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]

Crooked and angular, the redhead rests his weight against kitchen's creaking wooden framework. The room is cluttered and stale, filled with various pots and pans and yellow-ringed coffee mugs Matt's left in the sink for too long, emptied grease-laden cartons and foil wrappers, the omnipresent stench of too much smoke.

"Yeah." His voice is raw, monotonous and muffled by the tattered towel mopping his face. He pulls it back, holds the stained thing above his head and squints at the deep brownish-red that settled there, scoffing before tossing it into the sink to join it's discarded comrades. Mello's done one hell of a number on the worn canvas of the younger man's face, and he figures it'll take a good week before the swelling goes down, until black and blue blossoms fade to sick, tender yellow before disappearing completely, another memory added to the myriad of dumb fights that have passed between them.

"It's still a shit job," he croaks to the empty room, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. It shouldn't come as a surprise when all he can pull from it are broken sticks, golden tobacco spilling into his hands and onto the floor, crushed during their brawl.

"I really fucking hate you."

[virucide]

From across the apartment, Mello makes no sign of having heard those words, which is probably for the best and perhaps unusual, even by their standards. A round two would bruise his knuckles and stain the carpet more than he's willing to allow; he might crack a few teeth out of the redhead's foul mouth, too, and he doesn't want to deal with that mess. So he lets the conversation drop like a hot stone, even as frustration still churns thick, unsettled, in his gut.

The blond doesn't shut the door behind him when he steps into the bathroom, although it seems for a moment like he might just to punctuate his anger. If it ever needed the added enthusiasm. There's a lapse of silence; Mello peels the rest of his clothes off, idles with the knobs of the shower, adjusting the temperature until the gush of water through pipes clears the quiet away. He ducks his head under, stepping past the clear curtain, bare feet on cold porcelain, warm moisture soaking through his hair and darkening it to a heavy burnt gold in seconds.

Whatever Matt's pissed about now, he deserves.

[lungrot]

He almost expects Mello to come stomping back, vision flooded an angry red, bones and knuckles ready for round two ; one hit K.O. Stagnant in the kitchen's doorway, Matt palms the spilled tabacco idly and waits, listens;

No footsteps. No flurry of bruised fists, no angry, sharktoothed sneers-- just the usual creaking of ancient floorboards, and a quiet spray from copper pipes some rooms away. He's taking a shower.

Matt can almost count himself lucky, though he knows luck has little to do with it. Face swollen, pink and tender, he's left to an empty kitchen and a throbbing headache, silence heavier than any of the punches Mello could throw. He runs his tongue over blunt teeth, mouth still plagued by a metallic tang, and steps forward; heads down the hallway to where he knows he'll find the older man, wet, still seething.

Maybe it's thanatos, or just plain stupidity. Either way, Matt's always had a knack for sticking his head in the jaws of the beast. The door is wide open; an invitation if he's ever seen one.

[virucide]

There's a strange, methodical, ghost-like quality in the way Mello handles himself, the way he favors his right hand when he twists the cold knobs of the shower. The knuckles of both gleam wet pink under the gush of water, but he doesn't linger on it, keeps moving, settling into a bearable temperature even if it's still hot enough to cloud mirrors and scald skin.

It's one of the only things he can do to calm himself down. To find something with more hot fury than his own temper, to find something that'll burn the frustration right out of him.

Mello's aware of the redhead's invasive presence before he's even through the bathroom door, but he doesn't react, not at first. All that separates them is a thin curtain of clear plastic and thick, humid air. It may even seem like he's not going to do anything--but as soon as Matt's near enough, the blond leans his shoulder against the cold tile wall, tugs the plastic curtain back with two fingers, and gives him this look. A flat, level look.

"Of all the times you could decide to finally shower, you're going to pick now?"

[lungrot]

The red head steps in, drags his feet through the thick veil of heat without the slightest show of hesitation. The bathroom, like Mello, is too hot ; scalding to the touch, suffocating. Matt can feel sweat pearling across his forehead, the fabric of his shirt adhering to his flesh, soaked with perspiration.

"Like a fucking sauna," he comments, ducking in front of the clouded mirror. With the heel of his palm he wipes it clear, inspects the swelling of his battered face with pursed lips, a half-pout. He can see Mello peeking out from the curtains in the reflection, his words nearly muted by the drum of water against old porcelain.

"Yeah." Matt pushes his upper lip, split neatly in half, upwards with the pad of his thumb to reveal tender gums. All of his teeth are still cozily secured in his jaw-- good to know. He turns to the blond, blood drying to his face, sticky and generally unpleasant. "Gotta wash this shit off." Cue the accusatory tone of voice (though he knows it does nothing), the narrowing of dishwater eyes.

Peeling off his wrinkled shirt and discarding it near the sink without care, bone-thin fingers fiddle with the copper zipper of his pants. "Better move the fuck over."

[virucide]

"What if I don't fucking want to?" His voice is clipped, almost raw-sounding in that way that signifies a transition from anger to irritation, the kind that sits under his skin like splinters. Blue eyes as sharp as blades watch the redhead undress, narrowed and immodest. Wet hair sticks to the side of his face and neck, plastered by hot water and humidity. He doesn't look at all inviting, by appearances--were Matt any other person, he'd do well to reconsider his decision.

But they both know how this is, how it goes; they've been through this routine countless times. He doesn't move over when Matt steps past the clear curtain, doesn't do much but turn his head. It's only once Matt's under the spray of scalding water that the blond finally steps back, spine flattening against a warm water-slicked tile wall.

Their shower isn't very large by most standards. They stand now with about eight inches of elbow room, not enough by any stretch to go without a brush of contact, but Mello's doing a fine job already with his back against the shower wall, silent, a haughty expression accenting sharp features.

And it's almost funny, because usually when they're naked together, it's never accompanied by foul moods and bitter temperaments. Not like this.

[lungrot]

"Tough," the redhead shrugs, elbowing his way past Mello with an insouciance born from habit, from experience, from an unusual sense of comfort in the presence of extreme volatility. It's the story of their lives-- but with a bit more water and hot, slippery porcelain beneath Matt's feet.

Pale skin deprived of sunlight turns tortured pink underneath the shower's scalding spray. With a hitch in breath and an unmasked wince, Matt's hands quickly reach for the wet knobs, fiddling with them until the downpour turns lukewarm, soothing against sore bones and a bruising face. Before Mello can protest, he waves one dismissively. "You'll peel your fucking skin off if it's that hot. Christ." Doesn't sound too concerned, despite that.

[virucide]

"Does it look like I fucking care?" he chews back, a dirty sneer tight across his lips as he pushes forward, elbows him back. Their sides rub together in brief, wet contact as Mello shoves him aside, backs him up against the humidity-warmed tile wall. He's obviously not in the mood to let Matt monopolize his shower, and it's written clearly across his face.

Making sure to stand in the redhead's way, their hips crushed together with bruising force, he reaches for the slippery knob and twists his wrist sharply to the left--lukewarm slowly bleeds into hotter water, steam fuming in the air. "Whose shower is this that you interrupted? My skin's not going to fucking peel off, but you might not be so lucky." He flashes the younger man one of those If you can't take the heat, get the hell out looks, unmoving.

[lungrot]

The redhead frowns, all awkward angles and jutting bones against hard tile and the wet warmth of Mello's flesh. When the spray turns warm, he shrinks backwards, skin screaming in protests that won't escape his mouth, are caught between clenched teeth.

Then, he's wrestling those thin, muscleless arms forward, snaking around the others' in a desperate reach for those tarnished knobs, for the off-switch to the liquid embers assaulting his skin. It's more effort than he'd put in, well, almost anything really, and he's ignoring the blond's words in favor of stretching just a bit further, fingers grazing the knobs but never quite reaching.

"Lobsters aren't very sexy," he mutters through a mouthful of water, blunt-ended fingers pinching at Mello's side.

[virucide]

"You're already halfway there," Mello hisses back, reaching with his free hand to twist a tuft of red hair through narrow fingers, lips almost-smiling in a cruel, irritated way. He doesn't give up his domination over the water temperature, batting both of Matt's hands away and bodily pinning him to the wall with his back.

There's a moment of slick struggle before Matt starts pinching, and when that happens, he redoubles his efforts. "Hey. I said this was my fucking shower, didn't I?" Catching the redhead's wrists in his hands, Mello forces him still. "You keep being a bitch like this and I'll crack your head against the wall and forget about you in here." But it's turned almost playful now, the way he angles his head on Matt's shoulder in order to look at him.

The water's still coming out hot, although not as hot as before. Luckily for one of them.

[lungrot]

Pinned though far from helpless, Matt twists swollen lips into an easy half-smirk, strands of russet hair adhering to his bruised face. He squirms beneath the other's weight, feels flesh slip against flesh, laughs. To stay put is to admit defeat in this game of dominance they so often play, and it isn't until he's forced to his knees (whether literally or not) that he'll stop retaliating, that annoying pulling and tugging at his captured wrists.

"Yeah? Suits me fine. I won't be the one stuck mopping up a bloody mess afterward."

The water's temperature is of little importance to him, now, much too preoccupied with antagonizing Mello without recalling why. He steps forward, insists on shifting their weight, turning the tables. Perhaps not the best idea, when the porcelain is wet and slippery beneath their feet, where footing is precarious.

[virucide]

"If you're in the shower, all I have to do is keep the hot water on to mop it up." But he's close to laughing now, in a dark and caustic tone that threatens to scratch its way under the skin of any listener. The previous anger isn't gone; he's still pissed, his ego still burns, but his own bruised knuckles and the soft-swollen skin of Matt's face are enough to sate that crave for revenge. For now. He'll serve another dish of it later, once it's gone cold.

When the heels of Mello's feet slide forward, he chokes on a hissed obscenity and lets go of one of Matt's captive hands, using that arm to catch his balance on the wall, bracing elbow to wrist against warmed tile. The snarl that comes out next isn't all play, either, and he grips the redhead's other hand too-tight, fingertips digging down, the drum of the younger man's pulse stuttering against his palm.

"Fuck, Matt, don't fucking do that."

[lungrot]

The laugh is infectious, pulls at the corners of a lopsided smile to reveal a row of blunt teeth. Not that the thought of being found dead in a running shower is a particularly comforting one, but that they're having this conversation alone is enough to make the tension dissipate, swirl and leak down the basin's rusting drain like the water they spent so much effort arguing about. Matt isn't one to linger, anyway; he likes it better that way.

That's when the laugh finally escapes, bark-like as it erupts from the redhead's throat. Mello's fingernails leave lovely pink crescents in his flesh, and he can't help but shake his head, snaking his freed arm around the other's waist.

"Swept right off your feet, huh. I've heard I've got that effect on people."

[virucide]

"Not off my feet yet, am I?" Mello feels it too, that landslide of comfortable back-and-forth arguing, and it doesn't matter who comes out on top here because they both get what they want. The blond rolls his eyes in a dramatic gesture of exasperation; instead of letting Matt off the hook for that one, he leans his weight backwards in a shove of movement, intent on pushing the redhead back where he was before against the wall.

"You'll have to try harder." He says it through clenched teeth, and then it happens--purposefully, of course, because Mello never does anything when it isn't charged with purpose and driven by something more. Their hips meet in a slick grind that shouldn't be as surprisingly intimate as it feels, wet and naked in the shower, breathing in the fog of steam. And he laughs again, pushing his arm off from the wall to reach around and grip Matt's waist, slender fingers squeezing down a little too hard.

The push and shove has turned a little dirtier. Not like either of them could've avoided it even if they'd tried.

[lungrot]

He wants to argue that he can change that, hand splayed across the curve of Mello's back, warmth pouring down on them from the showerhead above. Just one little shove, a slip of a foot, and he knows either one of them could come tumbling down, dragging the other with them because god forbid one take a fall without using the other to cushion them.

But it's too late for idle threats, now. Mello's quick, as always, and re-establishes his dominance with one sly shove, with the slick grinding of hip against hip, warmth that has little to do with the water beading on their skin blossoming between them.

The rough touch, their constant game of push and shove, does little to bother Matt. If anything, it's encouraging, makes him press forward and tangle bone-thin fingers in wet strands of bronze and gold, press split lips against the sharp edge of Mello's jawline.

[virucide]

The breath that Mello exhales is all air, riding on little sound, a short pant of exertion when they lean their joined weight back against the wall and try to keep from slipping. The tiles are wet and dangerous beneath his bare feet; maybe they should have kept a mat in the bottom of the shower, or maybe he just likes it better this way, likes it better when the potential to fall is there.

Matt feels familiar. He feels like a steady, ever-present weight. The space between their bodies has narrowed to nothing, now, and the heat from the gushing water has heightened more than just their heartbeats. The pale skin along his jaw tingles when warm lips find it, touching, and the blond's head angles back to reach further--his own mouth capturing the redhead's in a surprisingly tender touch.

That touch turns rough as soon as white teeth slide against the other's lower lip in opening, pressing forward with insistence. It's not unusual, that it would turn to this.