some days (aka badous memoirs)
title: some days (pt 1 of ??)
summary: badou's memoirs re: mello and the universe.
author's notes: something of a partner to rinna's and the poor man loved the great
The thing about Mello is he’s really fuckin’ smart. It’s kinda a given ‘cause he was raised to be a genius, but it always ends up surprising me anyway. We’ll go someplace like Johannesburg or Moscow or Dublin and I’ll sit around thinking everybody’s speaking martian and he’ll go up to somebody and start a conversation. Always makes me feel like a dumbass but I’ve kinda gotten used to it over the years. Besides if I’m gonna hang out in other peoples’ universes I better have a traveling partner that knows what the fuck he’s doing.
It’s not so much just that he’s smart, it’s that smart people are real goddamn suspicious when it comes to love, and I’m in love with him - and even writing this has me imagining him laughing at me, ‘cause he’s one of those people that like to pretend they ain’t never sentimental. I mean, he loves me too, ‘cause if we didn’t love each other this much we wouldn’t be able to stand being inter-universal explorers together, but it’s the admitting it that makes both of us break out in hives. The only person he’d ever admit to loving is his mother, and god help you if you ever decide you’re gonna talk shit about his mum. See, I never knew mine, but it don’t weigh too heavy on my mind ‘cause she was probably a whore and my dad was probably some kinda addict. I do wonder where me and my bro got the red hair from, though. Mello says he got the blonde gene from his mom - she mighta had eyes a different color than blue though. Don’t remember if he told me. Usually Mello’s real secretive - it’s a holdover from when he was about to become some kinda super-detective - but every once in a while he’ll tell me about his childhood. Guess I should feel flattered he trusts me that much.
-Shit, it’s been a long time since we started out, too. Three years? Weird to think that he’s 21. When I met him he was 18 and I’d give him shit for being a kid but now he’s 21 and I’m 30 and he gives me shit for being old. If he let me take pictures of him I’d be able to look back and see how little he was back then, but when you see someone every day for 3 years you don’t notice how much they’ve grown. He could probably do pretty good at describing how ungracefully I’ve aged though. He likes to talk like he doesn’t find me attractive, but if he didn’t I bet we wouldn’t bone as much as we do now. Speaking of which, I’m writing this in the kitchen of our flat in London; we’ve been staying here for 3 months, which is a pretty good record. Mello’s taking his obsessive post-hanky panky shower even if it’s like 3 in the morning and the folks downstairs’ll get pissed ‘cause of the groaning pipes which let me tell you are fuckin’ annoying when you’re hung over and trying to sleep. Right now I’m not even hung over yet; I still got a few hours of drunkenness left in me, which’ll make watching Mello sleep on me a hell of a lot more enjoyable.
That’s another thing about Mello: when he says he’s going to sleep, he’s going the fuck to sleep. He’ll just flop onto me and pass out and I learned a long time ago if I try to shove him off I’ll get a punch to the face. By now I’ve gotten used to getting my ass kicked but I’ve also gotten used to giving into his demands. Guess that’s called being whipped - but he’d say I’m old enough to settle down anyway, and that I’m too old to still be sowing my wild oats. Not like I sowed much wild oats anyway. Bitches back home were frigid, and Mello - maybe he’s coldhearted sometimes but he sure as fuck ain’t frigid. Insatiable’s more like it, ‘cept for the nights he kicks me to the couch but most of the time I deserve it.
It’s funny ‘cause in the first universe we met in he started sleeping on my couch. We’d go out drinking or he’d save me from folks who were chasing me, and then we’d come back to my place and he’d just park his ass on my couch and fall asleep. In the morning he’d demand breakfast ‘cause he figured out I’m good at cooking. Sometimes he’d do the cooking and I guess it was his way of evening the playing field and establishing that he can take care of himself, or maybe using my ingredients was his excuse to show up at my place more often. After a few weeks of that kinda shit I’d start realizing his junk was appearing in my apartment, like, I’d sit down at the kitchen table and there’d be five of his fucking crossword puzzles all filled out in pen (he always did crosswords in pen I guess to show off how much of a genius he is like I didn’t know already), or I’d go to my dresser to grab my eyepatch in the morning and there’d be a fucking cross sitting there. A fucking cross, Mello, what the fuck?
Religion was one of those things he inherited from his mom. You’d think a guy with an IQ of like 500 would figure out Catholicism is some bullshit but he was convinced. Everywhere we go he’s gotta find a church to attend mass at, and I’ll sit out in the graveyard or something and smoke a joint while he gets his shit straight with God. If it makes him less homicidal to go to church though I’m all for it. And most people if I told them Mello is homicidal they’d go ‘ha ha it’s a joke because he’s got a temper’ but I mean when the timing’s right and when it’s logical for him to be like that (always one for logic yanno) he gets legit strangle-a-guy-with-his-bare-hands murderous - not that I’m not either sometimes but the kid can get hardcore. He was a mafia don when he was like fuckin’ 15. Actually every once in a while we’ll hop back to his ‘verse just so he can check up on his guys and make sure they’re not completely lost without him. Me, though, I don’t give a shit about my home world. Place was a Class A shithole and I think that’s why I love being with Mello so much.
It’s not like we’re one of those couples who pledge our souls to each other for eternity or any of that - shit, I don’t even think we admit to being a couple. I remember way back when after a couple months of living together (and cooking for each other, and him filling up my place with his goddamn crosses, and what we thought was no-strings sex), he dragged me to a store to buy a hat - ‘cause he just wanted one, fuckin’ spoiled little shit - and that was when it hit me like a brick to the goddamn head. Think my words at the time were something like ‘oh holy shit, holy fucking shit, I think we’re dating.’ We ended up forgetting about the hat.
It’s memories like this that have me writing even though I fuckin’ hate writing. This shit with Mello, it seems normal cause it’s my life, but I’d bet good money nobody but me and him have experienced anything like it. Mello’s always writing too even if he won’t let me read any of it so I figure it’s alright if I do the same. Give him a taste of his own medicine, huh? He’s outta the shower now. He’ll probably come in here and read to me a bit before sleeping - I won’t read on my own but he’s on some kind of mission to make me as well-read as him. I like it though ‘cause if he’s reading out of a book he won’t notice me staring at him. I dunno why I keep doing that, ‘cause by now I know every inch of him by memory, but I guess it’s like looking at your favorite photograph. Plus I’ve gotta look at the real Mello because he’d split my fucking skull if I tried taking a picture of his face. Not like I’ve never tried, but he’s got some kinda sixth sense when it comes to knowing when I’ve got my camera out. He likes my photographs, though, so long as they’re of anything but him, and even if he pretends to be cruel I know he’s got a soft spot ‘cause every time we go someplace new he’ll find the best spots to take pictures at, and he’ll say something like, ‘You’re going to take pictures. It’s perfect today.’ Hey, maybe it’s repayment for how often he drags me to church.
He’ll help me develop the film, too. After this long he’s gotten pretty good; I’d teach him by standing behind him with my chin resting on his shoulder and my hands guiding his. That kinda stuff, though, it’d only happen in private, ‘cause neither of us want to parade around like, ‘hey, we’re homos!’ But sweet stuff always feels better if it’s rare, yanno? Besides, he’s gotta reputation to uphold. Can’t let any of his mafia guys see him stand on his toes to kiss me. Haha, that’s another thing we give each other shit for. He’s this tiny thing with hips like a chick’s and I’m a fucking beanstalk. Last time I checked he was 5’7” and about a hundred pounds, and I’m 6’4” and 140-something. I make fun of him for being small but really I’m not complaining ‘cause this way he fits into those skinny leather pants that make me wanna fuck the shit outta him. Me, though, even if my outfits’ve got a little classier over the years, I still like to keep it simple. The eyepatch tends to attract plenty of attention without me dressing real snappy. Mello’s the opposite I guess - without dressing like a goth he’d be the poster boy for the Aryans.
Speaking of Aryans it’s pretty damn lucky we’re both German. He grew up in England but German’s his native tongue, plus he knows, what, ten? other languages. Me, on the other hand, I can’t speak anything but German besides maybe three words of English. He gives me English lessons every once in a while but they tend to end with him just about busting a gut laughing at my accent. Not like I give much of a shit about English anyway, ‘cause I got my own translator right here with me. That’s what makes us a good team: he’s the brains and I’m the brawn. Not saying he don’t know his way around a gun - always keeps a Glock on him - but just that I’m more willing to get my hands dirty. He’s more of the commander type, yanno? Come to think of it he’d make a damn good general if he ever joined the military. We make it a habit not to hang around universes that are real heavy on war, though, ‘cause both of us have had our fill of war. Granted his idea of war is a little different from mine. Don’t know everything about his home but I do know he was at war with a guy called Kira that was the biggest mass-murderer since the age of Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini. That’s why he don’t let me take any pictures; this guy Kira, he can kill you any way he wants so long as he knows your name and face. If I was Kira I wouldn’t be able to kill him - could draw a perfect picture of his face from memory but I’ve got no fucking clue what his real name is. Mello’s some kinda alias, but it’s the only thing I know him as. Weird to think I know more about him than anyone in the multiverse but I still don’t know his name. Maybe one day he’ll end up telling me. Who knows, right? We got a long way to go.
Guess I oughta record my name here for posterity in the case that somebody but me or him reads it. My name’s Badou Nails and I’m 30 years old and I used to be an information broker or journalist or detective or some shit but now I’m on perma-vacation with this asshole called Mello that by now right oughta be my husband. Me and him can do this thing - and it’s not like we know how it works or why it started so bothering with the sciency shit is useless - but that thing we do is sorta like no-holds-barred universe traveling. There’s a time and place exists, we can get there. Well there are some places we end up by accident but they’re mostly pretty pleasant anyway and if we want to leave we can, but so far we’ve found two exceptions.
The first exception’s the one we met in. That time neither of us knew what the fuck was going on but we both got plucked outta our home ‘verses and booted into some waiting room in a weird city with a splitting headache and barcodes tattooed onto our hands. The barcodes left with the universe but it was their fault me and Mello got to talking, so I guess I oughta pay a visit back there sometime and thank the folks there for their slick matchmaking. The reason it was their fault was, the barcodes made shit happen according to the color of ‘em. Soon as I got there - well naw maybe more like a week afterward - they made it so I could only talk in rhyme. Fuckin’ dumb right? That’s what I thought too. Mello critiqued my verse. Said I was shitty at poetry. I threatened to kill him but I think the rhyming kinda took the edge offa the threat.
Well the second time we met was when I got in a spot of trouble with some thuggish guys. Hopped a fence and landed on this pissy blond kid wearing black leather and boots with soles like 5 inches tall. Packing heat, too. Think the order of events went like he crippled one of the thugs and killed another. To compensate for the trouble I put him through he made me buy him alcohol. What a little fucker. Ended up crashing at my apartment too. Think we damn near about killed each other that night - come to think of it we damn near about killed each other every night we been together. Back then the kissing and stuff hadn’t started so it was less complicated than it would become, at any rate.
Ah yeah, forgot to mention how all that mess at the beginning ended up turning into kissing. And stuff. I figure the kissing : stuff ratio is pretty skewed at this point not ‘cause we don’t like kissing but that there’s so much else to do. But the point is after we met that second time he started coming around for drinks more often. Don’t remember what his excuse was. We worked up this routine of I buy alcohol, we drink it together, and he falls asleep on my couch. Sometimes he’d kinda stretch out on my lap while I was sitting there still drinking and he wouldn’t let me get up and go to sleep in my own goddamn bed ‘cause that’d ruin his beauty rest. He still does that, the falling asleep on me and trapping me there ‘til he deemed it fit to wake up. Even that woulda been fine as it was but we had to go and smash all that to bits by kissing. And stuff. The stuff was the most important part, ‘cause everyone’s had their share of regrettable drunk kisses but I’m pretty sure nobody with their dick in some other guy’s ass could get away with chalking it up to drunkenness. I couldn’t anyway even though I tried.
The morning after we finally up and let out all that sexual tension, I woke up and I saw him laying next to me with his little girly ass naked against my hip. My first words about the whole matter I think were ‘aww fuck.’ And then I accused him of date rape but that was before I remembered initiating it. He was real mad that morning - I mean he’s always mad but this was another kind. Maybe he coulda regretted it too or maybe he didn’t want me to regret it. He was a sharp bastard that morning too. Characteristic. My first words that weren’t ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’ went something like ‘we fucked didn’t we.’ And his reply went something like ‘yes and it wasn’t good enough for you to wake me up like this.’ Words cut deep, kid! So what I could tell about the situation was that either I was a really bad lay or he was obsessive about sleep. Now I’m not one of those guys goes around bragging about his endowment but knowing what I know at the time of writing this, I can say with a pretty fair certainty Mello is just a fucking diva. So we argued for a while and then we did it again.
That’s what then crossword puzzles and fancy books and crosses and rosaries all started piling up around me. Shit, the kid spent so much time in my place I started to think he was homeless and using his feminine wiles to get him a warm place to sleep. Well he dressed too nice to be homeless but he sure did use his feminine wiles. Either way I ended up stomping into the kitchen where he was and said ‘what are you living here now?’ And he didn’t say shit ‘til he was done with his crossword ‘cause that was another of those things he was obsessive about. When he did talk he just shrugged and said ‘I guess I am.’ That was that. A couple weeks later we went out to get his hat and came back empty-handed ‘cept for the knowledge we were dating - or something. It was definitely part dating but there was a whole lotta ‘something’ in there too. But you see me complain? …Ah, I figure I do complain a lot but me and Mello both know I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.
summary: badou's memoirs re: mello and the universe.
author's notes: something of a partner to rinna's and the poor man loved the great
The thing about Mello is he’s really fuckin’ smart. It’s kinda a given ‘cause he was raised to be a genius, but it always ends up surprising me anyway. We’ll go someplace like Johannesburg or Moscow or Dublin and I’ll sit around thinking everybody’s speaking martian and he’ll go up to somebody and start a conversation. Always makes me feel like a dumbass but I’ve kinda gotten used to it over the years. Besides if I’m gonna hang out in other peoples’ universes I better have a traveling partner that knows what the fuck he’s doing.
It’s not so much just that he’s smart, it’s that smart people are real goddamn suspicious when it comes to love, and I’m in love with him - and even writing this has me imagining him laughing at me, ‘cause he’s one of those people that like to pretend they ain’t never sentimental. I mean, he loves me too, ‘cause if we didn’t love each other this much we wouldn’t be able to stand being inter-universal explorers together, but it’s the admitting it that makes both of us break out in hives. The only person he’d ever admit to loving is his mother, and god help you if you ever decide you’re gonna talk shit about his mum. See, I never knew mine, but it don’t weigh too heavy on my mind ‘cause she was probably a whore and my dad was probably some kinda addict. I do wonder where me and my bro got the red hair from, though. Mello says he got the blonde gene from his mom - she mighta had eyes a different color than blue though. Don’t remember if he told me. Usually Mello’s real secretive - it’s a holdover from when he was about to become some kinda super-detective - but every once in a while he’ll tell me about his childhood. Guess I should feel flattered he trusts me that much.
-Shit, it’s been a long time since we started out, too. Three years? Weird to think that he’s 21. When I met him he was 18 and I’d give him shit for being a kid but now he’s 21 and I’m 30 and he gives me shit for being old. If he let me take pictures of him I’d be able to look back and see how little he was back then, but when you see someone every day for 3 years you don’t notice how much they’ve grown. He could probably do pretty good at describing how ungracefully I’ve aged though. He likes to talk like he doesn’t find me attractive, but if he didn’t I bet we wouldn’t bone as much as we do now. Speaking of which, I’m writing this in the kitchen of our flat in London; we’ve been staying here for 3 months, which is a pretty good record. Mello’s taking his obsessive post-hanky panky shower even if it’s like 3 in the morning and the folks downstairs’ll get pissed ‘cause of the groaning pipes which let me tell you are fuckin’ annoying when you’re hung over and trying to sleep. Right now I’m not even hung over yet; I still got a few hours of drunkenness left in me, which’ll make watching Mello sleep on me a hell of a lot more enjoyable.
That’s another thing about Mello: when he says he’s going to sleep, he’s going the fuck to sleep. He’ll just flop onto me and pass out and I learned a long time ago if I try to shove him off I’ll get a punch to the face. By now I’ve gotten used to getting my ass kicked but I’ve also gotten used to giving into his demands. Guess that’s called being whipped - but he’d say I’m old enough to settle down anyway, and that I’m too old to still be sowing my wild oats. Not like I sowed much wild oats anyway. Bitches back home were frigid, and Mello - maybe he’s coldhearted sometimes but he sure as fuck ain’t frigid. Insatiable’s more like it, ‘cept for the nights he kicks me to the couch but most of the time I deserve it.
It’s funny ‘cause in the first universe we met in he started sleeping on my couch. We’d go out drinking or he’d save me from folks who were chasing me, and then we’d come back to my place and he’d just park his ass on my couch and fall asleep. In the morning he’d demand breakfast ‘cause he figured out I’m good at cooking. Sometimes he’d do the cooking and I guess it was his way of evening the playing field and establishing that he can take care of himself, or maybe using my ingredients was his excuse to show up at my place more often. After a few weeks of that kinda shit I’d start realizing his junk was appearing in my apartment, like, I’d sit down at the kitchen table and there’d be five of his fucking crossword puzzles all filled out in pen (he always did crosswords in pen I guess to show off how much of a genius he is like I didn’t know already), or I’d go to my dresser to grab my eyepatch in the morning and there’d be a fucking cross sitting there. A fucking cross, Mello, what the fuck?
Religion was one of those things he inherited from his mom. You’d think a guy with an IQ of like 500 would figure out Catholicism is some bullshit but he was convinced. Everywhere we go he’s gotta find a church to attend mass at, and I’ll sit out in the graveyard or something and smoke a joint while he gets his shit straight with God. If it makes him less homicidal to go to church though I’m all for it. And most people if I told them Mello is homicidal they’d go ‘ha ha it’s a joke because he’s got a temper’ but I mean when the timing’s right and when it’s logical for him to be like that (always one for logic yanno) he gets legit strangle-a-guy-with-his-bare-hands murderous - not that I’m not either sometimes but the kid can get hardcore. He was a mafia don when he was like fuckin’ 15. Actually every once in a while we’ll hop back to his ‘verse just so he can check up on his guys and make sure they’re not completely lost without him. Me, though, I don’t give a shit about my home world. Place was a Class A shithole and I think that’s why I love being with Mello so much.
It’s not like we’re one of those couples who pledge our souls to each other for eternity or any of that - shit, I don’t even think we admit to being a couple. I remember way back when after a couple months of living together (and cooking for each other, and him filling up my place with his goddamn crosses, and what we thought was no-strings sex), he dragged me to a store to buy a hat - ‘cause he just wanted one, fuckin’ spoiled little shit - and that was when it hit me like a brick to the goddamn head. Think my words at the time were something like ‘oh holy shit, holy fucking shit, I think we’re dating.’ We ended up forgetting about the hat.
It’s memories like this that have me writing even though I fuckin’ hate writing. This shit with Mello, it seems normal cause it’s my life, but I’d bet good money nobody but me and him have experienced anything like it. Mello’s always writing too even if he won’t let me read any of it so I figure it’s alright if I do the same. Give him a taste of his own medicine, huh? He’s outta the shower now. He’ll probably come in here and read to me a bit before sleeping - I won’t read on my own but he’s on some kind of mission to make me as well-read as him. I like it though ‘cause if he’s reading out of a book he won’t notice me staring at him. I dunno why I keep doing that, ‘cause by now I know every inch of him by memory, but I guess it’s like looking at your favorite photograph. Plus I’ve gotta look at the real Mello because he’d split my fucking skull if I tried taking a picture of his face. Not like I’ve never tried, but he’s got some kinda sixth sense when it comes to knowing when I’ve got my camera out. He likes my photographs, though, so long as they’re of anything but him, and even if he pretends to be cruel I know he’s got a soft spot ‘cause every time we go someplace new he’ll find the best spots to take pictures at, and he’ll say something like, ‘You’re going to take pictures. It’s perfect today.’ Hey, maybe it’s repayment for how often he drags me to church.
He’ll help me develop the film, too. After this long he’s gotten pretty good; I’d teach him by standing behind him with my chin resting on his shoulder and my hands guiding his. That kinda stuff, though, it’d only happen in private, ‘cause neither of us want to parade around like, ‘hey, we’re homos!’ But sweet stuff always feels better if it’s rare, yanno? Besides, he’s gotta reputation to uphold. Can’t let any of his mafia guys see him stand on his toes to kiss me. Haha, that’s another thing we give each other shit for. He’s this tiny thing with hips like a chick’s and I’m a fucking beanstalk. Last time I checked he was 5’7” and about a hundred pounds, and I’m 6’4” and 140-something. I make fun of him for being small but really I’m not complaining ‘cause this way he fits into those skinny leather pants that make me wanna fuck the shit outta him. Me, though, even if my outfits’ve got a little classier over the years, I still like to keep it simple. The eyepatch tends to attract plenty of attention without me dressing real snappy. Mello’s the opposite I guess - without dressing like a goth he’d be the poster boy for the Aryans.
Speaking of Aryans it’s pretty damn lucky we’re both German. He grew up in England but German’s his native tongue, plus he knows, what, ten? other languages. Me, on the other hand, I can’t speak anything but German besides maybe three words of English. He gives me English lessons every once in a while but they tend to end with him just about busting a gut laughing at my accent. Not like I give much of a shit about English anyway, ‘cause I got my own translator right here with me. That’s what makes us a good team: he’s the brains and I’m the brawn. Not saying he don’t know his way around a gun - always keeps a Glock on him - but just that I’m more willing to get my hands dirty. He’s more of the commander type, yanno? Come to think of it he’d make a damn good general if he ever joined the military. We make it a habit not to hang around universes that are real heavy on war, though, ‘cause both of us have had our fill of war. Granted his idea of war is a little different from mine. Don’t know everything about his home but I do know he was at war with a guy called Kira that was the biggest mass-murderer since the age of Hitler, Stalin and Mussolini. That’s why he don’t let me take any pictures; this guy Kira, he can kill you any way he wants so long as he knows your name and face. If I was Kira I wouldn’t be able to kill him - could draw a perfect picture of his face from memory but I’ve got no fucking clue what his real name is. Mello’s some kinda alias, but it’s the only thing I know him as. Weird to think I know more about him than anyone in the multiverse but I still don’t know his name. Maybe one day he’ll end up telling me. Who knows, right? We got a long way to go.
Guess I oughta record my name here for posterity in the case that somebody but me or him reads it. My name’s Badou Nails and I’m 30 years old and I used to be an information broker or journalist or detective or some shit but now I’m on perma-vacation with this asshole called Mello that by now right oughta be my husband. Me and him can do this thing - and it’s not like we know how it works or why it started so bothering with the sciency shit is useless - but that thing we do is sorta like no-holds-barred universe traveling. There’s a time and place exists, we can get there. Well there are some places we end up by accident but they’re mostly pretty pleasant anyway and if we want to leave we can, but so far we’ve found two exceptions.
The first exception’s the one we met in. That time neither of us knew what the fuck was going on but we both got plucked outta our home ‘verses and booted into some waiting room in a weird city with a splitting headache and barcodes tattooed onto our hands. The barcodes left with the universe but it was their fault me and Mello got to talking, so I guess I oughta pay a visit back there sometime and thank the folks there for their slick matchmaking. The reason it was their fault was, the barcodes made shit happen according to the color of ‘em. Soon as I got there - well naw maybe more like a week afterward - they made it so I could only talk in rhyme. Fuckin’ dumb right? That’s what I thought too. Mello critiqued my verse. Said I was shitty at poetry. I threatened to kill him but I think the rhyming kinda took the edge offa the threat.
Well the second time we met was when I got in a spot of trouble with some thuggish guys. Hopped a fence and landed on this pissy blond kid wearing black leather and boots with soles like 5 inches tall. Packing heat, too. Think the order of events went like he crippled one of the thugs and killed another. To compensate for the trouble I put him through he made me buy him alcohol. What a little fucker. Ended up crashing at my apartment too. Think we damn near about killed each other that night - come to think of it we damn near about killed each other every night we been together. Back then the kissing and stuff hadn’t started so it was less complicated than it would become, at any rate.
Ah yeah, forgot to mention how all that mess at the beginning ended up turning into kissing. And stuff. I figure the kissing : stuff ratio is pretty skewed at this point not ‘cause we don’t like kissing but that there’s so much else to do. But the point is after we met that second time he started coming around for drinks more often. Don’t remember what his excuse was. We worked up this routine of I buy alcohol, we drink it together, and he falls asleep on my couch. Sometimes he’d kinda stretch out on my lap while I was sitting there still drinking and he wouldn’t let me get up and go to sleep in my own goddamn bed ‘cause that’d ruin his beauty rest. He still does that, the falling asleep on me and trapping me there ‘til he deemed it fit to wake up. Even that woulda been fine as it was but we had to go and smash all that to bits by kissing. And stuff. The stuff was the most important part, ‘cause everyone’s had their share of regrettable drunk kisses but I’m pretty sure nobody with their dick in some other guy’s ass could get away with chalking it up to drunkenness. I couldn’t anyway even though I tried.
The morning after we finally up and let out all that sexual tension, I woke up and I saw him laying next to me with his little girly ass naked against my hip. My first words about the whole matter I think were ‘aww fuck.’ And then I accused him of date rape but that was before I remembered initiating it. He was real mad that morning - I mean he’s always mad but this was another kind. Maybe he coulda regretted it too or maybe he didn’t want me to regret it. He was a sharp bastard that morning too. Characteristic. My first words that weren’t ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’ went something like ‘we fucked didn’t we.’ And his reply went something like ‘yes and it wasn’t good enough for you to wake me up like this.’ Words cut deep, kid! So what I could tell about the situation was that either I was a really bad lay or he was obsessive about sleep. Now I’m not one of those guys goes around bragging about his endowment but knowing what I know at the time of writing this, I can say with a pretty fair certainty Mello is just a fucking diva. So we argued for a while and then we did it again.
That’s what then crossword puzzles and fancy books and crosses and rosaries all started piling up around me. Shit, the kid spent so much time in my place I started to think he was homeless and using his feminine wiles to get him a warm place to sleep. Well he dressed too nice to be homeless but he sure did use his feminine wiles. Either way I ended up stomping into the kitchen where he was and said ‘what are you living here now?’ And he didn’t say shit ‘til he was done with his crossword ‘cause that was another of those things he was obsessive about. When he did talk he just shrugged and said ‘I guess I am.’ That was that. A couple weeks later we went out to get his hat and came back empty-handed ‘cept for the knowledge we were dating - or something. It was definitely part dating but there was a whole lotta ‘something’ in there too. But you see me complain? …Ah, I figure I do complain a lot but me and Mello both know I wouldn’t trade this life for anything.