed into the reaching blood red hands of the men he'd slaughtered.
They grabbed his ankles and pulled him to his knees. He tried to get up but they suffocated him; staining him with their blood and drawing his own with their talons. Pain seemed to scorch him inside an out; a hot blue flame that showed no mercy. The screams of the dead made his ears bleed.
His reprisal of darkness eventually faded into another visual of an underground tunnel. Murky water came up to his waist and he could see a faint beacon of light in the distance.
As Mello moved closer he could see that Mail was patiently waiting for him.
The redhead waved cheerfully, beckoning to him, and he opened his mouth in a silent plea but Mail couldn't hear him. The water submerged his body, choking and filling him; drowning out all sight and sound before his world warped into empty nothingness.
Blackness swallowed him whole, and Mello finally lost consciousness in a puddle of his own blood.