you want to hold onto me, i want to hold out on you. [closed, ongoing.]

[virucide]

WHO: Mello (virucide) & Matt (lungrot).
WHAT: An extremely aggravated Mello returns home to an otherwise apathetic Matt.
WHERE: Their shared apartment.
WHEN: Day 160. Early morning.

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[lungrot]

Relief, indeed, though it's short lived and Matt resigns himself to what he knows will become a world of pain any moment now. The heat is rising still, and he hasn't escaped the figurative kitchen just yet; the look on the older man's face is enough to convince him of such. Past experiences, ghosts of angry crescents and large purple bruises blooming across chalky-white skin, do little to dissuade him.

The redhead's mouth is open and ready to interject, tongue sharp and ready. Before he can land a single word, however, there's that fist he's so well acquainted with, knocking hard against concealed bone and a row of upper teeth.

Who called it? "Fuck," he spits, head knocked backwards. The room has gone from too bright to abnormally dark, explosions of vibrant color crawling across his vision-- Mello's barely a blur, but Matt knows the fucker is there, probably soaking up the sick satisfaction of having shut him up, even for a moment.

"You hit like a girl." A provocative lie; Matt isn't sure why he lets it slip. "This the kind of punch that landed you that sweet bodyguarding gig?"

[virucide]

Rage boils up under the blond's skin, under a complicated network of nerve and sinew, but the trembling force of his anger doesn't quite reach his face--there's cold, steeled purpose to slitted blue eyes, to the rough line of his mouth twisted back in a scowl, to the tight knots in his shoulders: a practitioner's decidedness, smoothness, assurance.

Mello barely breathes when he wraps the aching knuckles of his right hand in the front of Matt's t-shirt and drags him up from the chair he's been sitting in, using the pivotal weight of his own body to slam the redhead against the wall directly behind them.

The dull thud of impact does little to dampen Mello's bloodthirsty mood, it appears. He lowers his head close, again, forcing the younger man's head back much like before. "Yeah?" comes out rasped, voice hot like an iron scalding skin, leaving angry red welts behind. "That so?"

Another fist goes up--this time he swings from the side, toward the opposite cheek, with the intent of forcing Matt to the ground.

"Getting a big fucking ego talking like this, aren't you? Guess I'll just have to hit harder."

[lungrot]

'Here we go again,' Matt thinks. Keeping his mouth clamped shut has always been in his best interest, but remains a lesson unlearned; the redhead figures it'll take another thousand yelling matches, an infinite number of fist fights before it can ever sink in. Until then, though, he has to settle with the sting of hard knuckle against bone, the swelling of tender flesh, the coppery taste that fills his mouth when he wipes at it with the back of his hand, smearing it with pink saliva. He's on the ground, all right.

Time seems to stand still. Matt's head, bowed and heavy, feels as if it's going to split; both sides of his face swell simultaneously, and the pain is so mind-numbing he might as well have been knocked out. Still; this isn't so unfamiliar, and because of that he knows he can stand back up again, run a shaking hand through the tangled mess of russet hair that sprouts from still-sore scalp, and spit. Heavy red spills onto the carpet, and the younger man swears under his breath. Fuck, fuck, fuck, "Fuck."

"Fat chance of you kissing that better later, huh?"

[virucide]

Blue-black eyes drop to that bloody stain on the carpet, and something insignificant turns over in his stomach. It's a nervous reaction, or maybe not, maybe it's just how his body has always dealt with the broken chaos of his mind; the fury sometimes so thick it physically shifts inside of him, makes him want to puke. Months ago, he might've laughed, might've leaned down and kissed Matt through thick metal-tasting fluid and forgotten about the whole messy ordeal that led up to this.

But Matt's barbs and apathy burned more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

"And here I'd thought you had a fucking brain before you opened your mouth."

He swings a fist, again, mirroring the first punch--but he doesn't let Matt fall back, doesn't let him reel for very long in the pain of delivered impact. His other hand curls in the redhead's t-shirt, close around a handful of cloth and pulls, guiding Matt behind him. They reach the kitchen, where Mello lets go, his movements mechanical as he grabs a towel from the counter and throws it in his face.

[lungrot]

Ironic, because there's been more thought put into the violently climactic exchange of snide remarks and well-practiced apathy than the redhead would care to admit. That Mello questions it, thinks Matt's just talking out of his ass in order to piss him off, makes the corners of split lips tug upwards, unveiling a toothy sneer, yellowed by too many cigarettes and smeared with coppery tang.

It's wiped off just as fast, another powerful blow to the face, and it amazes Matt in a moment of pain-born stupor that the older man hasn't broken his nose or knocked some teeth loose yet; he was certainly hitting hard enough to.

Staggering into the kitchen, the redhead presses the towel gingerly to his battered face, wincing and holding a hiss back from behind clenched teeth. "Shit. You're a real bitch, you know that?" To say that he walked right into those punches would be an understatement, and paying Mello back for each one hasn't slipped his mind just yet-- he'd just like to be able to walk without swaying, first.

[virucide]

The blond's head tilts imperceptibly, one delicate brow arched, arms folded tight over his chest and fingers fisted, tucked at the corners of his elbows like he's trying to hold back another hit--he hasn't even taken his jacket off, and it's warmer in the apartment, a thin film of sweat gathering along the nape of his neck, the shallow dips of his throat.

"Am I," he chews the words out, guttural and stale-tasting. "Yeah? Says the dumb motherfucker who asked for it?"

He leans against the counter, hips against the sharp edge, shaking the hair from his eyes. He knows Matt's put thought in what he's saying, but it's the absolute lack of common sense that frustrates him; you don't say things like that to Mello and expect him just to roll with it.

"Whatever." In one rock of motion, Mello pushes his body away from the counter, begins peeling off his jacket, shirt, fingers idly working at the sleek leather belt on his way to the bathroom. He winds it around his hand, tosses the black coil in the general direction of the closet in passing.