Poisoned Rationality

Matt awoke with a terrible thirst. His first thought upon waking, usually, was to have a cigarette, but all he wanted now was water. Lots of water. His eyes felt punched through and his mind sluggish. He could hear music playing. His music. The tunes that he never put on when Mello was around, because his lover hated them with a passion. It was Rob Dougan\'s \'I\'m Not Driving Anymore\' playing out there in the other room, a track from an album loaded with significance for the redhead. Frowning, Matt tried to will his stiff body to move, but his limbs felt weighed down. Through the disorientation came another realization, he was handcuffed to the bed. No, he could move his arms. He was shackled to the bed.



"Mello." Matt rasped, but his tongue felt huge in his mouth. There was no saliva there. He twisted and saw the jug on the bedside table. With extreme effort, he eased himself into sitting up. A terrible weakness plagued his body. He couldn\'t think. He pushed down panic. "Mello." He could barely hear his own voice and, if Mello was in the front room, playing electronic music as loudly as it sounded to Matt\'s ears, then there was no chance of alerting him. Beside the jug was a glass. It was already filled. Had he just filled it? His short-term memory was haywire. On the second attempt, he gripped the glass and drank the water down in one long gulp. His cigarettes were beside the jug. With trembling fingers, he lit one and the nicotine hit like electricity running through his body. It was too much. He grew light-headed and the world went dark.



It was soup. The spoon scraped against Matt\'s teeth and the soup felt too hot on his tongue. But he was devouring it like a starving man. So thirsty. Matt\'s eyes focused finally on the blond sitting on the bed, feeding him. "Mello?" He murmured between grasping sips of soup. "What\'s...? I don\'t...? What?" His brain couldn\'t form the question. His mouth had no data to create the words. He was still wearing the shackles. Alarm whipped through him. Something was very wrong here.



"Sssh." Mello reached out to stroke his cheek. "You\'re getting better, Matty. It\'s all ok. Trust me." Mello was wearing sunglasses in the flat, even though it was dark. The spoon was replaced by a glass of water. "Drink, my beautiful. It\'s alright." The water washed over his tonsils, soothing. "I love you. You\'re safe. It\'s ok, Matty."



"More water." Matt gasped and it was delivered. He drank a pint of it before he was nearly sated, then grabbed for the soup. "Mello, what\'s happening?"



"Hush." Mello fed him, then took him in his arms. The nasal spray was produced and Matt breathed it in. "Trust me. I will always keep you safe. I love you, Mail Jeevas."



Like a heavy blanket falling down, Matt felt his mind shutting. He was so hard to think and to stay awake. He sank into oblivion.



There was a flash of the bathroom. Matt\'s legs going from under him, but strong arms holding him up. A voice told him that it was all ok, so Matt trusted it. He felt so ill. Whatever was wrong could wait until tomorrow. When he could reason it out. Panicking would do no good now. Unconsciousness came as a relief.



This time the waking wasn\'t so bad. The weakness and sluggishness remained, as did the thirst, but Matt was able to reach the water and hold it himself. The jug was too heavy, but the rim was wide enough to dip the glass inside and he drank deeply. The bedside cabinet was filled with bottles of vitamin pills and supplements, a packet of some diet drink stood against the wall with a stained, empty glass in front of it. Confusion still reigned, but he could hear Mello. Words in Croatian coming thick and fast from the front room. Matt tried to recall all of the Serbo-Croat that he had learned, but it was gone. For an anxious moment, he thought that all of his languages were gone, until it occurred to him that he must be thinking in one. Which one was it? Which language was he thinking in? He forgot the question before an answer could be prised from his slipping mind. Nothing made sense. He glanced down at his wrists. The shackles were still there. Then he caught sight of his chest. The bruises were gone. The cuts had healed into pale, whitish slithers, where before they had been welts. Time had passed. His brain wasn\'t firing. Nothing was connecting. Matt kicked back until he was sitting against the headboard and screamed.



There were footsteps in the passage outside and the door opened. Mello stood silouetted against the light beyond, stripped to the waist, his rosary in his hands. Matt calmed at the sight of him, but there was too much that didn\'t make sense. It was all wrong. The blond was making soothing noises, as he lifted the rosary back over his head, until it dangled against his naked chest. He crossed the distance in two hurried strides and suddenly Matt was being held tightly, his back rubbed, his head pressed into Mello\'s shoulder. There was a smell of sweat and chocolate in the darkness. "You went mad, Matt. But it\'s ok now."



The words cut through Matt like a knife, but it was an explanation. It was something. "What\'s happening, Mell?" He gushed out, hearing the chains rattle as he clung to his lover.



Mello whispered back into his ear. "How did you learn to read and write?"



Flashes came of a television and a deep sense of utter loneliness. Big Bird speaking to him. Big Bird holding up a red apple. \'Rojo!\' Matt\'s fingers in his own hair, scratching out falling lice, from a scalp which itched furiously. A realisation came. Rojo! His hair was the same as the apple. It was rojo. He held out a lock to show Big Bird, but the creature had already moved on. Dejection stabbed. It was rojo, the same as the apple. Like an echo from some distant consciousness came another word, \'pelirrojo\'. Red-haired. Matt became aware of the man holding him again. There was a sense of falling; everything was out of sync. "Mello, what\'s happening?"



"You were suicidal. You went mad, Matty. You were hurting yourself, but I stopped you." A low, comforting voice. "I love you. I will always be here for you." Mello\'s hand patting, rubbing, consoling as the redhead cried. "Trust me. I\'m here." Kisses raining down on Matt\'s hot neck, sucking his ear. "I know you\'re scared. It\'s ok. You\'re safe." Mello reached past him for something on the bedside table. It was the nasal spray and it was inhaled in a burst of relief. Trust, so much love, beauty; the anxiety dripping away, leaving only weakness again. Mello was lowering Matt backwards, until he was lying on the warm bed. Kisses covering his chest; Mello\'s mouth around his sex, sucking, licking; hands on his inner thighs, stroking. In the disorientation, this was something that could be focused upon. He sank into it.



\'Algo va mal.\' Matt\'s mind supplied and he repeated it aloud as a question. "¿Algo va mal?"



Mello replied, in English, "Nothing\'s wrong." He licked the tip of Matt\'s dick, his words vibrating against its length. "Nothing\'s wrong. I promise you. I love you. Relax." He was taking the whole of Matt\'s member into his mouth again.



Matt\'s mind swam. There was a difference. Something different between what he had said and what Mello had said. It was a different language. That was it. Why could he understand them both? What language were the words in his head, echoing out like his thoughts were in a cavern? This was madness? From the back of his mind, Matt heard Wammy speaking, \'You were a really clever boy. What you did back there.\' The features of that kind, old man were etched into his psyche. The room sharpening around him in shadows cast by the passage light. Mello moving between his legs, lapping. "What\'s happening?"



Mello kissing along his hipbone, along his side. Matt reached down, the shackles heavy and clanking against the bedside cabinet. But he wasn\'t allowed to touch Mello. Why was he in shackles, not handcuffs? His hands covered his head, as Mello slithered up, sucking on his nipples, squeezing the other in such exquisite pain. It felt like dying. Matt tried to raise a leg, his thighs shuddering, then being caressed by a hand. His neck being bitten and kissed. Tears falling. He was being turned, his face pressed into the pillow. Mello entered his arse; at the same time, a vapour was squirted up his nose. Words being whispered. "I love you. You\'re safe. I\'m here. I\'ll always be here. I love you." Matt understood, his lover knew what was happening and it was all ok.



Mello came in panting gasps of \'I love you\', but all Matt felt was a great weariness. He wanted to sleep, but a little voice at the edge of consciousness told him that to do so was potentially fatal. Mr Wammy\'s voice repeating like a record stuck in his mind and memory, \'You were a really clever boy.\' Matt couldn\'t even remember what clever meant. Nothing pieced together anymore, except that the love of his life was on top of him and that had to be alright. If he remembered nothing else, he could remember his name. "Mello!" It gushed out as a scream. It was important to remember. "Mello." Matt closed his eyes, seeing the blond\'s face behind them too. "Mihael Keehl." It was a connection. "I love Mihael Keehl."



There was a sudden movement and Mello left the room, closing the door behind him. Alone in the darkness again, Matt sobbed into his pillow and couldn\'t stop.