AN: Long one this time... and much angst ensues. Don't say you weren't given fair warning. . In other news, Comicon was crowded, the weather is ridiculously hot, and facial scar make-up apparently irritates my stupid sensitive skin... Urgh. Sorry for the wait, by the way. We've been kind of rather busy. ; Well, enjoy (wow, considering the content, that seems almost sadistic) and... I wonder if I should raise the rating soon... Hmm... Anywho, that's it from me since no one probably even reads these. --Tora
Hey guys, it's me again, the other author. XD Just to let you know, we're going to be changing our updating pace to once every two weeks, instead of every one...obviously, it didn't work out... Sorry about that, but I don't remember the last time we actually kept to that schedule, so we figured it'd be better if we changed it officially. Thanks for being patient with us! Oh, and for the record, Tora makes a very sexy Zuko cosplayer, even if the facial scar make-up does irritate her skin. --Hitoshi
Dizziness.
When Matt awoke, he was aware of very few things. The dull ache of his body, the nervous knot of tension in his stomach, and the overwhelming waves of dizziness that crashed against his consciousness left him disoriented and at a loss.
But the dizziness wasn't only in his head or vision. No, his whole body seemed to be spinning around itself, like something had control over the very blood in his veins and the nerves directing his every move, and sense.
There was something… something he was supposed to know, something that was important, and he reached for it with grasping thoughts but every time he got close enough for his fingers to brush whatever it was, it twisted out of his reach, and his mind was returned to numbness.
Had he been at his full capacity, it would have been frustrating as hell, but as he was, after each unsuccessful try he was only left more and more bewildered.
He didn't even know what it was he was so desperately seeking, only that there was something, something frighteningly important, and he just couldn't remember what it was.
After a few minutes of this half-conscious state, the darkness in his vision finally began to clear away to leave fuzzy images in its place. He stared blankly at his surroundings, forcing his mind to work, forcing it to understand.
He could see a wall in front of him, and nothing else.
No, wait...there was movement, a hazy image, but a moving one. A person, then?
He shifted in his place, only now realizing that he was sitting, and tried to get a better view. He was surprised to find that he couldn't move, not much anyway. There was something keeping him from moving, but he ignored the restraint, opting instead to focus his limited understanding at the moment on the person in the room with him.
As it turned out, he didn't have to try too hard as the figure began to stride swiftly towards him, stopping only to hover much too close for Matt's comfort.
He began to tell the man exactly this (for he could see enough to distinguish the gender now), but found his tongue rolled uselessly around in his mouth, and the ability to form words took much more concentration then he remembered it needing. His efforts were cut short however, when the figure shot out a hand, grabbing Matt's chin, and forcing his eyes up.
Though his vision and mind were still blurry, he understood the threatening movement, and began to pull away only to have the hand around his jaw tighten painfully.
All of his warning signals seemed to go off after this, and he began struggling futilely to get away from the stranger's grip. His efforts were useless as he found his hands tugging at unyielding restraints.
Something was slowly clicking into place, and his mind shot into overdrive, trying to assess the situation.
It was a mistake though, to try to think so hard in his state. The attempt left him feeling sick and even more disoriented then before, and for the first time he realized that whoever had done this to him had purposely incapacitated his thought process.
It…it hurt to think…
He pulled harder, more desperately at what he could now assume was a rope of some kind, but only succeeded in sending a shocking ripple of anguish from the start of his shoulderblade, to spread achingly against his entire chest.
Images flew back to him as his mind began to clear somewhat, forced into recognition by the pounding pain.
There'd been…a fight…and then Mello had left…somewhere…but he'd come back…no, no…it hadn't been Mello, it'd been someone else…and …and there'd been…pain…and blackness…
His mind pulled at the cobwebs blocking his path, and his memory finally began to surface, but it left in its wake something else.
A stickiness in his mind that made his skin crawl. He felt a cold sweat break out on his body, but wasn't sure if it had just now occurred, or if he was just now realizing that it had been there.
Everything was…everything was wrong…
He blinked, trying to rid his eyes of their hazy gleam, but found his tries unsuccessful.
He couldn't see, couldn't move and couldn't think, and for the first time in a very long time Matt found himself terrified for his own well-being.
He forced himself to take a deep breath of air, and push it in and out of his lungs.
He would not panic.
There was something wrong with him, that much he knew, but he also knew that whatever it was the person responsible for all of this wanted from him, whatever it was they thought they were going to get out of this, they were wrong.
They would get nothing.
For one thing he had nothing to give, despite his connections. He couldn't tell anyone anything about N, or L, not anything that would be useful, and it wasn't as though Mello kept anything he did a secret. No, whatever this person was hoping to find out, they would be left disappointed.
He let his mind chew on that for a while, trying not to think about whatever it might be that was going to happen to him
So he closed his eyes, and tried to relax, ignoring the pounding of his heart, the cloudiness of his mind, and the trembling of his body.
The dark man, however, did not relent. He peered into Matt's face calculatingly, searching, evaluating, as if to see what he was worth.
The boy, Paul noticed, was trembling, and cringed slightly when he tried to pull against his bonds again, sweat beading on his brow. The Latino man let him go finally, tapping his chin thoughtfully, looking him over again, noting the places where blood adorned his shirt and face, where his men had damaged his prize--though none of the injuries were bad enough to pose a fatal threat, and as long as the boy's life was not in danger, he really couldn't care less. For now he'd need him alive.
Alive and aware.
The dire plan working furiously in his twisted fancies made Paul smile slightly and he ran a hand through his thick curls impatiently, stepping around behind his catch now. He'd learned plenty in the Mob. Learned from observing the best. And then killing them. Oh, yes, he'd learned.
He'd learned the quickest and deepest way to hurt an individual was not to hurt him. Oh, no. He'd learned that particular bit the hard way, personally.
He pulled a thin red cellular phone from the pocket of his charcoal suit, examining it briefly. The phone his men had taken from the captured boy. And this was all he needed to crush his enemy until he was so easy, so very easy to kill. Hell, by the time Paul Mercado was done with him, he thought the bastard would ask for death.
Well, assuming he cared at all, anyway.
Paul frowned down at the boy again, dropping the electronic device back into his coat. After all, his cousin and spy Tammy had recounted to him what she'd seen in pretty clear detail. Apparently, the boys had had no reserves about striking at each other.
Mello had no qualms about nearly tearing his roommate's--and supposed friend's-- arm off. If Tammy had understood correctly in any case.
Ah, well. If she had and Mello really couldn't care less, Paul had other--if less 'fun' --ways. If the blonde did care at all, well...
He'd given them an advantage against himself. Paul almost laughed. He'd have to remember to mention that to the vile creature later.
Slowly, the black-clad man reached a strong calloused hand toward the bound boy's left shoulder, fingers hovering for a second as he tried to remember if this was the correct side.
Yes. He saw it now. The slightly different angle, the only very minimal difference, the tiniest signs betraying dislocation of the joint.
He smirked, fingers clamping down upon the afflicted area, pressing, squeezing, not too hard but just hard enough to cause discomfort even if there was nothing wrong with that particular shoulder. But he could immediately tell he'd hit the mark. He could sense it even before the boy reacted, and, still grinning wolfishly, he made a mental note to thank Mello later for making things easier on him.
Matt couldn't stop himself and he released a sharp yelp of protest, trying desperately to twist away from the offending touch. His eyes were clenched shut, and his breath came in deep ragged gasps. The pain had momentarily stunned him enough that he'd forgotten to breathe, as though refusing to inhale and exhale would somehow lesson the biting edge of his joints screaming at him as the pain swept over his ruined shoulder.
He rolled his tongue around in his mouth experimentally before he attempted speech again, this time with the desired results.
"…f-ck…you…"
Had he the energy or the ability, he would have punctuated the curse with a nice one fingered gesture, but as it was he barely had enough of either to just get the words out.
His mind was sticky and wrong, and he hated it. He hated the muck that coated his thoughts, an unnatural barrier keeping his head disconnected and lost. He hated how worthless he felt, and how he wanted to rip his own f-cking arm off because it would hurt less that way. He hated that smirk plastered onto the face of the man in front of him.
More then anything he hated not being able to do a damn thing about any of it.
God, he didn't even know who the hell this bastard was, but he'd be damned if he asked. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
The pain finally receded to the point that he could open his eyes without worrying that they would tear up, and he fixed his gaze unflinchingly at the man before him.
Hard emerald eyes screamed what his mouth could not.
I'm not afraid of you.
Amber eyes met his gaze, raw loathing written in those cold dark-golden orbs, and the man's smirk fell slightly, twisted into a dark grimace.
"Still have some fight left in you, do you?" he whispered dangerously. "Spirited little f-cker... We can fix that." His grimace widened into a mad half-smile.
His other hand moved into view just slightly, fingers brushing the boy's bruised jaw. Seemed Mello had done quite a number on him, after all. No matter. Paul's instinct told him he wasn't wrong.
And at this rate, it would take hardly any effort on his part to execute his plan...
He would call the blonde tomorrow, and then he'd know for sure. Tammy was still watching him, after all. He'd make sure to tell her to watch his face very closely. And then he'd call, and put the phone on speaker, and put it close to the boy so his friend could hear and...
Cold chills ran up the dark man's spine in thrilling anticipation. Oh, yes. The fun was just starting.
The beginning of the end.
He'd make that bastard pay with everything he had. Everything.
"Trial run..." Paul whispered, leaning closer. Strong dark fingers dug sharply into the young man's already bruised flesh, nails biting into the tender shoulder as Paul put all his weight behind his right hand and pushed, leaning in close to whisper in the boy's ear, "Having fun yet... Matt?"
Matt's world exploded into little white spots popping across his vision and a cry of pain burst from his throat. His breathing was even heavier than before and even the shuddering intake of air hurt his shoulder. He pulled at the cords that bound him again, but nothing gave, and he had to choke back the sob that was forming in his throat as the man's fingers dug deeper into the separation of joints, digging into flesh and cartilage.
He bit his lip in some small attempt to keep the building screams of agony somehow suppressed, and felt a stream of blood make it past his lip to trickle slowly down his chin.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!
He didn't understand, couldn't understand, what the hell this guy wanted. And how had he known his name? It didn't f-cking make any sense…he'd never even seen the guy in his life… God he just wanted to know… just wanted to know what he wanted…
I'm such a f-cking coward, he thought to himself grimly…not ten minutes awake and I'm already looking for a way out…
Pathetic…
When the excruciating pressure finally ceased he dropped his head, unable to support the weight anymore, and felt his body slump in the chair.
He just wanted it to stop hurting.
His thoughts were drawn inexplicably to Mello and Matt found himself hoping, praying, that whoever the hell this psycho was, it didn't have anything to do with his blonde haired friend…
He couldn't… it just couldn't… and he suddenly found himself needing reassurance, not for himself, but… God he just had to know if this involved Mello… he had to…
It was the only worry in the world that could have forced him to speak at that moment.
"…what…the f-ck…do you want…" The words came in gasping heaves, and his head remained lowered, still unable to muster the strength to lift it.
The dark suited man smiled again, and put a hand in his coat pocket casually to draw out a thin dark red cell phone, his other hand grasping his captive's chin again roughly, forcing his head up as blood slowly dripped down his wrist from the boy's torn lip.
"What do I want?" he repeated silkily, peering into the bloodless face with an amused little smirk and tapping the top of the phone against his lip thoughtfully. "Let's see now, are you really in the type of position to be asking me questions?"
The boy appeared to be trying to look at him, but his eyes were unfocused, half-shut, and Paul laughed softly at the ludicrous notion that he even thought it remotely appropriate to be demanding answers out of him in such a state. How ridiculously naïve.
Paul grimaced at the cell phone in his other hand with utmost loathing etched across his features before dropping it back into his pocket with a snarl.
Completely laughable and stupid. But he could be useful yet...
He tilted the bleeding chin up a little more so he could get a better view, vaguely noticing but not caring as the boy's breath hitched painfully at the movement, cold sweat beading on his brow.
"And who," Paul asked pleasantly, whispering in honeyed tones, "do you think is at fault for your current situation, Matt? I think you know exactly who to blame..."
Matt felt his stomach turn as the full impact of those words hit him, the implications making something in his chest tighten painfully, though perhaps not for the reasons the man expected.
He could see it in the dark haired man's eye, hear it in his sickeningly sweet tones, the soft persuasion, the silent voice, egging him on.
You know who's to blame… you know whose fault this is… you know who to hate…
He almost smirked. Almost. This man was going to be very disappointed.
Though his body was spent and hurting, and his mind was not at full capacity, Matt was still Matt, and he'd be damned if he didn't act like it.
He pushed aside his worries for now. That could be dealt with later, and if they... he ...had him here, then chances were they didn't have Mello, and as long as Mello was safe…
"Well," he began softly, the low tones all he could manage, "Generally, when someone has me beaten, kidnapped, and tied to a chair, I'd would say the person to blame is the one who had me beaten, kidnapped, and tied to a chair."
And then with a burst of energy that was fueled more by his will then anything else, he painstakingly coerced the muscles in his mouth to shape to his will, flashing his captor a full mouthed grin.
There was a second in which the dark man smiled fakely down at him, just a spilt second in which all that Matt had time to register was the wrathful glint in his unnaturally golden eyes.
And then the man hit him, drew back the hand which was supporting his head and drove his knuckles forcefully into the side of the boy's face with a soft snarl, the contact whipping his head to the side with a crack.
"I hate spunky brats like you," he spat, pulling a white handkerchief from his coat and wiping the blood from his hand casually, the bright red painfully vivid against the snowy silk. He shot Matt another disdainful glare, then spun on his heel suddenly, striding away with the soft click of expensive shoes on concrete.
"We'll see if you change your mind tomorrow," he called darkly from the doorway. "You have plenty of time to dwell on it until then. Sleep well, Matt..."
The man's soft chuckles disappeared behind the thick metal door as it slammed shut and silence reigned supreme in the empty storage room.
The auburn haired boy spit out the blood that had begun filling his mouth, allowing himself a small groan of pain now that the man was gone. He desperately wished for nothing more than to massage his aching jaw, but knew it was impossible given his restraints.
Still. Still the comment had been worth it, if only because it gave Matt the satisfaction of seeing the man thrown off of his perfect little act. The guy obviously wasn't used to anyone talking back to him and it made his words all that much sweeter.
He tried to readjust himself to a more comfortable position in the chair, but only ended up aggravating the throbbing shoulder that he'd done a good job of forgetting about up until now.
He winced, frustrated with his aching body, and his inability to change his current situation.
What was he supposed to do? Just wait here until someone came for him? Besides the fact that the idea revolted him, it also wasn't going to work.
The only person who would notice he was gone was probably thinking he had left of his own accord…
His captor's words came back to him, and a frown fell upon his bruised face. There was no question as to whom the man was referring, but… there was no way of knowing what he was after.
The only thing Matt knew for sure was that he was being used as a pawn in some way. He almost retched at the thought, knowing he was going to be used against Mello.
At first he had thought whoever this bastard was had only wanted information, but it had become clear to Matt that that wasn't it at all.
So, what, were they going to use him as a hostage? Demand some kind of ransom?
The thought almost brought a smile to his face. After their last encounter, Matt wasn't even sure if Mello would care… not enough anyway…
And if he did… well… Matt just hoped he didn't.
He didn't want to think about what was happening to him, possibly happening to Mello. He couldn't let that happen…
He squirmed against his bonds again, the thought of Mello in the same situation giving him strength that he hadn't known he possessed.
No, he couldn't let that happen no matter what. Not to Mello… never ever again would he sit by unaware… he'd promised himself… he couldn't fail his best friend…couldn't fail himself again.
Fire. Screaming. The stench of burning flesh filling the air.
NEVER AGAIN
Not you, Mello… I won't let them hurt you…
He wasn't sure when the repeating mantra turned from a firm reassurance to a frantic plea in his head, but after more then an hour to dwell on the subject in the dark room in which he had been left, every worry and concern seemed closer to him, tearing him apart, and demanding his attention.
They pressed down on his mind, showing him nightmares and bloody hallucinations of what could happen if he failed, of what he couldn't prevent, and how utterly, completely useless he was… is… always had been…
His once-calm and somewhat snide attitude was gone, replaced with fear, and doubt, and painful wrenches at fast holding restraints.
It left him near hyperventilation, and pulling frantically at the ropes that secured him.
It was in this state of mind that his exhaustion finally won, pulling Matt unwilling into a dark and horror filled sleep, his wrists still bound tightly behind his back now soaked with blood and sweat, open raw flesh still pulling at the cords even in his sleep.
And in his dreams, he fought to protect him a thousand times, fought with everything he had, blood, sweat and tears.
And in his dreams, he failed a thousand times, agonized screams ripping apart the space in his mind.
Mello…
— — —
Dull blue eyes opened slowly and the blonde boy could not prevent the low moan which escaped his lips when he attempted to roll onto his side, his muscles protesting in sudden faint pain.
He winced and did not attempt the feat again, instead opting to remain sprawled on his back on the queen sized bed in the middle of the messy apartment bedroom.
His mind was as numb as his body and it took him a moment to figure out what was going on, trying to sort out why the f-ck his whole body tingled painfully and his head felt full of wool.
Matt…
And then Mello remembered with a sickening lurching sensation and he tried to sit up in a hurry, the world becoming white before his eyes as it came crashing up to meet him, the muscles in his chest seizing agonizingly, forcing him to fall back to the bed again, curled upon his side and coughing weakly into the pillow.
"F-f-ck," he managed pointlessly, sucking in a shuddering breath of air. After a few minutes of fighting for oxygen when his lungs seemed to be refusing to work properly, he tried again, one thought driving him.
Matt…
Carefully, excruciatingly, Mello pushed himself up again, supporting his weight with trembling arms, something in the back of his mind noting vaguely that he probably had hypothermia or something and that he was a bloody idiot and what the f-ck had he been thinking, goddamit, he was so stupid and useless…
Still breathing raggedly, he picked up the cell phone by his side on the bed to note it was now early evening, just shy of six o'clock. He'd slept all day.
And there were no missed calls.
Also, he still wasn't warm. Come to think of it, he'd kind of forgotten to cover himself earlier.
But that was beside the point, Mello reminded himself harshly, rubbing the goosebumps on his arms as he sluggishly dragged himself off the bed, supporting his weight on the wall as he stumbled into the living room.
"Matt…?" he called faintly, finding his mouth a bit reluctant to function properly. "You… home…?"
No response.
Of course not.
And it was dark. Mello flicked the light with numb fingers, pulling himself along the wall into the kitchen.
No missed calls. No note on the fridge or on the counter. No sign that anyone had touched the new game console on the table. No discarded cigarettes in the ash tray.
No Matt.
Another pained whimper escaped Mello's throat as he slumped against the kitchen counter, black spots dancing before his vision.
Maybe he should call again…?
But he knew that it would probably be a mistake. He doubted he could form the words when he couldn't feel his lips.
Besides, Matt would be very angry to see him like this. Assuming he didn't really actually him and leave for real this time.
Mello had come to depend on him so much, had come to count on the fact that no matter what he did, the gamer always came back, that he understood and after he had the time to recuperate he would forgive him and things would be okay again and Matt would be Matt again and he would be Mello.
Matt had just always come back before. He'd always understood before. He'd always known Mello didn't really mean to hurt him, that things just happenedand Mello couldn't control them and…
But this wasn't Wammy's and they weren't children anymore.
Mello had pointed a gun at him.
A gun. A killing weapon. And his finger had been on the trigger.
The urge to vomit washed over him again and Mello's knees buckled before he managed to catch himself on the edge of the counter.
No, no, no, no, no…
He couldn't allow himself to think this way, should never have let himself imagine such things…
And for God's sake what the f-ck had he been thinking last night?
Matt would be livid if he returned…
NO.
Matt will be livid when he returns…
Concentrating on making his hands work properly, Mello shuffled about the kitchen slowly, painstakingly filling a large glass beaker with water, putting it in the microwave, adding scoops and scoops of hot chocolate powder, pouring it into a mug.
He wondered if the fact his hands had started shaking was a good thing or a bad thing at this point. At least he could feel them again, as he pressed his palms against the hot sides of the cup, watching the steam wafting up from the hot chocolate.
He knew he wasn't wrong in remembering the proper treatments, and he was fairly sure if he even had hypothermia it was only in its first stage and he should be alright soon enough.
Gulping down the scalding liquid and trying not to spill too much though his body was suddenly shivering again, Mello poured himself another, and another, and then finally began to drag himself back toward the bedroom with soft involuntarily moans and whimpers as feeling returned to his limbs.
He stopped once to adjust the heater to the highest it could go, then collapsed onto the bed and pulled every blanket in reach over himself, clutching his cell phone tightly in one hand to make sure he'd hear it ring and feel it vibrate against his chest… just in case.
How pathetic…
The thought did not make him as angry as it should have and Mello resolved not to dwell on his stupidity.
He'd be fine tomorrow morning.
And if Matt was still gone by then, well… He'd go look for him. He didn't give a damn if Matt didn't want to see him ever again, he decided stubbornly. He was going to find him and apologize and then they could part ways but not like this… not like this…
Not after what had happened.
Not like this.
The world faded quickly and he was finally warm.
But Mello slept badly that night. His body was not strong enough to twist and turn in his restless slumber, but his fingers left deep rifts in the mattress where they dug into the material as nightmares plagued his dreams.
And he was back again, back to that winter night just a little over a year ago…
Mello watched in horror as the little screen on the truck portrayed a tiny image of a red car slamming through a wall of armed men, their shots piercing the windshield, the windows, even the metal, the tires flattened and sparking as the vehicle burst forward with an angry squeal and headed for a nearby bridge, dozens of cars on its trail.
And turned the corner.
And slammed into the railing.
And toppled over the bridge.
And disappeared from view.
The reporter's voice fell on deaf ears as the blonde finally remembered to look back at the road, his mind suddenly blank with shock, chest twisting and knotting as his heart tried to burst out of his throat and he ignored the words and the yells of the nude woman slamming against the inside back of the stolen truck as he swerved sharply off the road.
"…the young man driving the car has not yet been identified… he appears to have lost control of the vehicle… police suspect he was killed in the shots fired by Takada's guards and are now going to investigate the scene…"
And then Mello nearly crashed into the collapsing wall of an abandoned church and he was vaulting out of the driver's seat and sprinting toward the road and his heart was pounding in his ears and, Oh God, oh f-ck, oh God…
He had to call Near first… Make sure… make sure…
Oh yeah, Takada. Take care of the bitch. Near could do that. F-ck Near. F-ck Takada…
Oh, God.
God, God, God…
Matt…
The heat pressed in and the blankets had gotten tangled around his limbs and Mello thought maybe it was sweat on his cheeks or maybe it was something else but he couldn't stop and the memories kept crashing against his mind in agonizing waves.
And then Matt was there, and bleeding, and dying, and not breathing…
There was blood everywhere.
And f-ck, f-ck, F-CK why had Mello taken so goddam long to find him and now it was too late and Matt was going die and it didn't matter anymore and nothing mattered anymore and…
F-CK, he wasn't breathing…!
And then Mello was tearing his shirt off and wadding it and ripping it and trying to stem the flow of blood and there must have been a dozen bullet wounds and that wasn't even counting the broken arm and cuts from shattered glass and…
A sob ripped from his throat as Matt's chest rose slowly in a sudden intake of breath, blood leaking from his mouth.
Alive… Alive… He was still alive…
But every second counted.
He wasn't even sure how he did it, but he was bandaging and stopping the blood and trying to keep him breathing and he was also dialing and yelling and cursing frantically at Hal and trying to keep the tears from blurring his vision all at once.
And Matt was alive and he hugged the bleeding, broken body close and picked it up carefully, carefully, something more fragile than the thinnest glass.
And he clung to it and did not care that Hal was there and there were other people and there was blood all over the inside of the nice leather seats of the car.
Matt…
He'd failed… He'd failed… He'd failed Matt…
Matt…
Perhaps it was a sob, perhaps merely another whimper which wracked the slim pale body clinging desperately to a sweat-drenched pillow as the noontime sun rose high in the sky, but when Mello opened his eyes again many, many hours later, he knew he couldn't give up.
He knew, he knew, he knew he could never, ever fail like that ever again and he was going to get up right now and find him no matter what.
Mello pulled himself up from the bed carefully, barely even noticing that his body ached only a little and he could feel every painful twinge in his fingers as they dug sharply into the crucifix about his neck and his lips moved in whispered prayer as he made his way toward the living room just in case, to check again and maybe, maybe his world would be back to normal again.
Maybe, maybe Matt would be back.
Maybe…
The room was empty.
His stomach and his chest and every part of him was empty.
The sun stung his eyes, illuminating the unchanged room.
Mello lifted a hand slowly, fearfully, staring down at the device he had never let go of.
12:14pm February 4, 2010 shone dully up at him.
No missed calls.
Mello had never hated a machine more in his life than at that moment as he looked down at the silent cell phone. The backlight blinked off and he was left staring pleadingly at a piece of dead plastic.
He almost threw it against the wall again.
But then with a sigh, he merely dropped his hand to his side, making his way to the bathroom with heavy feet, head down.
God, hadn't he suffered enough? The rosary cut into his fingers, the edge drawing a small spot of blood. Oh, God, hadn't he repented? Couldn't Matt come back now?
Forlornly divesting himself of the sweat-drenched long-sleeve and jeans he'd slept in for an entire day and a half with slight disgust--though perhaps less at the dirty clothing than at his own wretchedness--Mello pulled off the holy cross last, gently setting it on the bathroom counter and turning on the hot water mechanically, absently.
He couldn't get it out of his head, that horrifying, stomach-turning, heart-stopping image of Matt lying broken and bloody on his lap surrounding them both in a horrific pool of thick dark red, lungs filling with it and emitting soft gurgling whimpers and…
Mello had to wrench his eyes away from the blank spot on the wall he had been staring unfocusedly at with a start, turning off the faucet hurriedly just as the water threatened to lap up and over the edge of the tub.
Carefully setting the phone on the rim, he climbed in, wracking his brain for answers. What to do next? Should he call? Should he wait here? Should he go scout out all the nearest bars and arcades? Matt couldn't have left.
He couldn't have really left.
Could he?
Feeling sick to his stomach again, Mello mechanically washed away the last remnants of his stupid little ride through the snow, letting the hot water soothe his stiff muscles. He finished as quickly as he could without aggravating his sore body, eyes flickering over to the cell phone every few seconds, but of course it did not ring.
It took a little over half an hour.
Still no ring. Mello had never wanted to hear that dreadful Mario theme music Matt had programmed into his phone a few months ago more in his life than now.
But no annoying high-pitched tune disturbed his bath and slowly Mello began to resign himself.
It had already been two days. Plenty of time for Matt to have been across the United States again. Across the world.
His last hopes seemed to go down the drain with the bathwater and Mello climbed out of the tub with a stony look, toweling off and dressing robotically, wearing simple black jeans and a fresh black turtleneck, slipping the cross back on and feeling it settle against his chest with a weight that seemed at least a million times that of the small silver charm.
Shuffling back out to the kitchen, he began to fix himself some hot canned soup he'd found stored in one of the cupboards, not even having the energy to utter a curse against Near though he was pretty certain the canned foods in the pantry hadn't magically appeared there.
Not that he had any appetite anyway. But the thought kept rising unbidden that if Matt happened to walk through that door anytime soon and found him freezing and starving himself, Mello would be due for a beating.
He vaguely remembered Matt's attempt to force-feed him once at the orphanage when Mello had been in one of his moods. Matt had been so angry. It was almost comical. And getting sat on with a loaf of bread being shoved down his throat once was enough for a lifetime.
Dammit, he wished Matt would burst through that door and punch him in the face right now and yell at him for being so goddam stupid…
Spooning broth into his mouth without tasting it, Mello's eyes drifted around the room, avoiding looking in front of him where the cell phone sat silently on the table.
His eyes landed instead on the white lump of the twisted plastic bag which was wrapped around his latest purchase. The thought of the DS made him want to stop eating, so he let his gaze move on.
Maybe he should watch some TV…? Anything to settle his mind in the least. He'd call again in an hour. Just calm down a bit first. He'd call and leave a message saying he was sorry and he was waiting for Matt to come back and that it was okay if he didn't just as long as he at least called…
Leaving his still half-full bowl on the table, Mello moved toward the couch, eyes scanning the cushions and then the ground for the remote.
But suddenly something else caught his attention and his gaze snapped to the faint glint of orange, glued there as he froze mid-step.
There, just behind the couch. Laying abandoned on the floor. Orange plastic glinting dully in the bright sunlight.
A small frown furrowed his pale brow as the blonde stepped forward, kneeling on the carpet to gently pick up the orange-tinted goggles, staring down at them uncomprehendingly.
Matt neverwent anywhere without his goggles. Never. Not since childhood, not since Mello had met him, never. And he would never just leave them on the floor. Never.
A cold, numbing sensation slowly entered the tips of the fingers which held the goggles loosely, spiderwebbing up his arm to enter his chest with a sickening iciness which had nothing to do with the snow outside.
He vaguely remembered pinning Matt against the wall what seemed centuries ago, dislodging his prized accessory and sending it tumbling to the floor near his boot.
But that had been…
Mello's eyes shifted up, staring blankly at the far wall near the bedroom door, at least six or seven feet away.
Even if it was likely Matt had not picked them up after their skirmish--and that thought in itself was nigh impossible--there was no way in hell they could have wound up halfway shoved underneath the couch all the way on the other side of the f-cking room…
Blue eyes swiveled back to the object in hand, and Mello felt the blood drain from his face.
He was sure, he was absolutely positiveMatt hadn't been bleeding until after he'd lost his goggles. Even in the haze of rage, Mello was officially a genius and his memory was next to flawless. He remembered very clearly. He hadn't thrown a punch until much later. Not then. Not there. There had been no blood.
So why the f-ck, why in God's name, why in the name of everything holy and precious in this world…
Why were there dark dried spots of muddy red spattered on those bright plastic lenses?
Mello was sure his heart was going to freeze within his chest as ice-cold terror tried to seize it. However, he managed to quell the useless feeling with difficulty, forcing himself to let go of his held breath, willing his fingers to unclench from the plastic before it snapped in his grip.
No need to panic. No need to worry. No need…
Standing slowly, the world spinning and his ears ringing loudly in his ears, Mello walked mechanically back toward the table, pulling the cell phone into his free hand.
His earlier resignation to merely leave a message explaining he knew precisely how worthless he was and that Matt had every right to escape from him left Mello's mind without a trace.
He knew, he knew Matt. He KNEW Matt!
Matt would never leave…
No, no, no, this wasn't like Matt at all!
Not without his goggles anyway…
This was all wrong, all f-cking WRONG.
WHY is there blood? Why? F-ck, f-ck, F-CK, WHY?!
His fingers did not tremble as he flipped open the device and there was a dull raging cobalt fire in Mello's eyes, the life returned to them after so many hours of dead numbness and doubt.
Rrrrriing….
The noise in his ear made his heart quiver like that of a frightened child but his face was determined, frowning vigorously at nothing, the pallid, unsure blankness finally gone, replaced with a burning, pressing urgency of purpose.
Rrrrriing…
No answer, no answer, no f-cking answer….
Rrrriing…
Click.
There!
Mello almost jumped at the nearly imperceptibly soft sound of the phone on the other side being flipped open.
He didn't wait, plunging ahead and almost choking on his words.
"Jesus f-cking Christ, MATT, where--?!"
And then the phone clicked again sharply and the line went dead and Mello was left staring vacantly in shock at thin air with the low steady beeping ringing in his ear for a full minute before he remembered to shut the phone with numb fingers.
Matt had hung up on him.
Mello slumped into a kitchen chair, clutching the bloody goggles to his chest expressionlessly.
He had hung up.