Thanks, once again, to all of those who took the time to review this piece. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: "So shines a good deed in a weary world."

Chapter 3: Love (or the Union Forever)

"For you, a thousand times over." -- from "The Kite Runner" by Khaled Hosseini

Matt

He was hurling his guts into the Mississippi River.

The two of them had gotten as far as the outskirts of the Quarter on Mello's bike before Matt had begged him to pull over. He just couldn't hold it in any longer. The combination of the wind, the balmy heat, the bike shaking, and--more importantly--the image of that guy's head being splattered into a million chunky little pieces, had all conspired against him. He was going to throw up, no two ways about it. And he didn't want to be on a moving bike when it happened.

Matt was on his knees on the wharf behind the French Market. Mello waited nearby, straddling his bike, staring off into space. His head turned away, ignoring Matt, as if the whole thing just wasn't happening. How can he be so cool about it? thought Matt, as he stood up on wobbly legs and wiped his mouth on the end of his T-shirt. It was almost one hundred degrees out and Mello sat on his bike with a leather jacket on, looking as cool and distant as a runway model, frozen like a beautiful ice sculpture. It had to be a feat of nature. How can he be that way? thought Matt. Matt himself was dying inside. And Mello looked completely unaffected.

The image of Mello stepping around Matt to blow Augustine Meadows away replayed over and over in his head, like a CD stuck on skip, like a bad remix. He just couldn't shake it. And yet, it all seemed so natural, like it was something Mello was born to do. A veritable prodigy of murder. Didn't Wammy's House have a way of turning those types out--sociopaths with too much intellect, too much free-will, and too little human empathy? Even Near, for all his genius and sense of justice, was strangely cold, so utterly detached from all human emotion. And Near had always accused Mello of being too emotional, accused him of always allowing his feelings to interfere with his sense of judgement, his ability to think clearly and logically. Well, if Near could see Mello now, he might just be frightened by how far his rival had strayed into the other direction.

Matt climbed back on the bike, and without a word, Mello restarted it and cut down Ursulines Avenue, heading straight into the Quarter. He pulled up before a large brick townhouse, the facade of which was decked out with several of those lovely wrought iron balconies that everyone in New Orleans seemed so fond of. He and Matt climbed off the bike. Matt watched with dull, nausea-filled eyes as Mello pulled a key from his pocket. He then went up and unlocked the courtyard gate, and walked the bike inside, away from the prying eyes of the street. Matt followed behind him helplessly like a stray dog. "Mello, can we talk?" asked Matt, his voice coming out shaky and a lot more weaker-sounding than he would have liked.

"Not out here," Mello said flatly. He then grabbed Matt's elbow and pulled him through a green, paint-flaked doorway which lead into the lobby. "Stay on this side of me," he commanded, and he walked Matt like a unruly five-year-old to the elevator. Mello merely nodded at the attendant behind the glass but said nothing. They waited in punctuated silence until the elevator door slid open, and the two of them entered the old-timey elevator car, the inside of which was both claustrophobically tiny and padded with a brown paisley covering, like a an old, antique settee. Or the inside lining of a coffin.

A coffin. Matt felt himself growing queasy again.

The antique bell chimed sun-bright and Matt all but fell out of the elevator, happy to be away from its constricting space. Color began to seep back into his face, like a bead of ink being dropped onto a watered page. Mello was still all business-like and gravely silent, as he pulled out another key and clicked open the door to his room. He gestured Matt in. "After you. . ."

"Shouldn't we. . . I don't know. . . leave town or something? Won't they come looking for us?"

Mello shrugged in weary nonchalance. "Let them." A quirk of his lips, an evil "if they try, they'll die" smile. Matt felt no fear.

And what did that say about Matt?

Matt found himself inside a small but ornate room with exposed brick walls dominated by a huge four-poster bed hung with white, billowy curtains. Beyond that a pair of french doors stood open, revealing the furnishings of an outside balcony and farther beyond that, a gorgeous, star-lit view of the French Quarter. But Matt wasn't looking at the view. He was looking at Mello. The moment the young assassin had stepped inside the room, he had started divesting himself of all his outer clothing and weaponry, shedding them like an old snake skin: leather jacket, holster with guns, another gun, a set of knives, even his boots. He dropped them all to the floor, piece by loud, clunky piece, leaving them behind like some sort of grotesque Hansel and Gretel trail which lead into the bathroom. Moments later he came back out again, in just his pants and T-shirt, holding a wet cloth in one hand. "Sit," he commanded Matt. And Matt sat on the edge of the four-poster.

"What are you doing?" asked Matt nervously.

His mouth fell open as Mello roughly grabbed his chin and started soaking down his face. He watched in growing horror as, with each gentle swipe of the cloth, the material came away redder and redder. He couldn't stop looking at it. "Oh, damn." Nausea again.

"Don't look at it." Mello said.

"Can't help it." Oh god--was that a chunk of brain? Was Mello seriously picking bits of brain out of his hair? Oh god, oh god! He was going to vomit again. . .

"Don't you dare throw up on me." hissed Mello, grabbing Matt by the chin again. Matt stared with increasingly blurry vision into the other boy's beautiful, kohl-rimmed eyes. Their two gazes locked and held. Then, without warning, without permission, Matt leaned forward and slid both arms around Mello's waist, burying his face into his midrift, his shoulders shaking. He closed his eyes and waited. A couple of heartbeats passed, and then Matt felt Mello's arms around him, holding him up, stilling his shoulders with their strong, confident weight. Matt exhaled violently into the soft cotton material of Mello's T-shirt.

"I just wanted to help you," Matt whispered dejectedly.

"You did help me," came Mello's voice from above. "You're just . . . it's. . . you're just not cut out for this."

"It's just first time jitters," Matt insisted stubbornly, leaning his head back to look up at Mello. "And what did you feel? The first time?"

The first time that you killed someone. . .

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" Matt's gaze scrutinized Mello's face, searching for some sign, some inkling of emotion.

His cold, beautiful face.

"Nothing." Mello repeated.

Matt said nothing after that. Instead, he reached up and pulled Mello down to him, meeting his lips in a soft, almost tender, kiss. What do you really feel? But being that it was Mello, the tenderness didn't stay for long, and the kiss quickly grew into something more heated, a conflagration that was doomed to burn out of control. Fire caught and spread, and suddenly Mello was on him, his legs straddling him as he pushed Matt back down onto the bed. Not content to remain passive, Matt reached up and grabbed both of his hands, hands that were stained with pinkish-red blood from Matt's face, and Matt twisted him around until he had Mello backed against the headboard. He then kissed him furiously, their tongues twining, lapping, their hands grasping, battling for dominance. Matt's hands skirted hungrily over black leather and thin cotton, groping, searching. Mello had his bottom lip between his teeth, biting, sucking like he never wanted to let go. And then there was an audible, metallic click, and both of them froze, and Mello's eyes widened as he realized what Matt had done.

"Matthew?" There was a warning tone in that questioning voice.

"Yes?"

"What's with the handcuffs?" Clink. The metal clanked its own question against the wooden slat of the headboard.

"Insurance."

"For what?" asked Mello with a lascivious grin. "It's not like I'm an unwilling soul here."

"I'm making sure you're not going to up and disappear on me again." Like you did four years ago.

Mello frowned at this. Clink. And Matt just stared back, determined. "Are gonna you try and deny it?" Matt asked him. "That you were planning on slipping out of here at the first opportunity?"

Matt watched Mello's jaw clench in anger. The blond remained silent, and that silence alone told him all that he needed to know. "You were!" spat Matt accusingly. "You were going to leave again!"

Matt watched Mello's face soften. "Matty. I. . . I know I hurt you when I left--"

"--you don't know shit, Mello." came the instant retort.

Clink. Mello pulled futilely at the metal cuff on his wrist. The two boys glared at each other.

"Mr. Jeevas--"

"Mr. Keehl--"

Matt took a deep breath and stared at the white coverlet beneath him. And then he began to speak, to recite what was probably the longest speech he had ever made: "Mello, when you left Wammy's without telling me all those years ago, it was absolutely the worst fucking pain ever. No one could understand it. Hell, even I didn't understand it. I was only fifteen-years-old. I should have gotten over you. But I didn't. I didn't understand how much of an effect you had had on me--not until after you were gone and there was just this. . . blank space. And there was nothing that could fill it. No one who could fill it. There was only you. And it was only after you had gone, that I finally understood. . ."

Take a deep breath. . .

And another. . .

And just say it. . .

"That I was really in love with you. I shouldn't have been, but I was. You were an egotistical, selfish, obsessive, cocksucker, after all--"

"--hey! Now wait a goddam minute--"

"--shut up and let me finish!" And Matt took another deep breath. "I was devastated when you left. It pretty much scarred me for life. You ruined me for everyone else--I hope you know that. No one else could measure up. No one was as crazy, or beautiful, or violent, or as headstrong as you. No one. And that's when I realized that I didn't want anyone else. I wanted you. And I still do."

Silence.

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

"It was for your own good, my leaving--"

"--bullshit! Mello, bullshit! Why don't you just admit you were a coward?"

"It's not bullshit! I didn't want you anywhere within a hundred miles of those people! I still don't want you within a hundred miles of them! It's too fucking dangerous!"

"Mello, why are you in America, really? Is it because Near is here, too?"

No answer.

"God, you are really fucking obsessed, do you know that? Why can't you stop? Just stop--"

"--THIS DOES NOT FUCKING STOP! THIS NEVER STOPS! NOT UNTIL I'VE KILLED KIRA AND BEATEN NEAR! THIS WILL NEVER, EVER FUCKING STOP!"

The blond had his teeth bared and his face was red. Matt just stared at him. And then Matt lifted a hand to his face, pushed the hair out of his eyes, and said, in a soft voice:

"So let me help you. I'll help you get Kira. Whatever it is you want. I'll help you do it. You want to kill a hundred mafia people? That's fine; I'll help you do that, too. Whatever it is, Mello. I'll follow you. I love you."

I love you. . .

"There is a way to be good again." -- also from the "Kite Runner" by Kahled Hosseini

Mello

He was going to wear him down with those three little words.

And goddam him for it. It wasn't bullshit, what he had said about leaving Matt behind for his own good. It was for his own good! He didn't want him to have to lead the kind of bullshit life that Mello was leading, where you were constantly on the run all the time and you slept with a gun under your pillow because you were so goddam paranoid that someone was going to try and off you in your sleep. That was no way to live. And Mello didn't want that for Matt. Matt could still be good. Matt could still have a normal life. Matt could--

Who the fuck was he kidding?

No one brought up in the weirdness that was Wammy's House was ever going to have a "normal" life. The place was run like a bizarre psychological experiment, a deranged intellectual gladiatorial ring where everyone competed to be the next L. And no one ever came out of that environment with his psyche intact; it just wasn't possible. Poor Matt was just as fucked up as the rest of them.

But maybe they could be fucked up together.

They were both orphans, after all. They had no one but each other. And the last couple of years had been so horribly, terribly lonely for Mello. Hell, even having Puck around had been something. At least with him, there hadn't been the need to explain why he had a rifle with a sight glass on a tripod set up by the hotel window--it had at least been convenient, sleeping with Puck. But Puck was dead now. And Mello had killed him. And there was this cold, creeping fear inside, a fear that both froze the blood and chilled the heart--a fear that whispered to him that if he were to get involved with anyone else, then that person, too, would eventually meet a similar, unfortunate fate. For Mello was chasing after Kira. And Death was chasing after Mello. And the real question was: who was going to be the first to catch up. . .

I'm feeling mighty lonesome
Haven't slept a wink
I walk the floor and watch the door
And in between I drink
Black Coffee
Love's a hand me down brew
I'll never know a Sunday
In this weekday room

I'm moaning all the morning
And mourning all the night
And in between it's nicotine
And not much heart to fight
Black Coffee
Feelin' low as the ground
It's driving me crazy
Just waiting for my baby
To maybe come around
I'm waiting for my baby
To maybe come around. . .

The lovelorn voice of Ella Fitzgerald wafted in, smoky and low, through the open balcony doors. The sound of horse hooves echoed loudly from the pavement below--the sound both out of time, out of place. Time had somehow ceased to exist, to freeze. And then Mello was suddenly jarred back into the present by the intruding, agonized sound of Matt's voice.

"Say something! Answer me!"

Mello just stared at the redhead, stared at his love-filled, imploring eyes. So perfect. I want to give you everything, he thought. I really do. I'm just afraid of what 'everything' entails. Of what it might mean. . .

That it might mean death.

Clink! Mello pulled at the cuff on his wrist, forgetting it was there. He looked at the metal links with annoyance. Then he said:

"Why don't you unlock this thing?"

"Why don't you answer me?"

The two of them glared at each other over the space of four feet. Then Matt calmly took the key to the handcuffs from his pocket and held it up in front of Mello's face--

--and then promptly pitched it over his shoulder to the other side of the room.

"Jackass!"

"Hey, takes one to know one."

"Go home, Matty."

"Now is that what you really want?"

Mello hesitated. Hell no, it's not what I really want, he thought. And for once he just said exactly what was on his mind:

"Hell no, it's not what I really want!"

Matt

It wasn't "I love you." But after four years, it was enough.

Matt reached out and grabbed the metal link on the collar that Mello was still wearing. He pulled him forward, his tongue darting out to moisten the other boy's lips, licking around the outside, teasing the blond's mouth with kitten-soft strokes. Mello used his free hand to grab the back of Matt's head, and in response, he all but smashed their mouths together. Yes, now, this! Even shackled, Matt could still feel the sense of danger--of wanton, heady violence--coming off the blond. It leaked like perspiration from his very pores. Their salty tongues met and twined, snaked together in a shimmying, serpentine dance. Matt ran short, hard nails up the inside of Mello's leather-clad thighs and he felt the other tense, felt his breath hitch. The metal cuff clanked violently against the headboard, beating out a rhythm of frustration. All mine, he thought. My personal, willing slave. Then Matt leaned back and smiled.

"Come here." commanded Mello breathlessly, his eyes glazed over with growing lust, his free hand stretched out to grasp at the redhead, who was leaning just out of reach.

Now it was Matt's turn to smile evilly. "Make me."

"Matty. . ." The warning tone was back in Mello's voice.

Clink!

"Whatcha gonna give me if I do?"

"Oh, I'm gonna give you something, alright." said Mello, a lascivious sheen to his eyes. He arched his hips meaningfully, calling attention to the growing bulge beneath the tight leather. "Just come over here and find out--"

The moment Matt got within reach, Mello snared him like a captive animal, a lusty, throaty growl of triumph escaping his throat. Matt straddled the blond as Mello went to work on molesting him in earnest, the blond pawing beneath his shirt to pinch each of his nipples, causing enough of a pleasure-pain reaction to make his back arch involuntarily, to suck in air through clenched teeth. Those prying, clever fingers were soon replaced by a sucking, wet tongue and Matt yanked his shirt the rest of the way over his head, tossing the garment to the floor. He was practically writhing in Mello's lap, the blond's tongue and fingers working on him in a way that was calculated to drive him completely insane. Matt ground his crotch against Mello's, his lengthening hardness pressed against the other's, drawing from him a delicious, animal friction that was nearly--but not quite--intolerable to bear.

Teeth nipped violently at his right nipple, tearing an unexpected gasp from his throat. Matt was feeling hard enough to explode. "Mello?"

"Matt?"

Matt opened his eyes and stared down into Mello's face, that gorgeous fucking face of his that was looking up at him with such want, such need, such desire. "Yes?"

"Sit on my face. . ."

That was best fucking order he'd been given in years.

Matt rolled over and chucked both his pants and underwear off in record time. Mello watched him, still cuffed to the bed, unable to follow. Naked, Matt crawled up the other's body, savoring the forgotten feel of all that black leather against his bare skin. It was like a freaking dream come true! Matt cupped Mello's face in both his hands and kissed him long and deep, a true heart-baring, soul-kiss. Then Mello eased himself back down on the bed and Matt straddled his face, wasting no time in shoving his dick into his perfect, beautiful mouth.

He noticed that red welts were starting to cover Mello's wrist where he'd been unconsciously pulling against the handcuffs, pulled at them futilely even as he sucked Matt off like there was no tomorrow. Matt panted his pleasure above him like an overheated dog. He watched through half-mast eyes as Mello paused long enough to slid two of his own fingers into his mouth, coating them with saliva--with nature's own god-given lubricate--and then he felt the electric shock of ecstasy as the blond reached around and pushed both of his fingers into his ass, causing him to moan out a raspy, guttural gasp of pleasure. "Ah, goddam it!" Matt cried and grabbed hold of the headboard, swooning beneath the heady overload of those two beautiful, obliterating, mind-blowing sensations. "Keep it up, and I'm not gonna last," he said finally.

"Pony up," commanded Mello, nudging him with his knee. The blond's fingers still worked inside him, almost touching, but not quite, hitting their mark and then--

Mello

"--Oh, fuck yes, that is gooooood!" Matt was still straddling Mello, and he appeared to be holding onto the headboard for dear life. He must have hit the right mark, because the redhead was all but fucking his fingers, lost to the oblivion of sensation. Meanwhile, Mello was going insane beneath him.

"Up!" Another meaningful nudge.

Mello removed his fingers and watched as the redhead slid back down his body, his hands trailing roughly over Mello's own erection through his pants, hands which paused to massage, grope, and tease. Mello arched beneath the other's touch, their eyes meeting across the expanse of his torso.

"C'mon Mel--ask me nicely for it," said Matt teasingly, his face all but poised above his crotch.

"Don't you dare!" threatened Mello, his voice gone hoarse with barely restrained need.

"Dare what?" asked Matt with feigned innocence. He gave Mello's crotch another tempting squeeze, then pulled back. The expression on Mello's face was murderous.

"Matty, why are you doing this? You know you want it. . ." He let his gaze travel lustily over the redhead's naked body. The other boy still didn't move.

Mello pulled against the handcuffs in frustration. Clink! "Matt, come over here." Mello growled through clenched teeth.

Matt's fingers skittered across Mello's leather-clad thighs like a pair of naughty spiders. "Ask nicely."

"Goddam cocktease!"

"That's not nice. . ."

Mello huffed in frustration, rolled his eyes, and recited, like a reluctant schoolboy: "My dear Mr. Jeevas--can you pleeeeeease come up here so I can fuck the ever-loving shit out of you?"

Matt burst out in laughter at the delivery. Mello's expression was still murderous. He really was going to start begging in earnest soon if Matt didn't come across with the goods.

"As you wish," said Matt with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. The redhead crawled back up Mello's body, his hands going to work on his belt buckle and fly.

"Jesus, hurry up!"

"Patience," said Matt, who started to peel, inch by tantalizing inch, the stuck, sweaty leather down the other's legs with a suctioning resistance. "Your leather's making things difficult."

"You know you love it."

"Damn right, I do." Matt finally got his pants off and flung them carelessly off to the side. The moment he settled back down on Mello's bare body, the blond was bucking up with need, his hardness seeking the entrance to heaven. Matt ground against him in a sinful, sweaty tango before reaching back to insert the other boy's dick into his ass.

Mello couldn't wait another instant. He pushed up into Matt, heedless of the redhead's discomfort, savoring the mixed expression of pain and ecstasy which flitted, like a delicate pair of doves, across his face. Mello wound his fist around Matt's own throbbing erection, pumping it hard, finding a rhythm to match his own as he thrust upward into Matt with lusty, animal abandon. It had been too long. Way too long since the two of them had danced this kind of dance, but the steps came back, like a flash-fire of carnal memory that was never to be lost, never to be forgotten, and they wound themselves fully into its hedonistic pattern, matching each other's pace and pleasure, a dance made up of sure steps and deft strokes.

"I'm getting close," Matt gasped.

Mello thrust even harder, seeking that spot--that angle--that would send the redhead spinning right off into the stratosphere. The friction was overwhelming, and he wasn't going to be able to hold out for long. Mello pulled against the metal cuff--no doubt bruising himself--but the restraints were working some kind of arcane, psychological chicanery on him, one which simply served to heighten everything, to imbue everything with a greater sense of pleasure, of danger. Now he knew why people liked using the things in bed so much. It was frustrating and deliciously tantalizing all in the same instance.

"Push harder," gritted Matt.

Mello did as he commanded, until the other boy was gasping over him like an asthmatic in the midst of an attack. "Yesssss!" And then the redhead threw his head back and froze, muscles clenched straight-jacket tight, as orgasm hit him like an oncoming tsunami. Beautiful. It was enough to send Mello over in the next instant, to put a ringing in his ears and a white film over his vision, as he came into the redhead's incredibly tight ass.

It really had been too long. . .

Matt collapsed on top of him, an expression of pure, exhausted bliss on his face. "Oh damn, that was soooooo good."

"Damn near perfect," agreed Mello breathlessly.

Matt looked up at him and smiled, his hand reaching up to cup his face. "I love you," he said, as if he were practicing the words, trying them out in a different kind of context. "However, the answer is no."

Mello quirked up an eyebrow at this last part. And then realization dawned, bringing with it an unhappy frown.

"I'm not taking off the cuffs, Mello. . ."

Matt

Sunlight and birdsong filtered through the open french doors, bringing with them the dawn of a new day. Matt lay nestled within the damp, white sheets of the four poster bed, a cloud of sleep still holding cover in his mind, making it difficult for him to wake up. He stretched, long and languorously, feeling the deliberate, delicious soreness in his muscles, and on the heels of that feeling came the pleasant, vivid memory of the events from the night before. Matt smiled with his eyes closed, remembering--savoring--every single touch, every stroke, every gasp. His hand reached out, groped blindly over to the opposite side of the bed where he encountered--

--nothing.

The redhead's eyes snapped open. He stared at the empty space next to him, at the pair of handcuffs that lay open and discarded in the spot where Mello had been. A firestorm of emotion came over his face then, dark clouds of disappointment, disbelief, anger, and fury.

"Bastard!" he yelled. He couldn't believe it. The slippery little fucker had gotten out of the cuffs and left him again. Left him. Without telling him.

Again!

Matt began to tremble as several conflicting, uncontrollable emotions began to take hold. He could feel the beginnings of tears, could see his own vision start to blur, but he fought valiantly against the oncoming tide. Goddam you, Mello, he thought. He should have known that the sneaky blond would pull something like this. He hadn't denied it when he had accused him of wanting to sneak off, and Matt should have taken his silence to heart.

He should have fucking known!

Outside on a nearby balcony, a CD player blasted, sending its lyrics flying through the open door.

I don't know why you're mean to me
When I call on the telephone
And I don't know
What you mean to me
But I want to turn you on
Turn you up
Figure you out
I want to take you on

These words,
You will be mine
These words,
You will be mine
All the time

You know with love
Comes strange currencies
And here is my appeal
I need a chance, a second chance,
A third chance, a fourth chance,
A word, a signal
A nod, a little breath
Just to fool myself
To catch myself
And make it real
Real. . .

These words,
You will be mine
These words,
You will be mine. . .

Matt sat on the bed, consumed by misery. And then there was a click, and the bedroom door opened, and in strolled Mello, holding a tray laden with coffee and croissants.

Mello

"You bastard!" yelled Matt. "What the fuck?"

That was not the reaction he had been expecting to breakfast. Matt's face was red and he looked well and truly enraged. Mello froze in the doorway. "Uh, you don't want this? I can always take it back down."

"Don't play idiot with me," Matt spat accusingly. "I woke up and you were gone!"

Mello froze. Then with slow, deliberate movements--as if he were dealing with a wild, and possibly hostile, animal--he set the tray down on a nearby dresser and moved slowly towards the bed.

"Matty. . ."

"How the fuck did you get out of those cuffs?"

Mello couldn't stop the evil grin from creeping up his face. "You got those handcuffs from a toy store, Matt. There's a safety latch on the side of them."

Matt stared down at the handcuffs in disbelief. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously and he turned back to Mello. "Then why didn't you just get yourself out of them yesterday?"

"And ruin that beautiful moment you had going there? Not in a million years." The smirk was permanently plastered to his face.

"Sneaky bastard!" A pillow hit him in the side of the face, knocking off the annoying smirk.

"Remind me to buy you some adult bondage toys when we get to Houston," said Mello with a meaningful leer.

Matt froze. Mello watched his face change, watched as it went from anger to a different kind of disbelief.

"You said 'we'," Matt pointed out.

"I did. Now try this coffee. That chicory stuff they put in it here is addictive."

"We."

"We," repeated Mello.

Matt's expression turned ecstatic. He looked positively gorgeous right then, and Mello had a feeling that he was going to remember this moment, remember it for always.

"Fuck Houston then--let's head straight for Vegas!"

"I have business in Houston," insisted Mello. Business by the name of Vincent Haggard, Texas mafia head.

"Fuck business," said Matt. "Let's have some fun! When was the last time you had fun--"

"--last goddam night."

"I'm not talking about that," said Matt. "C'mon, let's go to Vegas. You can cheat at poker again like you did back in the old days." Matt was looking at him with those irresistible puppy dog eyes.

Goddam him! He's trying to distract me from Kira, thought Mello.

And you're going to let him, said the evil, fun-loving little voice in the back of his head.

Mello caved. "Alright, Vegas it is. So we'll get ready to leave in half an hour."

"A half an hour? Well then, let's not waste it. . ." And Matt gave him a meaningful look and threw back the sheets.

"Mr. Jeevas. . ."

"Mr. Keehl. . ."

"I love you. . ."

End/Fin.

Thanks to all of you who took time out to read this piece, and a double thanks to those of you who reviewed! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I will soon be heading off to Charleston for some much needed R&R, where I can hopefully be found swaying somewhere north of Broad:)
The songs in this chapter include Ella Fitzgerald's excellent "Black Coffee," and R.E.M.'s "Strange Currencies." J. Piper helped think up the band name 'Stereophonic Fruits,' and this is his honorable mention:) I would also like to thank Just Funning for his writing contributions and editing skills, and I would also like to thank both UP2L8 and J. Piper (Maestro) for the constant feedback and encouragement. It means a lot, and I want you guys to know that!
So until next time. . .