My Own Way

By the time they reached the airstrip, Mello had passed out. Matt drove through the gate, following the route back as the reverse of that he had originally been brought. The \'plane was waiting, the only one in this private land. The redhead screeched to a halt beside it and glanced across. It was the same arsehole pilot who had conveyed him here. This was the sort of man who allowed teenagers to be kidnapped, beaten and bound, then helped take them from their country. Matt bit down the anger and reached to touch Mello\'s cheek again. He was burning up. "Shit." He considered just turning around and taking their chances back in the city, but Mello had been adamant. The blond probably did have a better grasp on the situation. He was Mello! "Right."



Matt reached into Mello\'s jacket and located the Beretta semi-automatic. A crucifix dangled off it and there was a cross carved into both sides of its hilt. Matt had never held one of these in his life, let alone fired it, but the pilot didn\'t know that. He stepped out of the car and approached Proctor with a cocky grin on his face. "Proctor. Remember me? Let\'s just say I\'ve been rehabilitated." He hoped his smile was somewhere close to being as threatening as Mello\'s could be. "Help me get this shit into the plane."



Procter raised his hands, but sneered. "Your status has nothing to do with me. Mello says you\'re in, you\'re in."



Matt unlocked the boot of the car and lifted out the first handful of laptop carry-cases. They were stowed into the plane by Procter and the two men between them emptied the boot. Matt pulled open the rear door and lifted out some bottles. "These need to be wherever Mello and I are going to be." He caught the expression on Procter\'s face. "I don\'t know what you think is going on, but you have Mello here and great uncertainty about whether the rest of your employers are even alive. You want to find out?"



Procter allowed his fear to show. "I said I\'d get you over the Atlantic." He raised his voice. "Mello promised my debts would be..."



Mello growled from the passenger seat, "Stop pissing me off, Procter." Both men looked at him. Despite the bandages and the general debilitation, Mello still managed to look terrifyingly in control. "We have a deal and you know that I have the authority to sanction it. Now just help Matt with his unloading and this had better be a smooth flight. Our friends in the UK are expecting us. You will get what\'s yours."



Procter got the message loud and clear. For the first time, he was actively in Matt\'s way, trying to collect things from the car before the redhead could even reach in to get them. "Understood, Sir!"



Mello opened the door and, though he practically fell out, he stood against it on his own steam. His arm extended sidewards towards Matt, palm up, and, after a moment\'s hesitation, the redhead placed the gun into it. Mello smirked at Procter, fixing him with his gaze like a cat playing with a mouse. Matt glanced across not quite sure how Mello wasn\'t unconscious on the floor or screaming with agony. It was sheer iron will alone that was keeping that man standing; and bloody-mindedness that was maintaining that Mafioso persona in the face of all that had happened and was continuing to happen. Matt knew that he could either cry for him or help him play the game.



The redhead turned, with his cockiest grin, facing Procter. "That\'s everything. Isn\'t this fun?" He walked underneath the aircraft, inspecting it like he knew what he was looking for. Mostly though, he was watching Procter\'s face. The pilot was nervous, but there was no flicker of panic at anything that Matt was looking at. The \'plane had to be safe enough. He returned to Mello\'s side, blocking the pilot\'s view, as he held out a hand. Mello could take it and be helped on board, or he could harness that Heraculean strength and make it on his own. Matt learned all he needed to know when Mello took his hand. The blond was weaker than he was letting on. Matt closed the door of the car and practically dragged his friend onto the craft.



Inside it looked more ricketty than Matt had remembered, but then he had made the outward flight tied up in the tiny toilet. The memory of it had practically put him off flying for life. Now he was back. Great. He surveyed the narrow seats and couldn\'t think of a single way that Mello could be made comfortable in here. With the pilot out of view in the cockpit, the blond had become a burning hot dead weight against him. He needed fluids urgently. He probably needed a lot more than that. Matt deposited him on the front row of chairs, facing inwards on his side, then sat himself on the floor beside him. While they were still on the ground, Matt raced to collect the carrier with medical supplies in it and to line up against the wall the plastic bottles of hydrating solution. It was the best he could do and it still didn\'t feel like enough in the face of Mello\'s suicidal stubbornness.



The engines spluttered into life and Procter redundantly shouted back that they should buckle up. There was no way of fastening belts around Mello\'s prone form and Matt was not leaving the floor for fear of the blond rolling off the seats onto the carpet. If the plane crashed, they died and that was the end of it. But Mello wasn\'t as unconscious as he seemed. He reached behind him, the gun in his hand, and dropped it into Matt\'s lap. The redhead caught it and stashed it underneath his leg. He held on as the aircraft started moving, gathering momentum along the runway, until they were airborn with a racing jolt of their stomachs.



As soon as they were steady, Matt released Mello long enough to pour him some solution. The blond was drifting in and out of consciousness, but he frowned when the liquid hit his tongue. Matt didn\'t care. It was possibly keeping him alive. Possibly not. They would find out if Mello died on him. "Swallow, Mell." Remarkably, he did as he was told. "Thank you." Matt took out the bottle containing just water and emptied it into a bowl of cloths, then opened a second one to give Mello a proper drink. After all the writhing back at the flat, his friend was too still. It was worrying. Matt touched him. He was still hot, but not fever hot. That was good, because they had no antibiotics. It was a nightmare knowing whether to leave him unconscious, on the basis that at least he wasn\'t in pain, or to wake him on the basis that he needed fluids. The fluids had to win. "Mello." No response. "Mello." Matt could think of one name that would probably have Mello rising from the grave to punch him for uttering. Matt didn\'t mind that, but he couldn\'t have Procter overhearing it. Then he remembered another name, one which had fallen into disuse before they were seven, but it still might have power. It was close enough to Mello too. Matt whispered into his friend\'s ear, "Kella. Kelly."



There was a grunt. It rose into a clenched teeth groan, "... Fuck?"



"I\'m awfully sorry to wake you, but you need to keep drinking."



Indeterminable hours came and went in endless night and when they landed, they still hadn\'t even left America. They were on the East Coast, but the refuelling occurred on United States soil a lifetime after they had started flying. Matt had changed Mello\'s bandages somewhere over the Plains. The wounds had the look and texture of Cottage Cheese, still oozing whitish liquid. It made Matt want to gag, but though Mello didn\'t scream his name, it was so obvious he needed him there, whole and caring, not panicking or looking in disgust. The smell alone was enough to have Matt considering vegetarianism. He doubted that a Sunday roast could ever smell appetising again. Once, just once, Mello reached back and clutched his hand and Matt let him. He couldn\'t imagine how this felt.



"Mell, why don\'t we get off? I\'ll find us a hotel room and we\'ll hole up until you..."



"No." Mello rasped. "Be brave, Matty. I need you to be brave."



Matt wanted to yell at him that this had nothing to do with bravery, just as his initial reactions at the apartment in Los Angeles had not been panic. Mello could believe whatever got him through this torture, but Matt felt that he had been exceptionally stoical in the circumstances. Ok, he had hyperventilated at the chemist store, but it had all played in their favour. He did not regret that! Instead Matt just nodded and lit a cigarette, because Procter had not told him that he couldn\'t.



By the time they touched down, on a private runway near London, Matt felt like he had aged ten years. There had been a point where he\'d almost gone into a statis frame of mind, only a bomb of speed keeping him awake and alert. Feeding Mello solution and fluids, dropping cooling cloths onto him whenever the heat seemed to rise a little on his body. The blond\'s pulse had been weak and fluttery back in America. It was stronger now. A steady, albeit fast, beat. His colour was permanently greenish white, instead of occasionally lapsing into red and clammy. Either Mello was now dying on him or he was getting better.



British soil had never seemed so precious. It wasn\'t even the fact that Matt\'s home was here, but relief that they were no longer in the air. The redhead collected together the medical supplies, tying a knot in the bag that he had been using for dirty bandages and cloths. There was only one half bottle left of the homemade hydrating solution, but Matt was confident that it would be alright. He might even be able to talk Mello into going to a hospital in Britain. If not, then maybe the infirmary at Wammy\'s House? He worried about how he was going to get Mello off the plane and into a car, as they had no-one meeting them. There was no doubt that the blond would have to be carried.



"Matt, you can leave that bottle." Mello sat up suddenly. "I need a piss." He staggered to his feet, clutching the seat and Matt\'s jaw dropped. Mello had not moved from lying on the chairs in what felt like over twenty-four hours. Matt hadn\'t even worked out how long it really had been, crossing time-zones for an eternity, but it had to have been a week at least. Or a year. A century. Yet here Mello was, holding onto the backs of seats to struggle towards the tiny toilet. Matt scrambled to his feet and rushed to help him. "If I wasn\'t hydrated, I wouldn\'t need a piss. Don\'t you fucking dare put any more of that stuff into my mouth." They reached the toilet. "And you\'re not coming in, as much as you\'d like to see my dick."



Matt waited outside the door not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Procter emerged from the cockpit, bleary-eyed and stretching. Matt could have kissed him. Instead he just smiled, "Thank you for a steady flight."



There was a slight thump from the other side of the door, then the sound of a flushing toilet. The door opened and Mello half-tumbled out. "Matt." He placed a hand on the redhead\'s shoulder. "Go get all of our stuff unloaded, while Procter and I have a little chat." The blond staggered into a seat and sat down. His eyes seemed distant, but his smile was pure Mafioso. Matt hesitated, but the grip on his shoulder tightened. He started to move forward, but Mello pulled him back. There was a movement at his back and Matt understood that it was the gun being pulled from the waistband of his jeans. Then a push and the redhead continued along the aisle. Each time he reappeared, shivering in the sudden coldness of a British afternoon, after the LA heat, the two appeared deep in negotiation. When, eventually, it was all out, he joined them and conversation immediately stopped. "All unloaded."



"Good. Now go and get us a car. Come back here."



With deep misgivings, Matt stared at this friend. He couldn\'t even understand how Mello was conscious, let alone sitting so still, let alone conducting Mafia level talks. But Mello\'s gaze was icy cold and broken no dissent. Matt turned and jumped down from the plane, wandering off across the air-strip, not knowing where precisely they were. He only had about twenty pounds sterling on him. He had a car back in Hampshire and the keys for it were in his pocket, but that was no good here. It was a long walk across the tarmac, freezing his skin, hating the air in his face. Worrying about Mello; hating the assumption of his own resourcefulness. He kept walking, along a lane, towards a dual carriageway glimpsed through trees up ahead.



Matt had walked about a mile before he spotted the complex. On further inspection, it was services, which meant that the supposed dual carriageway was probably a motorway. He wandered inside, searching for a car hire place, but there was nothing there of use. He debated calling home, but none of them could drive. He perused the taxi rank numbers, but twenty pounds wouldn\'t get them far, not in London, which is where Procter had said that they were heading. He exhaled loudly. The thought of Mello alone with that man was doing his head in. "Oh, fuck it."



Ten minutes later, Matt drove onto the runway. The plane still sat there, with all their things scattered at the foot of the steps, and Mello half-sprawled at the head of them. He half-walked, half-stumbled down, as Matt pulled up beside him and nodded just once. "Procter\'s gone."



Matt looked in confusion at the runway, then back to the open door of the plane. Realisation hit him. He looked at the gun in Mello\'s hand and his gaze shot up to meet Mello\'s eye. The blond glared back, daring him to say a word. Matt gasped. "You shot him?" There was no response. Mello just opened the passenger side door and sat in the car. The redhead stared in fear at the plane. Part of him needed to go inside and see; the rest was too afraid to have his suspicions confirmed. He piled their equipment into the back seat and ran around to jump into the driver\'s side. "The car is hot. We need to get out of here."



Mello nodded numbly. "Yes."