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entrancelogs2007-09-13 03:41 pm
black-gloved.livejournal.com) wrote in entrancelogs2007-09-13 03:41 pm
[Complete] HOUSE PARTY
Who: Near [![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
white_puzzles], Matt [nicotine_sky], & Mello [black_gloved]
Where: Room 420 - Eleventh Floor [The Official Home of MMN |D]
When: Today - September 13th. Mid-afternoon-ish.
Rating: PG-13 [For the obligatory f-bomb or two]
Summary: The calm before the storm.
the Story:
God bless nicotine. It was nothing at all like the bittersweet slick of chocolate upon your tongue, but still, god bless. Mello dragged heavily on the cigarette, the smoke was warm, spiced, tasting like cherry, and he could feel it slither into his lungs, could feel it numb edged nerves and almost, almost, almost wipe out the need for the chocolate fix that he craved so badly. He lowered the cancer stick from his mouth and twirled it betwixt blackgloved fingers and wondered how long it would take for the patient to throw a shit-fit.
The patient, of course, being Matt. Poor thing, Mello had felt sorry for him, Matt had been confined to the bed, forbidden to move on his own (not that he could, really, between the side-effects of the drugs and the lasting spine-shocks of pain resulting from the standard form of mutilation, it'd take some really awesome determination to move even an inch), Mello had relocated him to the couch in the main room. Now Matt's new prison had been reduced to half its former size, but hey, at least he had computer access and was in the main-stream of things. He could even socialize with their new, permanent house guest, Near, if he so desired.
Near, who was currently sitting on the floor admixt a pile of toys, looking smugly content with himself and not very sociable at all. Right. Clearly Mello had forgotten to take the fact that Near was bloody mute into account. How wonderfully annoying. Mello's heel tapped a tattoo against the ground, impatiently filling the resounding silence with sharp click-clack-clatter while he took another drag on the cigarette, smoke pouring from his nostrils in an not-so-attractive manner as he exhaled.
Ironic that he'd never consider smoking in plain sight before Matt's little accident (Mello had taken it upon himself to dole out punishment for the mishap, putting a ban on the red-head's favorite drug, nicotine, because that's what had gotten him into the mess in the first place), but the idea of good-natured torture was appealing, especially in the face of boredom.
Second-hand smoke wafted through the room, and a thin smirk crossed Mello's lips.
Any moment now...
white_puzzles], Matt [nicotine_sky], & Mello [black_gloved]Where: Room 420 - Eleventh Floor [The Official Home of MMN |D]
When: Today - September 13th. Mid-afternoon-ish.
Rating: PG-13 [For the obligatory f-bomb or two]
Summary: The calm before the storm.
the Story:
God bless nicotine. It was nothing at all like the bittersweet slick of chocolate upon your tongue, but still, god bless. Mello dragged heavily on the cigarette, the smoke was warm, spiced, tasting like cherry, and he could feel it slither into his lungs, could feel it numb edged nerves and almost, almost, almost wipe out the need for the chocolate fix that he craved so badly. He lowered the cancer stick from his mouth and twirled it betwixt blackgloved fingers and wondered how long it would take for the patient to throw a shit-fit.
The patient, of course, being Matt. Poor thing, Mello had felt sorry for him, Matt had been confined to the bed, forbidden to move on his own (not that he could, really, between the side-effects of the drugs and the lasting spine-shocks of pain resulting from the standard form of mutilation, it'd take some really awesome determination to move even an inch), Mello had relocated him to the couch in the main room. Now Matt's new prison had been reduced to half its former size, but hey, at least he had computer access and was in the main-stream of things. He could even socialize with their new, permanent house guest, Near, if he so desired.
Near, who was currently sitting on the floor admixt a pile of toys, looking smugly content with himself and not very sociable at all. Right. Clearly Mello had forgotten to take the fact that Near was bloody mute into account. How wonderfully annoying. Mello's heel tapped a tattoo against the ground, impatiently filling the resounding silence with sharp click-clack-clatter while he took another drag on the cigarette, smoke pouring from his nostrils in an not-so-attractive manner as he exhaled.
Ironic that he'd never consider smoking in plain sight before Matt's little accident (Mello had taken it upon himself to dole out punishment for the mishap, putting a ban on the red-head's favorite drug, nicotine, because that's what had gotten him into the mess in the first place), but the idea of good-natured torture was appealing, especially in the face of boredom.
Second-hand smoke wafted through the room, and a thin smirk crossed Mello's lips.
Any moment now...
no subject
Matt gave a soft coughing noise, clearing his throat, before saying, quite amiably, "Mello, you're an ass, you know that?" The end of his words shook a bit (it hurt to move, to talk, to breathe, and even with the painkillers dulling the sharp edges of the shocks, it still hurt), and there was a bad-tempered scowl on his face he spoke. The temptation to throw something at the blond - one of Near's plastic toys was on the floor quite temptingly right where he could just reach out and-- But then again, the pain in his ribs stilted his actions, and instead he opted for complaining as loudly as his battered lungs would allow him.
"I mean, okay, the nicotine cut-off? That's bad enough. Y'know how addicted I am, and my hand's shaking already," --slight tremors had been running rampant down his right wrist and fingers for the past half-hour, the jittery feeling that accompanied it irritating him to hell and back-- "and then you have to go rub it in my face?" A slight wince as he flopped back against the couch, his chest and shoulder area protesting with dull throbs-- though his sour expression didn't change. "Bastard."
Still grumbling a bit, he cast a glance over at their-- houseguest. It had been a mild form of shock to wake up and find the little white pillowcase sprawled on the floor with an armful of toys - he'd almost dismissed it as a hallucination thanks to the drugs he was on - but it hadn't been that hard to get used to. Near didn't do much, after all, and, other than the soft click-clack of plastic toys shifting around, Near wasn't really all that attention-grabbing.
Though, in this case, maybe--
"Near!" Propping himself up on his good arm (--a dull shock shot through his ribs, and he winced a bit; might as well start getting used to this, though--) he called over to the smaller boy. "Since Mr. High-and-Mighty-Asshole here is insisting on being a son of a bitch and torturing me, mind getting me a smoke?" A pause, then he added, almost as an afterthought, "--please?"
no subject
Mello had started smoking, Near noted. An addiction likely caused by the time he'd spent roaming around as Mihael. With such a personality Mello had (too prone to addictions), it was far from surprising that he hadn't been able to just let go. That was Mello; never losing his personal touch.
Near's thoughts were abruptly cut off by a familiar voice. He turned his head to look at the boy (or the remains of what was a boy before), considering his request. If Matt wasn't smoking, it was solely because Mello didn't want him to. Asking Near to bring him cigarettes in front of Mello was quite a dumb move that would take him nowhere...
"All right."
...And it didn't really matter.
The next thing Near did was turn to look at Mello. Not only because he was certainly wary of what his reaction might be, but also because the one who had cigarettes was, sadly, him.
no subject
Mello's voice was deadpan and unyielding, rough around the edges; and steely black eyes glared at Near with a look that said don't you even dare try and con me into surrendering the game I just started. He shifted slightly, adjusting his position so that he could more comfortably lean against the wall, movements accompanied by creaks of leather that just refused to bend.
Another drag. Inhale. Exhale. A plume of smoke rose to the ceiling, lingered for a moment, then disappeared altogether.
"These babies--" Words were mouthed around the cigarette as Mello procured the matching carton from his back pocket and shook it for emphasis, "--aren't even the right brand." It was true, the cigarettes were the pansy cherry-flavored kind, the ones that had the bad habit of perfuming his clothes with a scent that was sickly-sweet. It was too bad, really, that Mello had already developed a taste for them, one that was perhaps irreversible. Goddamn Mihael for not picking out a better brand, this wasn't suited for him at all (not that smoking ever was, but sometimes you can't get rid of the scars that have been left behind).
"Right, Matt--" Attention? Shifted to the red-head occupying the couch. "They're not your beloved Gaulosies, are they." The smirk deepened by a hair, covering up the twinge of guilt that was most certainly not present when he glanced at his partner, left arm bound by a makeshift splint, the rest covered by bandages. "It just wouldn't be the same."
Oh, the subtle joys of being an complete asshole.
"Need I remind you that your addiction is what caused you to get jumped in the first place?" Mello drawled, words low and gravelly and just smooth enough to sound like water. He didn't mention the pack of Gaulosies that lay hidden in the side-table next to the couch - they'd arrived at their front door, courtesy of Envy. Mello had burned the note that had accompanied the 'gift', and stashed the cigarettes themselves on the basis that he'd give them back to the bastard, planned on shoving them down Envy's throat one by one.
"You need to be taught a lesson, partner."
no subject
Words returned sourly, and the clatter of plastic against the wall - Matt had thrown piece of Transformer (it had felt like a stray arm) at Mello - though the missile missed its mark by a mile. After all, it was hard to hit something when all you had to work with was one arm, a shattered chest, and a skewed sense of balance. His frown deepening as the plastic clattered harmlessly to the floor, Matt sunk back into the couch, reaching up with his good arm to ruffle his hair in frustration.
"--you do realize I'm going to start going into fits, soon, if I don't get some nicotine?" There was some truth in his statement - that twitchy, nervous feeling when he went without a smoke for too long was scratching at the base of his neck, making him jumpy, irritable - pissed off. (Like that flight from LA to Tokyo? Fourteen fucking hours without a cig? He'd nearly gone insane.) The three days he'd been asleep? Okay, fine, he didn't mind so much when he was unconscious after all.
But this teasing was ridiculous. "Fuck you, Mellooooo," a name drawn out into something halfway between a whine and a groan, and Matt flopped back onto the couch, the scent of smoke in the air both tantalizing and painful. Sure, it wasn't the dark, heavy taste of his Gauloises (bitter, sharp, he'd nearly choked the first time he'd smoked one, but couldn't live without that toxic taste now) and was stained with the sickly-sweet scent of cherry (what the fuck) -- but nicotine was nicotine.
A muted groan, and he tried to turn his attention to something else-- righted one of the toys on the floor that had fallen over, then pushed it over with a fingertip and watched it clatter to the floor.
"...dammit."
no subject
Mello's attitude of superiority and inflated ego caused by the fact he was the one in possession of what his partner craved? Ridiculous.
Matt's complaints provoked by the merciless effects of withdrawal? Very understandable... but annoying all the same.
Despite everything, patience was something Near had more than developed. He wasn't in position to complain much, in any case - it wasn't even his place to begin with, and any attempt to change things was futile.
What Near truly didn’t appreciate, however, was having to bear with everyone mistreating his precious toys. Others might see them as simply plastic robots they had stopped caring about many years ago, but Near was rather fond of them.
“Please do not do that,” he said, his tone holding a slight edge of annoyance. Near took his toys and carefully placed them on a different spot on the floor, away from Matt’s offending hands.
“Mello,” he commented neutrally, more deadpan than Mello could ever sound. It might infuriate the blond, but Near was beyond caring. “I believe Matt already has too many problems to care about.” A problem per broken bone, in fact. “The last thing he needs is an added, unnecessary weight. Perhaps you can punish him once he recovers.”
‘If he recovers’ was the afterthought, which remained unvoiced simply because Near didn’t consider it important to get his point across.
no subject
And then the assault upon Near's toys had ended, the brat had decided to move them out of harm's way, and Mello watched with a certain amount of pride and amusement that the toy Near was taking the most care to protect was a lone black Gundam, covered in crosses and decorated with gold paint. So he did like the present. Haha. Not that Mello cared, of course, nope, he didn't care at all, in fact. Caring was chucked out the window right alongside the scolding he'd received from the arrogant little prick, like he didn't at all know what he was doing.
"Since when were you one to endorse addictions, Near?" Double meanings, double meanings. Almost everything you said carried another hidden message these days. The words were sneered, and Mello's composure faltered for a fraction of a second before he looked to Matt, wry grin quickly slipping back into place.
"What would you do for a smoke, Matt?" Mello shoved the carton of cigarettes back into his pocket and gave an all-too tantalizing poster example of what he was offering: a heavy drag of nicotine. Inhale. Exhale. He blew the tuft of smoke toward the couch with a wink. Sure, Matt could hardly move as it was, but Mello was more interested in points for creativity.
And maybe, just maybe, depending on his partner's answer, Mello would decide to be merciful.
no subject
It had always been this way since they were younger - a joke was never just a joke, it was a taunt, and a prank was never just a prank, it was just another move in the grand game of chess they played, and right now, Matt was losing, both through his inability to just stomp over and wrestle the pack of cancer sticks away from Mello, and through the fact that he was getting riled up by this treatment. But guess what? He didn't really care.
For possibly the first time in his life, he regretted the fact that he was a smoker, because that uneasy feeling writhing around at the back of his mind was getting stronger and stronger. And now he didn't even have any of Near's toys to vent his frustrations on. Pfffft, this sucked. Maybe if he stretched out an arm enough he could snag that black Gundam (--which looked morbidly familiar, a robotic representation of a certain black-leather asshole he knew--), but that would hurt too much.
Then Mello's question hit him, and he gave a smirk.
"Let's see. I wonder what you could possibly want from me?" Raising a hand, he stroked an invisible beard, changing the biting sarcasm of his voice to a harsh caricature of thoughtfulness. "I'm guessing you'd want me to get up and dance the macarena on the roof, stark naked, so that you could get a good laugh at me." A pause to accentuate his point, then, "Or maybe you'd rather the can-can?"
Maybe he'd spoken too much, because his ribs were throbbing with a fire-red pain, ordering him to shut up and sit back, but he ignored it, trying to quell the shocks by laying a hand across his side. It sort of helped. A sigh (a swirl of sharp pain went screaming up his spine, but he pressed it down) "--c'mon, Mello, you know me. I'd do anything to get a smoke right now. Anything meaning anything that would be physically possible for me and would not involved any public humiliation. To a certain extent."
no subject
Mello shoved himself off the wall, careful to mind his right shoulder - he hadn't worn the sling in days, not since he'd taken it off to tend to Matt's injuries. He didn't need it, not really, tendons, bones, and muscle were all shot to high hell since he'd forced it into motion that day, there wasn't a point in letting it heal correctly now. Besides, the stupid sling was annoying as fuck, and didn't agree with his fashion sense, either; it made the badassery that came with a coating of leather null and void - Mello couldn't have that, now could he?
Sauntering over to the side of the couch, Mello towered over his bed-ridden partner, looking down, burnished gold framing his face, cigarette loosely hanging from his lips, and he smiled - a twisted grin that pulled the corners of his mouth (though the left side always hung lower than the right, scarred flesh had a a nasty habit of disobeying commands).
"You look like you're more in need of painkillers than nicotine." He said after a moment, and plucked the cigarette from his lips, tapping the ash onto the floor before replacing it. Part of Mello didn't want to give in so easily, and the other half looked at the invalid Matt had become and wanted to do nothing more than ease away the pain. He'd been careful about keeping a strict regiment of drugs (it wouldn't do to get Matt addicted, after all) and it was about time for another dose.
"What do you think about that?" Mello took the opportunity to lean a bit lower, dipping his head so that the cigarette, smoke and all, hung right before Matt's face. On the flipside, Mello was sure that Near had to be getting a really good view of his leather-clad ass at the moment, he considered this for a moment, but decided that he didn't really give a damn.
no subject
Though, of course, he also hated how Mello now stood over him, breathing cigarette smoke into his face and watching him twitch with want. Sure, it tasted a lot sweeter than he liked (whatever the hell had happened to the manly image that cigarettes were supposed to represent? And what kind of pansy thought to make cigarettes that tasted like cherry?) but it was nicotine all the same, and this slight whiff only made him hungrier for more.
Then, the lightbulb blinked on. Pretty much at the same moment that his good arm shot forward and snatched the cigarette away from Mello's lips.
The pain in his ribs kicked in almost immediately, sending a sharp shock up his spine that made him wince, but there was still a triumphant sort of smirk on his face as he took a deep drag, letting the familiar taste of tar and toxins wash down his throat. "--thanks, partner." A low, horase laugh as he breathed out a lungful of smoke right back at Mello's face, the shaking in his hands finally toning down a bit.
no subject
Matt and Mello were too immersed in their own game that Near's ghostly presence managed to go unnoticed. That was an advantage if he wanted to observe their behaviour.
His reasons? Mere curiosity.
no subject
Mello scowled deeply, eyes narrowed to gleaming slits, and raised a blackgloved hand to reclaim what was rightfully his (what the Hell could Matt do to stop him from taking back the cigarette, anyway?), but he faltered, immediately drawing his arm back. (Because for every toxin that was taken away, there was another waiting in line just behind it, ready to cause just as much damage as the first.)
"Tch. Fine, keep it you bastard--" He stepped away from the couch, squaring his shoulders, bringing himself to his full height like nothing was wrong, like he couldn't feel those pinprick shards of ice digging a rut into his chest and were freezing his heart bit by bit. "--you're lucky that you're an invalid, eh? Otherwise I wouldn't wait to beat the crap out of you." Did the words sound forced? Maybe, but that wasn't Mello's main concern, making a clean escape before he puked up his guts onto the floor, was. Because this feeling of searing ice, the spasm of pectoral muscles, was nothing new, had occurred three times before without a moment's warning - Mello could do nothing to stop it, and knew all too well what happened afterward.
"You're still not getting out of that fresh dose of painkillers, partner. I'm going to go get it--" And Mello turned his back, because he could no longer face forward, couldn't show Matt that hey, we really make quite the pair, we've both been rendered completely useless by toxins and tar, and looked to Near, eyes interlocking for the briefest of moments. (Near saw everything, he always did, Mello had to remember that, take advantage of it when he could--)
"Make him comfortable, will you?"
Distract him from this secret of ours, alright?
Keep him ignorant.
And Mello walked away, locking himself behind closed doors.