Mello's POV
Chapter 6: Alive
"So-you wanna get out of here?"
"Why? You had enough of this already?" asked Mello, staring at the other's profile.
"I've had enough of this to last several years. In fact, I think if I don't get out of here, my head's going to explode."
"O'Malley!"
"Jesus," the photographer swore under his breath. And, without waiting for a response, or any actual sign of assent, he grabbed Mello by the arm and all but yanked him through the hedges.
Mello merely smiled at O'Malley's sudden desperate need to escape. It was kind of funny really. And he had had far worse things happen to him on a Saturday night than some hot guy dragging him off into the bushes...
"I thought that guy in the red hat was your friend?" said Mello as they fought their way through the shrubbery.
"He is. In fact, Danny is the nicest person I know."
"Uh...then why are you running away from him?"
"Because he is the nicest person I know. And sometimes really nice people get on my fucking nerves."
Mello snorted at this. Not that he had any use for 'nice' people himself. He himself was far from nice. In fact, he was pretty sure that if O'Malley knew just how far from 'nice' he actually was, he might reconsider his options...
...or maybe not.
The two of them emerged in the back of a deserted parking lot. Suddenly O'Malley stopped and whirled on him. Mello halted, waiting expectantly.
"So. Uhm. Yey...I don't actually have a car."
"At all?"
"At all."
"Lose it somewhere?"
"If you're implying that I DUI'd my way out of my vehicle, the answer is 'no.' I was living in London up until last year and I just never had a need for one."
"Hey, I never said anything about a DUI."
"You were thinking it, though," said O'Malley, smiling wryly. "And God knows you would have enough evidence to support that little hypothesis."
"So what do you do?"
"My agent drives me around. For actual jobs. Otherwise, I just walk. That pub you saw me in last night? It's less than four blocks from where I live. Which is a good thing. And also a bad thing."
"So this is really for the good of humanity...you not having a car."
"Like I could give a rat's ass about the good of humanity," O'Malley pronounced darkly.
"An excellent philosophy," enthused Mello. Then: "C'mon, I have a bike." With that, he turned and stalked off across the parking lot.
He heard clopping footsteps behind him and smiled. No need to check and see if the photographer was following. He knew he would. Then over his shoulder a voice said, "What kind of bike are we talking about here?"
"A Ducati."
"A what?"
"A Ducati 848. A mo-tor-cy-cle," Mello clarified.
Silence. Then after a few moments: "Are you ever going to tell me your name?"
Mello smiled to himself; he kept on walking and didn't bother to turn around. "I've been considering it."
"Okay, you wanna tell me what you do then?"
"Do? Well, here lately I've been working strictly in human resources. Sort of as an outside consultant. Elimination of redundancies and such..." Mello allowed the words to trail off, and this time he did glance around, and the look he saw on O'Malley's face...
Hmm...perhaps his meaning wasn't so completely lost after all. Shit. Maybe he really had said too much. Mello stopped walking then and turned and stared at O'Malley's face. Nothing but silence and the moment became somewhat...tense. And then, just as easily, all that tension simply dissipated. And O'Malley merely shrugged and said, "Whatever. If you don't wanna tell me anything about yourself, that's your prerogative."
Mello breathed an inner sigh of relief.
But what if... said a little voice in the back of his head, What if he really knew about you and he honestly didn't care?
Bullshit, countered a second voice.
Not necessarily. said the first voice. He just ran away from his supposed 'friend' like some kind of reprobate. And the man is obviously a world-class misanthrope, and going by his choice in men-namely Valentin Ceras-he seems to go for the gutter-wallowing, fucked-up type. And he pretty much told the world he was nothing more than a drunken whore. So how can he possibly judge you?
Being a 'drunken whore' is nothing compared to the murdering-backstabbing-blackmailing-stealing-manipulating that you do on a regular basis. said the second voice. There are different degrees of sin, Mihael. And all the 'Hail Mary's' in the world will never fix what you have done.
A sin is a sin, argued the first voice.
This person is a danger to you, a third voice cut in. You shouldn't even be around him.
And why not? said the first voice.
You know why. Because you've already begun to let your guard down. said the third voice. You're being careless and foolish. It's stupid. Why-when you've spent so much time building that hard, heartless little shell of yours, perfecting that cold, uncrackable mask of calculating ruthlessness-would you seek to screw it up by hanging out with someone you shouldn't be hanging out with? By being with someone who could-and probably would-put chinks in your mental armor? By being around someone who isn't part of your world-a world full of criminals and degenerates? Someone who...
...Someone who makes you feel alive again.
"Well-is this it?"
The question was enough to snap Mello out of the mental conversation he was having with himself. His feet had found his way back to his bike without consciously thinking about it. O'Malley was waiting hesitantly nearby.
The Irishman was giving the bike a rather dubious once-over. Without hesitation, Mello hopped right on. And then he waited. And waited some more. O'Malley still didn't move.
"Well?" Mello prompted.
"I've never been on one of those before," the photographer muttered.
"It's a smooth ride," Mello said, running a gloved finger over the bike's sleek red-and-black exterior, adding extra emphasis to his insinuating words.
O'Malley raised an eyebrow at that but didn't say anything about the double meaning of the comment. Instead, he said: "You should let me do a picture with you on it-"
"-No!"
O'Malley's head jerked back as if he'd been slapped. Mello's heart began trip-hammering in his chest. See, said the chiding little voice in the back of his head, He is a danger to you.
Well, maybe I could use a little danger, another voice countered.
No! You're talking self-sabotage! the other voice said. You're letting your self-destructive streak muddy your logic-
"-I just thought...well, I just thought that you looked good on it," said O'Malley by way of an apology.
"No. No-it's okay. I just...would rather you didn't."
"Hey-If you say 'no,' you say 'no'."
"Maybe it won't always be a 'no.'" Mello answered hurriedly. Have you gone completely out of your mind? Then: "Do you still want-"
"-yes," O'Malley said without hesitation. And then-with what was an obvious mental effort-he climbed onto the seat of the bike behind Mello. Mello forced himself to relax as the photographer grasped him from behind, grabbing him a near-violent death grip. The spark of the unfamiliar contact sent a million obscene little thoughts racing through his mind, barreling through his head like a steam engine racing downhill on broken brakes. Mello felt a chill go down his spine, almost sensual, brutal in its intensity, as O'Malley whispered near his ear:
"I'll change your mind about the photo later..."
A hard rain began to pour down on them, slicking the darkened, trash-lined streets with a bone-chilling torrent, just as they pulled up outside the building that housed O'Malley's studio/apartment.
"This looks like some kind of antiques store," commented Mello as he jogged through the wet behind O'Malley, his boots slapping through the newly-formed puddles with a rhythmic splish! splash! O'Malley kept up an impressive string of swear words as he ran, obviously displeased with the sudden downpour.
"GoddamitshitIcan'tstanditfuck and Fuckmeit'scoldMotherfucker and Shitthissucksholyhell..." And on and on he went. Mello couldn't help himself; he began to laugh. He actually rather liked the feel of running through the rain. It made him feel free; it made him feel happy. It made him feel like a little kid again. It made him feel...
...alive.
The two of them-now thoroughly drenched-ducked into a small alcove by the side of the shop. "I live above the store. Third floor," O'Malley muttered by way of explanation. Another litany of curses began as he started searching for his keys.
"'Shitit'scoldSonofabitch and FuckthissucksWhycan'tIrememberwhereIputshit..."
O'Malley finally got the door open and the two of them went inside, plodding wetly up the first flight of stairs. "Aren't you afraid of living down town?" asked Mello casually. "It's kind of scuzzy; dangerous-"
"-I don't care about that." said O'Malley.
"You don't?"
"Do I seem like someone who's all into his own self-preservation?"
"Definitely not," replied Mello. And I like you all the more for it, he thought.
Mello followed O'Malley up to the third floor and into his apartment. Though 'apartment' was the wrong word for it: the whole thing was just one big open space, with pieces of furniture and decor scattered haphazardly through it. There was no division between living room and workroom and bedroom. It was all jumbled together. Couch, drafting table, desk, breakfast table. Even his bed was left out in the open, in full view. Which, Mello noticed, appeared to be missing a post...
O'Malley headed for the only clearly defined area in the loft-namely that of the kitchen-which was really just one long, wooden island separating some cabinets, a fridge, a stove and a sink. O'Malley threw his camera bag and pea coat over the bar and went behind the island and grabbed a bottle of whisky off the back counter-it was one of several bottles, Mello noted, and with that much booze on display it really was more like a "bar" than a "kitchen." "I'm thinking an Irish coffee would be good for warming up," said O'Malley. Despite this proclamation, he didn't bother to get out any coffee; he simply poured the whisky into an empty glass and took a shot.
Mello wondered idly if the glass was for his benefit.
Mello sauntered over to the kitchen and leaned his elbows on the island. O'Malley took out another glass and said, in imitation of a bartender, "Name your poison," and gestured to the colorful array of bottles behind him.
"No thanks; I'm good."
"You sure? You look drenched." The Irishman paused. "And very...shiny."
Mello grinned. "This jacket's a bit heavy though." Even dry, all the hardware he was sporting tended to weigh him down.
"So get rid of it." Mello waited patiently as O'Malley turned back to one of the cabinets and began rummaging through it. Maybe he really was going to make that coffee. No matter. It was time for him to test a little theory he had going, even as the nagging little voice in the back of his head screamed at him, Don't you dare! And so, while the photographer's back was turned, he shrugged off his leather jacket and laid it down on the counter.
And then he casually took off his holster with the two guns it had been concealing and he laid those down on the counter, too. And then he waited.
O'Malley turned back around. He started to speak, but then his eyes fell on the two guns and he froze. Mello kept his expression perfectly neutral. This was a test, after all, and he wanted to see if the Irishman would pass it.
"That's..." O'Malley began and then stopped. He tried again: "Well, I can't say I've ever had that happen before."
Mello raised an eyebrow. He said nothing; he simply waited. Waited to see what the photographer would do.
"I suppose it's too much to hope that you're an undercover cop?" asked O'Malley.
"Wrong occupation."
"FBI?"
"Wrong again."
"Ah, see-now I'm really disappointed."
"How so?"
"I was secretly hoping you were a dominatrix."
Mello laughed. It looked like the outcome of his test was a good one. Obviously, if O'Malley could make a joke like that after seeing all his weaponry...Well, obviously he'd chosen the right man here.
"You gonna kick me out now?" Mello asked casually, and he began to pick at a basket of fruit filled with a bunch of rather dodgy-looking bananas. Apparently, there was more drinking than eating going on around here.
"No," O'Malley answered quietly. Still, there was apprehension in the way the Irishman stared at the two guns.
Funny, Mello felt the same way about the camera bag sitting next to them...
Mello pulled what looked to be a decent-looking apple from beneath the rotting bananas and took a bite without asking. He looked over at O'Malley, who was staring at him again. Staring at him in that funny way of his-
-in a way that made him feel like the most beautiful creature on the planet. Like the only other creature on the planet.
You idiot! criticized the voice in his head. You're showing him too much! Risking too much! And for what? For what?
For the chance to feel alive again, answered a second voice.
"I want to take your picture," said O'Malley evenly.
"So you keep saying." Mello took another bite out of the apple.
O'Malley was staring at him hard. "I mean right now."
"Now?"
"Now." Then O'Malley said: " You asked me earlier tonight, what story would I tell about you."
"Yes..."
"Well, I have it." And the photographer's eyes flicked from his rosary, to the apple he held in his hand. Red on red. Then without warning, he grabbed both of their jackets and tossed them on the floor. He grabbed the strap of his camera bag and slung it over to the side of the sink. Likewise, he picked up Mello's gun holster-like it meant absolutely nothing-and put that by the sink as well. Then he patted the top of the bar. "Climb up here."
"What?"
"Lay. Down. On. Here." The Irishman patted the top of the bar again.
Mello raised both eyebrows. He said nothing, but in one swift, agile movement, he hauled himself up on top of the counter and swiveled around until his legs were stretched across it. O'Malley was now looking at him in a way that sent strange-but exciting-chills down his spine; it was almost as if, with just the heat of his gaze, he was touching him, caressing him...
"Lie down," the photographer commanded.
Mello obediently arranged himself in a reclining position on top of the counter. It wasn't at all comfortable, being stretched out on top of a bar like that. It was rather like being on top of one of those metal medical examination tables. Or even worse, a marble funeral slab...
O'Malley left the kitchen area then, but returned a mere few seconds later. He put three objects down on the counter by Mello's head: a bottle of what looked to be ink or paint, an artist's brush, and a strip of black cloth. O'Malley leaned over the bar, his face a scant few inches from Mello's own and said, "I'm going to...paint something on you now. And then I'm going to blindfold you."
"Ooh...kinky."
O'Malley merely shrugged as if to say, So what? He then picked up the bottle of body paint and unscrewed the lid. He was staring at Mello so hard that Mello was finding it difficult to maintain eye contact. Too much heat in that gaze...it's like staring into an open flame. But that was okay, because then O'Malley said: "Turn your head to the right," and Mello was given the perfect excuse to look away.
"Now don't move..."
The touch of the brush on the side of his neck was feathery light; the paint left a snail's trail of cold in its wake. Mello closed his eyes, concentrating on the bizarre, alien feel of it. Every nerve cell in his body was tingling; his skin felt hyper-sensitive, set on a tripwire. Every gentle touch, every lick of that soft sable hair, blazed an outline of fire across his skin. Good God, this was absurd. What the hell was he going to do when he finally put that blindfold on, when he finally let him touch him? He was going to end up melting into a pile of ash; he was going to explode into a million fiery little pieces...
"What are you drawing?" Mello managed to croak out. His eyes remained stubbornly closed.
"A serpent," replied O'Malley. "To go with your apple." Then: "Don't worry; I'm a daub hand with a brush-"
"-I know you are." And Mello swallowed hard. It was difficult to remain still. The hairs on the brush were tickling him, and the paint was...itchy.
"I'm done now," announced O'Malley. "Give it a small moment to dry. Now-do you want me to tie this on, or do you want to do it?" The photographer held up the blindfold with both hands.
"I want you to do it," Mello answered without hesitation. He lifted himself up on his elbows and waited. The dark, satiny cloth was dropped over his face, and his world was turned into midnight. He could tell from his movements that the photographer was being especially careful with the tie. Then suddenly, there was the feel, the press of fingers on the side of his face, a hand touching his jaw: his head was tilted gently to the right, then to the left. It was all unexpectedly sensual. Then the fingers were gone, and there was a hand pressing against his shoulder, urging him back. "It looks good," said O'Malley. And Mello thought he could hear a certain roughness, a strain in his voice.
Mello felt his hand being lifted, felt an object being placed into it. "Your apple, sir," said O'Malley. Then he heard footsteps retreating, moving away from him. All sounds, he supposed, were heard more keenly-sounded louder-in the absence of sight.
"So...do you want me to just stay like this?"
In answer, the footsteps returned, and Mello could sense O'Malley hovering over him, could almost feel what he knew was the photographer's hot, near smoldering gaze raking over him. He thought about taking off the blindfold, but he felt paralyzed. So he waited. The fingers returned; they encircled his left wrist, guided his gloved hand down to rest against the side of the bar. And then-
-Mello's breath hitched audibly in his throat as he felt a hand grab his ankle and shove his right leg back until his knee was bent at an angle. His heart was thrumming in his chest and his lips parted and he whispered, "What are you doing?" He had taken his now-trembling hand from the side of the bar, but those fingers-that hand-grabbed it again, and shoved it back down into place.
"Just adding a little visual interest. Getting the eye to follow the correct line..." And Mello could plainly hear the undertone of amusement in the photographer's voice. His face, he knew, was now suffused with heat. Because he thought-
Well, what he thought had obviously been wrong...
"O'Malley?"
"Yes?" There was a kind of shuffling sound, a movement at the back counter.
"Promise me something..."
"What?"
"That you won't show this picture to anyone. Ever."
"Oh? Why?"
"Just promise me?"
He heard sounds, and he knew then what it was: the camera being lifted, being taken out of its bag. The thing-the weapon-that might be the possible death of him.
What a self-destructive fool...
"Promise me. Say it."
"Alright. I promise."
"Really?"
"Really."
"No one. Ever."
"Forever and ever. Yey. I got it." A small pause. "Are you sure about that?"
"Yes. Why?" Now it was Mello's turn to question.
"Because-because it's going to look really damn exquisite..."
End Chapter 6.
Sorry, this was supposed to come out sooner. But I had a false start, sort of...