the colors you thought were kings, at the turn of a card just disappear

[want_the_world]

Mello's put it off long enough, he just. Wanted a better handle on all this shit before he made the call. Does not want to talk to Matt half-loopy from the painkillers, but he's lost too much time already. So he punches in the numbers he's not bothered to enter into the contacts list, because he knows them by heart, and resists the urge to pace as

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[you_have_mail]

His eyes have been burning for like a half hour, screen too bright in the darkened room, but Matt has about eight minutes to finish what he's doing before the deadline hits, and he's really wishing right now that he decided against the whole element of procrastination thing.

He's already gotten three calls about it tonight, and he opted not to pick the third one up. He knows. Midnight or the money doesn't go in. Repeating something doesn't make it any more dire. He really wishes people would realize this shite.

And when it rings again, he stubs the cigarette out, shooting his cell a glare that probably would've broken it, if it could. And maybe it's stupid that he doesn't even bother to look at the number, see whether or not he recognizes it, because the chances of it being anyone else than the person who just called him three fucking times in less than two hours is slim to none, at this point

[want_the_world]

"Matt." There's a rasp in his voice, and he struggles to subdue it before he speaks again. He's forgotten what the hell alias Matt's currently using, but it's not important.

Mello hasn't exactly thought about what he would say, making the call mostly because, as these things do, once he decided he had to do it, it became imperative to do right this second. He does pace now, stalking barefoot over the grimy floor, making his steps a straight line with an effort.

"How soon can you get here?" He takes the answer to will you come? as a given, because he can't bear to do otherwise.

[you_have_mail]

Great.

"Tomorrow, give or take a few years."

Yeah, he notices how Mello's voice doesn't sound quite right, but he also knows that he hasn't seen the guy in a long time. Anything could account for it, and he's not really in the mood to play on-the-spot detective while he's got half of his attention on the screen, because despite the fact that something out of nowhere just came to slap him in the face, he still has a deadline.

He's been trying to slow down, but now definitely isn't the time, and so the phone is tucked between his shoulder and cheek, and another filter finds its way between his lips, the flick of a lighter following, then a deep inhale.

"Bad time, actually." And he's holding in the smoke as he speaks, only to let out an exceedingly long exhale afterwards. Oh. Headrush.

It's easier to concentrate on the smaller things.

[want_the_world]

Plowed as he is from the pain and the meds--he'll never take enough to truly dull it, only enough to take the edge off; he has to stay alert--Mello's still offended by that.

"Make it a not bad time."

He reaches the wall, wobbles on the spin to head back the way he came, and his irritation at that snaps out at Matt.

"And make it tomorrow. 's not like you don't know where I am." Did he slur on that? Fuck.