When Matt was gone, Mello sat his chocolate bar down on the couch cushion ceremoniously-angling it just so that, even if it melted, the faded suede cushions would not be compromised-and lowered his torso to rest near his thighs. He set his head between his knees and breathed. Assuming Matt had done as he was told (which of course he had; Matt always did as he was told), Mello calculated that he had approximately one point seven minutes before the subordinates returned. He decided that he would use that time to have a panic attack.
How had Matt found him so quickly? He wasn't supposed to- There was going to be- He couldn't- A coherent thought was a far off point on the horizon, and there was no silver lining to his cloudy mind. Everything was completely and utterly ruined, and all he could formulate with his genius mind was, "Angry."
Matt had found him because Mello hadn't told him not to look. He could, of course, tell the redhead to leave him alone and never come back, but that would lead to unpleasant consequences, such as well, Matt leaving him alone and never coming back.
His timeline was all screwed up now, though, and he would no longer allow his thoughts to stray. It was his own fault for underestimating the skills of the enemy…or whatever Matt was to him, but it was inconvenient nonetheless. Everything would have to be carefully reconsidered and recalculated.
Somehow, the chocolate bar had made its way back into his hand by the time the door swung open again. The pack was led by Rod and Jose, and some nameless guy that'd probably be dead by Tuesday held the last position. Mello decided to call him Caboose. Even when entering a room, the mafia's hierarchy was obvious. If it counted for anything, Mello would be pleased that he was the unofficial number one of this branch of "the Family." But, of course, it didn't count for anything.
The seat which Matt had formerly occupied now held Rod, and Mello refused to allow himself a preference between the two.
"The hell is this?" Rod grunted. He was eyeing a beat-up white, rectangular piece of cardstock that might have passed for a business card if anyone in their business even used them in those days.
With eyes narrowed, Mello demanded that he be allowed to see it and caught it when it was flicked to him.
"Looks like a business card," the technical leader of the mafia in L.A. stated needlessly, voicing the conclusion the real brains of the operation had already come up with. "Probably that ginger kid's phone number." Caboose snickered.
Mello quelled the spark of irritation that made itself increasingly obvious before it could grow in size. He had to remind himself that not everyone had a genius IQ and therefore could not be blamed for their own idiocy. "Yeah," he grunted appropriately in response, flipping the card over again for the fourth time.
It was, in fact, Matt's phone number-the same cell that he'd had since the later Wammy days. It was stupid of him to leave it there in the hideout, but at least he'd been smart enough not to leave any form of identification with it. A circular burn mark, perhaps left by a lit cigarette, in the top left corner would remind him who it belonged to in the case that he forgot-a scenario which was not at all likely.
What was more disconcerting, though, that Matt had thought it necessary to leave a number at all. Had he really thought that Mello hadn't remembered it, just because he hadn't called? How stupid. How irrational. How so very Matt.
The phone call went as follows.
"Hello?"
"I need you to be at the headquarters tomorrow at five. Not five fifteen, not five thirty, but five. If you don't show up then you'll never see me again."
So, it would be a lie to say that he never called. It would also be a lie to say that he made a conscious decision to do so, and that he had any other options at the time. Truthfully, I wasn't too thrilled when he did, that he did, or that he insisted upon being so damn sassy about it. Maybe it was curiosity or maybe it was the persistent desire to see him fall from the high position of grace that he held himself to in his mind, but I complied. What could bring the mighty god down from that high horse on his own personal pedestal to request my assistance in anything? (And, yes, I knew he needed my help with something. There is no way in hell he'd call me for anything else.)
Once upon a time, back at Wammy's, back before we were the closest enemies that anyone could imagine, I would have made him swear up and down that this would make me his 'Knight in Tinted Goggles' and that he was unarguably the Damsel in Distress in this fucked-up relationship before I would ever agree to stride blindly out into the world to rescue his ass any day. Or maybe not. Things had changed so much since then that I could hardly even remember how it used to be.
The car ride was long, though not unbearably so; I'd chosen the hotel precisely for its reasonably convenient location. When I arrived at the hellish funeral pyre that once had been L.A.'s biggest and baddest mafia hideout, I definitely should not have been surprised to see Mello leaning on a tiny bit of the charred ruins of the building's foundation, looking the picture of anguish though his face remained stoic and uncaring-half blown to hell though it undoubtedly was. Apparently he maintained that level of demonic composure in any and all situations. It was creepy. But I was surprised.
Even when he rose to his full height and stalked uncomfortably toward the car as soon as I slowed (after briefly considering running him over and saving us both quite a bit of trouble), my mouth was agape. The leather of his clothes looked like it had all but fused to his pink and raw flesh like a bunch of melted crayons, but he remained silent. So, so silent. A cold chill crept down my spine like an icy spider with no sense of direction.
He seemed to have trouble working the handle of the door, but as soon as I tired of giving him a blank stare, watching him struggle, and reached over to open it for him, he managed to open it himself. Unceremoniously he lowered himself down to the passenger seat and gave the windshield a series of increasingly unpleasant looks. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
"What happened?" I asked tonelessly, but received no answer. So the silent treatment was my payment for saving his ass. Oh, yes, it was totally worth it. Totally. Never seeing him again was starting to sound like a blessing...
To ease the oppressive quiet, I decided to turn on the radio. When my hand came close to the switch, a shaky, gloved, feminine hand appeared and swatted mine away. The hand disappeared as quickly as it had come and went back to rubbing the melted flesh of his neck and shoulder, as though he hadn't moved at all. He looked almost too pathetic to shoot dirty looks at. Keyword: almost. And then I realized that his hand was actually in the disgusting wound, rather than near, above, or around it, getting covered with blood and puss and skin in the places it wasn't cloaked in dark fabric. Disgusting.
"Doesn't that hurt?" The words came slowly and almost accusingly; even though it was obvious I was asking out of more than common contrariness and certainly not masked concern, I wasn't sure he'd break his silence to answer.
He didn't. I growled. "Mello. You're fucking around with a serious burn full of shrapnel and smoke and dust and God knows what else, wearing a dirty leather glove. Are. You. In. Pain?" I made it into a statement rather than a question. He probably didn't notice, but I was sort of mocking the way he got when he was angry.
"No!" he snapped, too loud, and snarled at the windshield. He couldn't look at me. If I hadn't been driving, I would have made him.
"No?" I repeated in what could have been construed as a dumb manner.
He gave me a look from the corner of his working eye and then turned further away. I noticed that he winced whenever he twisted his body a certain way. At least some nerve endings survived, then.
"We have to get you to the hospital, man."
Mello blinked.
"Hey."
No visible response.
"Mello. You've got second- and third-degree burns. I don't give a damn how good you or I may be, we can't deal with that. We can't remove some of that skin or the shit that you got in it. At hospitals, they've got morphine, disinfectants. Skin grafts." My tone faded, unintentionally, to a more low and persuasive one.
When still he didn't answer, I started getting irritated again. Of course, quelling and ignoring such things used to be my specialty, which I made quick use of now. Rather than yelling, I went for the navigation system. No way in hell I'd be able to find a hospital in a city this unfamiliar.
"Matt. Just shut the fuck up and drive back to the hotel so we can get all of this shit off of me. You'll fix this." All of this was spoken in undertones, quickly, in one breath. I could hear his teeth grinding. For the first time, I considered that maybe he wasn't talking because he didn't want to, but because it hurt to do so. Of course he wouldn't admit that. Twit.
My hand retreated to the steering wheel of its own free will and I closed my mouth. He was trusting me to not let him die. Ironic, given my ultimate intentions. Regardless I was at least 90% sure he was putting too much faith in my meager skills, but scrolled through my memory in search of relevant medical information that I may have picked up at Wammy's.
What I found was: lukewarm water, not cold or hot, get out shrapnel. Cut off anything that looked too damaged to fix. What I needed was: whether or not he should be allowed to sleep, medications, if and how to bandage all of that up, what the symptoms of infection might be, and what things I absolutely should not do. Never before had I experienced such an intense longing for Clarisse, my laptop. It was borderline lust.
"If you didn't hit your head at all, you should try to rest," I suggested more quietly, sounding entirely more self-assured, calm, and polite than I felt. Maybe it worked, as I noticed the slight relaxation in Mello's tight shoulders. Silently, I supposed that maybe he just needed someone to take control of the situation, but that thought was so absurd that it didn't even make for a decent joke.
He pressed his head against the glass and looked shockingly peaceful for someone who had just been on fire. Following his lead, I let my thoughts wander. I listened to the smooth sound of the tires against the asphalt and mused that, now that he was near me after all this time, nothing would ever be the same again.
We reached the hotel at six and Mello was out cold. I had to carry his crispy ass up seven flights of stairs like the ugliest bride I'd ever seen because I had just insisted upon having a decent view of the nasty, smoggy traffic infestation that was the city in those days and he just had to get himself blown up before I could transfer to a smaller, more nondescript motel.
I reached the door and reached an unexpected problem simultaneously. Mello was in my arms. The keycard was in my pocket. The laws of physics dictated that I could not possibly retrieve the key from my pocket without dropping my cargo, and I could not get into the room without the key, for it was locked. I also could not put Mello down because he was unconscious and the consistency of toast. My face twisted itself into an expression caught between indecision and confusion. At that exact moment, he returned to consciousness. Seizing the possibly brief window of opportunity, I set him on his feet and opened the door.
Now there are always three different ways to handle any situation: the Polite way, the Rude way, and the Mello way. The Polite thing to do would be to let me through the door first and perhaps even hold it open for me because it was my temporary home and I had gone out of my way to save his life not even an hour before. The Rude thing would be to shove me out of the way and go into the hotel without any further recognition of my presence.
Mello-validating the name of the Mello code of conduct-shoved past me, held the door open until I was safely inside, shoved me out of the way a second time, went to my master bedroom, and locked the door. Then he opened the door a crack, tossed a couple day's worth of clothes out, and slammed the door again. A hollow 'click' raised questions about the hotel's decision to install a lock on that door.
I thought I heard something weird happening in the walls, but it turned out that it was just my teeth grinding. My fingernails dug little crescent-shaped crevices in my palms. Interesting.
A/N: New chapter is more recent and therefore writing style is quite a bit different. If I read some more Palahniuk, I'm sure that old style will come back. I was just anxious to post because of alerts and reviews... I'll get my library back before the next chapter is done so I can get that sarcastic, clever, witty muse back.
Also, it seems that I need (or should have) a beta because I'm far too lazy to proofread these days. It would just be for plot/manga inconsistencies. Help me out? Please?