[Yes--there are the obvious risks. It wouldn't be impossible for Mello to rise from his bed, to rip away any tubes, any tape, and to overpower Near and strangle him. He wouldn't need to do it quickly, because Near is slow, and weak, and flimsy. Mello is, too, now, but it wouldn't be impossible for him to bear down on Near. He flexes the toes of one foot and then the other, and he feels how his calves react to that. If he stood, he would fall. But not right away, he thinks, and it wouldn't be impossible...
Of course he's not going to do that. For God's sake. It crosses his mind only because he needs to be sure that he would at least be capable of doing it. He needs to be capable. He has so little of that left, now that he's lying where he is.
Mello doesn't bother to examine what he can of himself. He doesn't peer at his damaged arm or hand. He doesn't reach to gingerly touch his fingers to his abdomen. He touches, instead, his fingertips to his tongue, after drawing his hand down from his brow. He touches his tongue and then makes a face. What a sight: his marred face, his chipped nail polish, his disgusted grimace. This is a man who has been proven right, whose contempt is justified.] Take me off the morphine. [He's striding past the maybe-joke.
It's pure defiance. In part, yes, he wishes for a whet knife of a mind, not a pile of gauze. But the purest part of him, the upright shine, is deeper than the flesh and what it's suffered. His pride must be an ashen smear. No better than discarded charcoal. He knows now where the hurt came from, when Near tried to talk him into coming--here? Home? To him? It always hurt like that, didn't it? The damage doesn't come from Near's help--but from how Near thinks he needs the help badly enough that he wouldn't survive without it. Near had to come and pluck Mello out of the cinders because Mello couldn't handle it himself. Ah, and Mello is grinding his teeth, now, isn't he; he's biting at the tips of his fingers; his gaze is far across the room, and his heart rate is pitching upward. His eyes are wide and dense with overstimulation. Even in the midst of the morphine, his brain is firing with intensity. But this isn't the wide-eyed thrill of grand planning. A pallor is setting in, and his breathing has gone shallow.
A two hour surgery. He was assessed, and he is being treated, and these have been difficult things to do for him. This is a healing process, and he is being given the utmost care within it. Any chunk of wealth will be funneled into tending to him, while his condition warrants it. Mello scrapes his teeth against his fingernail, and then he pauses. He had been starting to gasp, but he goes still. He had been starting to sweat, but his eyelashes flutter, before he finally blinks.
His hand drops from his mouth. The panic drops with it.]
What I should have done is show up on your doorstep. [He says it with the weight of thought, but it isn't fearful. Instead, there's a satisfied slip to it.] My gut told me to call you, but I should have just come to see you. You wouldn't have expected it, I think. Not least because you didn't believe I could.
[So it hurts. It hurts Mello to be talked into staying alive, when he wasn't planning on dying there in the first place. It wasn't a negotiation, because they weren't working with the same terms. It hurts him to be kept safe here in this suite, because he didn't need to be kept safe. Any lingering faith Near had in Mello, any respect he had for Mello's persistent strength, couldn't have survived Mello being tucked gently into this bed.
He shuts his eyes. When he settles further into his pillows, his own weight is grim.]
That's what I should have done. You would have looked foolish, then. I'm the one stuck as the fool, but at least now I know.
no subject
Of course he's not going to do that. For God's sake. It crosses his mind only because he needs to be sure that he would at least be capable of doing it. He needs to be capable. He has so little of that left, now that he's lying where he is.
Mello doesn't bother to examine what he can of himself. He doesn't peer at his damaged arm or hand. He doesn't reach to gingerly touch his fingers to his abdomen. He touches, instead, his fingertips to his tongue, after drawing his hand down from his brow. He touches his tongue and then makes a face. What a sight: his marred face, his chipped nail polish, his disgusted grimace. This is a man who has been proven right, whose contempt is justified.] Take me off the morphine. [He's striding past the maybe-joke.
It's pure defiance. In part, yes, he wishes for a whet knife of a mind, not a pile of gauze. But the purest part of him, the upright shine, is deeper than the flesh and what it's suffered. His pride must be an ashen smear. No better than discarded charcoal. He knows now where the hurt came from, when Near tried to talk him into coming--here? Home? To him? It always hurt like that, didn't it? The damage doesn't come from Near's help--but from how Near thinks he needs the help badly enough that he wouldn't survive without it. Near had to come and pluck Mello out of the cinders because Mello couldn't handle it himself. Ah, and Mello is grinding his teeth, now, isn't he; he's biting at the tips of his fingers; his gaze is far across the room, and his heart rate is pitching upward. His eyes are wide and dense with overstimulation. Even in the midst of the morphine, his brain is firing with intensity. But this isn't the wide-eyed thrill of grand planning. A pallor is setting in, and his breathing has gone shallow.
A two hour surgery. He was assessed, and he is being treated, and these have been difficult things to do for him. This is a healing process, and he is being given the utmost care within it. Any chunk of wealth will be funneled into tending to him, while his condition warrants it. Mello scrapes his teeth against his fingernail, and then he pauses. He had been starting to gasp, but he goes still. He had been starting to sweat, but his eyelashes flutter, before he finally blinks.
His hand drops from his mouth. The panic drops with it.]
What I should have done is show up on your doorstep. [He says it with the weight of thought, but it isn't fearful. Instead, there's a satisfied slip to it.] My gut told me to call you, but I should have just come to see you. You wouldn't have expected it, I think. Not least because you didn't believe I could.
[So it hurts. It hurts Mello to be talked into staying alive, when he wasn't planning on dying there in the first place. It wasn't a negotiation, because they weren't working with the same terms. It hurts him to be kept safe here in this suite, because he didn't need to be kept safe. Any lingering faith Near had in Mello, any respect he had for Mello's persistent strength, couldn't have survived Mello being tucked gently into this bed.
He shuts his eyes. When he settles further into his pillows, his own weight is grim.]
That's what I should have done. You would have looked foolish, then. I'm the one stuck as the fool, but at least now I know.