The Mello Code

Old Trafford was huge. Mello stared up at it, the statistics running through his head. It was built in 1909, but had been updated and rebuilt several times since. It seated over 76,000 people. Only Wembley was bigger. Mello mentally determined that one day he was going to Wembley too. But this was the Theatre of Dreams! The place was practically a cathedral. It was a temple to the Gods of football. He shivered with the thrill of being there and turned to beam at Matt. The redhead was half a pace behind, twisting slightly to avoid being buffeted by another of the fans streaming along this road. Mello loved him. Mello looked from the impressive, intimidating, huge stadium to his husband and the emotion welled up inside. He bounced a little and laughed aloud. "Thank you for bringing me!"



Matt glanced up and a smile flashed upon his lips. "We need to find the ticket office. It\'s on one of the corners."



Mello nodded, his eyes shining. A large man bashed into him from behind and Mello staggered forward a couple of steps. "Watch your fucking self!" Mello saw the man eye him up and then laugh with his friends. He tried to stare back, but couldn\'t summon up enough fury to power an adequate glare. The trio of Mancunians got lost in the crowd and Mello shrugged at Matt. "Can we go in the Megastore?"



"The what?"



Mello pointed, already setting off in that direction. "Megastore." He slowed enough for Matt to drift alongside him, then sped towards the automatic doors. Heat hit them from within, opening up on a treasure trove of merchandise. From diamond cufflinks through to boiled sweets, all with the emblem of the Reds. Mello paused by the DVDS, then headed for the clothes. He had a quick look, but in truth was too excited to take it all in. Besides, he had the latest shirt. He turned and took in baby\'s bibs and miniature strips for toddlers. He found mugs and plates; little banner to hang from his bedroom door handle; huge flags and a temporary tattoo set; lighters and pens; huge framed pictures and a rack of postcards with all the greats on them: Cantona, Beckham, Charlton... Mello picked up a porcelain figurine of Duncan Edwards and briefly considered buying it to add to his Marian Shrine. He caught Matt\'s expression. "What?"



Matt laughed. "No, you carry on. I\'m seeing a whole new side to you." He raised an empty basket. "Just let me know what you want. There is no way you are buying things for yourself in December."



Mello grinned. He wanted everything and nothing. "The DVDs would be a lovely surprise on my birthday." He watched Matt turn on his heels and occupy himself by the DVD and CD stand. Mello wandered past teddy-bears and beanie-bugs; yo-yos and shin-pads. He found the football boots. He had never owned a pair of football boots. His mind reeled through the wisdom of this. He never played football. What possible need could he have for football boots? A life-sized cardboard cut-out of David Beckham grinned back in collusion. Mello stroked the boots that he advertised. He checked. The exact boot that he was touching was in his own size. It was a sign from God. "Matt!"



They were in the queue for collecting their tickets. It spilled out of the glass frontage onto the paving slabs. Their breath came out visibly chill in the air. Mello didn\'t care. He had his new woolley hat and scarf on, though his jacket was still open to show off his shirt. Matt chuckled. The carrier bag had a drawstring, which was over the redhead\'s shoulder. Inside were things which Mello knew that he wouldn\'t see again until either his birthday or Christmas, though he had his heart set on the former. But Matt had allowed him to have the hat and scarf now. Mello grinned at him and bobbed his tongue out. "What are you like, Mell? I swear I\'ve never seen you like this. I\'m going to have to think up a whole new name to categorise it."



"Stop making me sound like I\'m schizophrenic."



Matt smirked and they shuffled further along the queue. He lit his third cigarette since they\'d left the tram, in anticipation of not being able to smoke during the game. A woman in front of him tutted and an iciness radiated out from Matt, which Mello reckoned could be felt miles away. He poked Matt\'s arm and winked. Matt smiled back. "It might have been more sensible to go shopping after the match."



"Maybe." Mello looked from the bag to the stadium above their heads and shivered.



"Who\'s going to win then?"



Mello frowned. "Freak." He caught sight of a stall selling pies and peas. Though ordinarily Mello would have wrinkled his nose up at the thought of eating that, he had seen enough people walking past clutching them to know it was traditional. "Erm, I predict a complete slaughter. Five-nil. Do you want a pie?" Matt stared. He looked at the stall and back at Mello. His mouth opened, but he didn\'t speak. "Yes, you do. You\'re still underweight and you\'ve had exercise today. What do you want? Steak and kidney?" Mello dashed off. He chose chicken and mushroom for himself and carried them both back in their polestyrene trays. Matt had disappeared. Mello had a moment of utter panic, until he caught a glimpse of red hair inside the ticket office. He charged off towards it, but Matt was coming out. The redhead held up thin strips of cardboard that could only be their tickets. Mello resisted the urge to applaud. "Are we going in now?"



Matt\'s shoulders twitched with mirth and he shook his head. "I really can\'t get over you at the moment. You\'re like ten." He stared at the pies and peas and tittered to himself. "Right, we need to find the turnstile. Come on and oh!" Matt pointed. "Can you see the sign there? Lost children. If you lose me, speak to a policeman and I\'ll come and find you there." He chuckled loudly to himself as he ploughed into the crowd. Mello followed close behind, but they seemed to walk an age before Matt paused, looked up at the stadium, back at his tickets, then dived in towards a narrow opening. "Mell, here."



"I know! I\'m just keeping our pie and peas safe." They were stopped at the turnstile, not allowed to bring food inside. Mello argued the toss, pointing out that it had been bought at one of their stalls, but the groundsman wasn\'t to be moved. Matt pulled on Mello\'s arm, dragging him to the side. "Fucking little Hitler."



"Yes, but if we eat them here, then I can have another cigarette before we go in." Matt was gazing at him with devious seduction. It was the look he got just before doing or saying something that ultimately led to being in handcuffs. That he applied it now confused Mello a little, until he remembered that Matt probably didn\'t know about that look. He just did it. It probably translated as Matt\'s persuasive look. "There\'s still ten minutes before kick-off." He took his pie from Mello. "Eat."



Mello pouted. He knew it was stupid, but he had been dreaming of Old Trafford since he was a small child. He realised that, deep down, he had expected that when he finally arrived, the whole stadium would rush to welcome him. It was as if all these other fans were imposters. Even if they had had season tickets since they were born. A petulant voice inside told him that if he just let the groundsman know that he was Mello. He was the boy who had listened to matches over webcasts, even as he\'d revised for his Physics A-level exams, then maybe the red carpet would come out and he would be ushered in on a white horse, with ticker-tape, and fireworks. He ate his pie. It was surprisingly tasty. He glanced at Matt to ensure that he was eating his too. His pie was nearly gone. "How do you eat so much and still look like a refugee from a concentration camp?"



Matt paused mid-mouthful and scowled. "Fuck off."



They were searched thoroughly, making Mello very glad that they had left their weapons in the hotel room. He waited in the concrete room beyond the turnstiles, while a groundsman hunted through Matt\'s bag and carefully inspected his Nintendo DS. His keyring drew comment, though Mello couldn\'t tell what was said. He felt a pique of jealousy, as the groundsman patted down Matt\'s jacket, then another comment was made about the cigarettes. Matt was perfectly still, aloofness slamming down like a portcullis. He was eventually allowed through and met Mello with a rolling of his eyes. Mello bit his lip. "What was all that about?"



"You\'re right. A little Hitler. But fuck him! Mello, welcome to Old Trafford!" Matt propelled him towards the concrete staircase and they climbed up into the terraces. A sea of people pressed against them, allowing only an inching along in the direction that everyone else was going. They passed bars and vending machines. Glimpses of sky came through frequent openings to their right-hand side. Matt grabbed his sleeve suddenly and they fought towards one of them. They climbed the dozen stairs onto their stand and there it was. Mello\'s first sight of that sacred soil came as a rush. His hands rose to his mouth. His whole body tingled. His memory reeled through a thousand matches played upon that pitch, hitherto only seeing through a laptop window. This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this other Eden, this demi-paradise. "Mello, over here."



Mello turned to see Matt pushing along a row. Even for his husband\'s tiny form, those already in their seats had to stand or pull their legs far to the side to let him pass. Mello hurried into his wake, apologising to everyone he brushed by. There was very little room. Even when they gained their seats, they had to sit with their knees bunched up. Mello found himself looking around with horrified curiousity as to how larger people coped. He saw them dotted around, cramped together like battery hens. He hoped that the big man who\'d crashed into him earlier already felt crushed half to death. Mello leaned into Matt, surreptitiously touching his thigh. "Fucking Hell! I\'m at Old Trafford!"



Matt nodded. "Indeed you are." He smirked, self-satisfied, like the cat that had got the cream. Mello vowed that whatever Matt wanted, for the rest of his life, he could have. No questions asked. He was going to spoil Matt rotten. He wanted games? He could have the shop. Mello stared, imagining the Busby Babes running out onto that pitch; imagining the night of the Treble; imagining Georgie Best at his prime. He couldn\'t take it all in. He kept wanting to pinch himself to ensure it was real. He had a sudden panic that he wouldn\'t be able to take it in. He was so busy trying to be there that he wasn\'t there at all. "Want a chocolate?"



"Eh?"



Matt was holding out a little bag of Manchester United chocolates. There were only six in there and, in reality, it was only a sticker over a generic bag that rendered them official club merchandise. "They\'re milk chocolate, but they\'re Man U chocolates."



Mello laughed and took the bag. He leaned in and whispered. "You\'re lovely. Te amo, guapo."



"Volim te." Matt grinned, taking out his DS. "Just so I know, who are we supporting when they come out? Manchester United or West Bromwich Albion?"



Mello chuckled and took out the programme. He studied the squad and the proposed formation, glancing up frequently to shiver in delight at the stadium. The atmosphere soaked into every pore. It was quieter than he\'d imagined, but he supposed that would change when the players came out. He caught Matt looking across at the article open on his knee. "Good defender. Solid bloke."



"The blond?"



"No, that\'s the goalkeeper." Mello narrowed his eyes. "He\'s Dutch. There\'s a Slav as well if you want to see. Though he\'s Serbian." Matt smirked and returned to his DS. "I\'m so onto you, Matty. Want me to run through the rules of the game?"



"I know them." Matt replied airily. "I beat \'Football Manager 2010\'."



"Right. You might find this has fewer pixels."



There was a sudden explosion of fireworks and sound. It began a startling low roar, that tweaked at their fight and flight instincts, then rose in a crescendo of voices. Excitement electified nearly 70,000 people and everyone rose from their seats. Mello felt his heart skip and he was on his feet too. Beside him, even Matt stood up. Music played and the teams came into view. The blue and white of the Baggies, insignificant; the brilliant red of Manchester United, the Red Devils, the wonder team, alongside them capturing his entire vision. Song filled his ears and Mello sang with them, "Glory, glory, Man United! Glory, glory Man United! Glory, glory Man United! As the Reds go marching on!" It sounded as if the entire west end of the stadium was singing with him.



Mello was still singing it as they stepped off the tram, though he\'d been through several songs since then and his throat was raw with it. He watched Matt light a cigarette and hoist the bag onto his shoulder again. He grabbed Matt\'s shoulders and sang into his ear. "Glory, glory Man United!" Matt was pulled half off his feet and leaned back holding smoke inside his mouth. "Te amo, guapo."



Matt turned his head to exhale. "Still having fun, Mello?"



"Fucking brilliant. Fucking, fucking, bloody fantastic." Mello grinned. The hotel was across the road. It glittered gold in the darkness. "When we drop the bag off, can I try on my football boots?"



"No." Matt righted himself and tugged the blond over the tramlines. All around them, various people wearing the colours of Manchester United slunk away in all directions. They didn\'t seem half as ecstatic as Mello did, considering that their team had just beaten West Bromwich Albion 6-0. They crossed the wide road and loitered at the steps, despite the frown of the doorman in the direction of Matt\'s cigarette. It was still lightly raining, so they climbed onto the steps themselves. Smoke drifted into the direction of the doorman, but he never actually said anything. Matt smiled faintly, triumph in some covert war between himself and the rest of the world. "We\'re just running in and out, right?"



"Yes, guapo. We\'ll find somewhere to go where you can smoke yourself stupid and happiness will reign." Mello stroked his arm. The red and white stripes were soaked to the skin. "You were so good in there. I didn\'t hear a peep out of you and you didn\'t even have a face on you when you discovered there were no pass-outs at half-time. You earned yourself some serious brownie points with this one, baby. What would you like to do?"



Matt shrugged. "Find a pub?"



"We can do that if you\'d like to, mi cariño." Mello quickly scanned his memory for the Mafia don who owned Manchester. He tried to recall which pubs, if any, they frequented. None came to mind. He peered inside the elegant reception. There was a bar in there. He looked back. "Would you like me to buy you a jacket with sleeves for Christmas?"



"No, I want some wireless headphones with bluetooth and microphone. I\'ve found the ones I want. I\'ve got the link in a draft e-mail for you. I also need a better solder iron. The connection is loose on mine. I\'ve got it narrowed down to three of them, but I might just opt for the one and tinker with it a bit until it does what I want. I\'ve also seen some pwnage trousers. They\'ve got pockets for all your tools. I also need a bigger drill." He finished his cigarette. There was no wall-mounted ashtray as he wasn\'t supposed to be smoking there, so he threw the butt out onto the pavement, where it sizzled in a puddle and died. "Plus games. I\'ve got a list. I\'ll give it to you."



"I could buy you a jacket with sleeves as well." Mello ran a finger over the wet sleeve again. "It could have stripes on it."



"I\'m toasty in here." Matt started forward and the doorman opened the door with a slight bow and no reprimand for the smoking. The ghost of a smile touched Matt\'s lips and he walked by with an imperious air. It was left to Mello to incline his own head and mutter thanks. The piped organ carols had been switched off, but the whole reception still sparkled with Christmas cheer. Matt wandered across to the dias and inspected the bar area. He returned with a wrinkling of his nose. "Bit sterile."



"By which you mean it\'s a long walk to the nearest proper smoking area." Mello winked. "Can I have my boots for my birthday please?"



Matt nodded. "But today still isn\'t the 13th." They ascended in the lift and threaded their way through the hotel to their room. Once inside, Matt dropped his bag and darted into the bathroom. Mello peered out of the window at the rain washed streets and the people passing in pools of streetlamps. There was an intriguing brightness in an area just to the north-west, beyond several large Georgian buildings. He turned and caught his reflection in the mirror. Mello had chosen the black woolley hat, with the red emblem of Manchester United sewn onto the front. Blond hair was flattened across his face beneath it. He had imagined that the overall effect had been slightly feminine, but it wasn\'t. The black lightened the blue of his eyes, whilst also hardening them. It emphasised his scar more than he would have liked, but that couldn\'t be helped. He looked like someone you wouldn\'t want to meet in a dark alley. Mello smirked. He could live with that. He heard the toilet flush and so rushed to rummage in Matt\'s back. He only found one change of shirt, evidently destined for tomorrow. Visions of pneumonia passed through his mind. Matt slouched into the room. "That\'s better."



"Are you actually dry under your jacket?"



"Yes. It\'s waterproof." Matt looked at the white and black striped top in Mello\'s hand. He raised his eyebrows and met his husband\'s gaze again. "You\'re still not having the football boots yet."



Mello dropped the shirt. "Oh yes!" He dashed across to fling his arms around the redhead. "About them..." He closed his mouth over Matt\'s and held him, kissing deeply, passionately. They remained entwined for long minutes before Mello released him. "Thank you for today. I\'ve really, really enjoyed myself."



"I spotted that."



"Your hair is wet."



"It\'s raining outside."



"Why don\'t you rub a towel over it?"



Matt frowned. "Because we\'re going back outside and it\'ll just get wet again." He patted his pockets and withdrew a cigarette, placing it pointedly between his lips. "Nice hat."



Mello laughed. "Come on then." His own t-shirt was wet, in a wide strip between the edges of his open jacket. Mello deemed that irrelevant. He took Matt\'s hand and walked with him back to the lift. The doors opened on the reception and Matt made to pull away, but Mello cast him a sharp look and held onto his hand. "I\'m not ashamed to be with you. I married you, Matty, and if anyone has a problem with that, they can take it up with me."



"Shit, I didn\'t pick up my gun." Matt blinked, but Mello squeezed his hand. The redhead smiled. They crossed back into the chill of the outside. No-one paid them any attention. Matt glanced around, then his eyes met Mello\'s and he flashed a smile. "\'kay, which direction?"



Mello had imagined that the bright lights, that he had glimpsed from the window, indicated a club. They moved towards it through mostly empty streets. The final one was covered in scaffolding, tarpulin and plastic sheets sheltering them from the rain. They emerged at the other end into an oasis of colour and people. It took a few seconds to establish that it was a market. However, it was surreally not the usual British market. There weren\'t rows of fruit and vegetables in amongst cut-price clothing stalls. Instead, it tidily glittered with Christmas and fake snow. Log chalets advertised their wares in a variety of European languages. Mello could smell hot bratwurst and crêpes. He was staring at a stall selling mulled wine and Swiss cheeses. Beside him, Matt had twisted around to inspect freshly made poffertjes, sizzling on hot plates and dripping with syrup. They could hear an accapella choir singing Christmas carols in German. Matt turned back and Mello shrugged. "Ok. I don\'t think we\'re in Kansas anymore, Toto. Is that chocolate covered fruit?"



"Yep." Matt leaned to look past him and Mello followed his gaze again. They were looking at hand-crafted Norwegian gingerbread houses.



"Fuck that. There\'s chocolate covered fruit." Mello started forward, towing Matt behind him. Just a few paces opened up more sights, sounds and smells. A gigantic Weihnactspyramide towered over a German beer tent. There were people smoking at their seats. "This do you, Matty?"



"Do you think they\'re lost? I mean, they are aware that they\'re in England, aren\'t they? Maybe they were all heading for Belgium and accidentally got on a boat." Matt turned around, his back to Mello. "I can smell a pig roast. Oh my God! Glühwein! I\'ll be right back."



"Matt, wait for me." Mello refused to let go of his hand. "Don\'t wander off. I\'m just getting some chocolate covered strawberries." He yanked the redhead back until he was standing beside him. "Oh! And some cherries as well, please." He glanced up at the sign above the stall and repeated his request in Flemish. The teenage girl serving him looked up as if she didn\'t believe her ears.



Matt waved a leaflet in Mello\'s face. "It\'s a European Market. Happens every Christmas. Spread over five sites. Oh! There\'s one site which is Africa and the Far East. Another two are just German. This one and another one, European. All of Europe apparently." He turned to quickly inspect all of the stalls around them. "Emphasis on Teutonic, Baltic and Nordic in this \'hood. Hold on, I can see one from Hungary. Nothing Mediterrean as far as I can see."



The young woman handed Mello his two cartons. He smiled at her, "Dank u. Hoeveel is het?"



"Vier pounds." She held up four fingers, just in case he\'d missed the amount and Mello paid her. "Dank u."



"Dank u." Mello repeated turning back to Matt. "We do have to ration the Mediterrean imports into Britain. It raises their blood pressure too much. You wanted Glühwein? Or have you spotted something else now?"



Matt smirked. "Let\'s wander around, see if the Slavs sent anything worth grabbing." Nevertheless, he headed straight over to the stall opposite, dragging Mello in his wake. "Guten abend, ich hätte gern Glühwein, bitte."



The stall-keeper appeared extremely impressed to discover a German speaker in Manchester. He attempted to engage Matt in a long conversation about the weather and the English, the market in general, their plans for Christmas. Mello chuckled, as Matt struggled to keep up. There were half a dozen languages in which Mello knew that his husband would have had no trouble conversing in fluently for the rest of his life. German wasn\'t one of them. Matt\'s approach to learning a language had always involved memorising a dictionary the day before an exam. That was how he had passed his German GCSE. Enough words and phrases remained in his mind to ape fluency, but the rest had gone. Mello smirked at him, convinced now, as he had been at Wammy\'s, that his own strategy of properly studying, learning, repeating and using was a much better way of retaining any language for life. Matt stood heavily on his foot. Mello yelped and answered for him, until they could pay, take the mulled wine and flee.



"Don\'t say a word."



"Out of your depth." Mello sucked a cherry.



"Did you enjoy your football match?"



Mello laughed. "Ok, I won\'t say a word." He kissed Matt\'s cheek. "I loved the match, thank you." Then he surveyed the stalls, not so much for their merchandise, as for a personal check on how many stall-holders he could converse with in their native tongue. He was very satisfied with the result. They wandered up and down the aisles, basking in the atmosphere, but mostly trying to out-do each other on random facts about the countries represented. It was with some disappointment that they turned a corner to find themselves outside the market. "Oh no! Reverse!"



Matt pointed. "There\'s another one down that road. I can see the merry-go-round. We\'ve still got to find somewhere south of France..."



"You mean Spain."



"Or Portugal." Matt flashed a smile. "East of Hungary or Sweden. Obviously they won\'t bother with south of Hungary. There\'s no food down there."



Mello frowned. "What? You don\'t half talk some crap sometimes, Matt."



"Only sometimes?" They had reached the second market and the game began again. They were nearly at the end of it, when Matt pogoed on the spot, pointing. "Yes! Woot! I has victory!" Mello followed his gaze, but could see nothing even vaguely Hispanic. He glanced quizzically at his husband. "Omelette stall."



Mello stared. "How the does that count as Spanish?"



"You can get a Spanish Omelette."



"The word is French!" Mello shook his head. "No, that doesn\'t count. You\'re not having it. They aren\'t even serving Spanish Omelette."



"They are. Third from the bottom." Matt grinned at him. "£4.85."



Mello narrowed his eyes. "I don\'t care. You\'re not having it. How can a omelette count? Look at the address on the van. It\'s from Manchester. It\'s a van, for God\'s sake, it\'s not even a log cabin. There\'s no fake snow at all. You\'re not having it."



Matt chuckled. "Let\'s have a beer." He was gone into the German Beer Tent, the twin of the one they had first seen, before Mello could stop him. The blond quickly scanned the menu in the van, then all the nearby stalls, just in case there was something Slavic he had missed. He found nothing at all. He dived into the press of drinkers after his husband, only to find him already making his way to a table clutching a steaming mug and a tankard. The redhead was still grinning. "I own."



"No, you don\'t. If it had said tortilla Española, I might, only might, have been inclined to give it to you. But it says Spanish Omelette. That\'s English."



"Nope, that would have been English Omelette." Matt sat down and immediately started rolling a cigarette, disdaining the filter-tips that he had been smoking as they walked around. "I got you a hot chocolate with a Baileys in it. I came very close to getting you a Köstritzer Schwarzbier, because the blarb said it\'s a beer that tastes chocolate-y." He smiled, licking his Rizla. "But that would put hairs on your chest and you\'d cry, so I got you a girly drink instead."



Mello had been about to comment about the Baileys. It wasn\'t that he disliked the taste of alcohol, but both times he had been tipsy, he had hated it. The one time he had been fully drunk, he had been so paranoid about the loss of his mental faculties that he\'d hidden in his room until he\'d fallen asleep. Matt knew that Mello didn\'t drink and so the inclusion of the Baileys was peculiar. Now though, he stared at the redhead. "You\'re saying I couldn\'t take a German beer?"



"It\'s very strong." Matt raised his own tankard. "Prost!"



Mello stood. "I\'m getting one."



"Oh sit down." Matt laughed. "I\'m only winding you up. I\'m still high on winning the market game."



"You haven\'t won."



"I so have." He grabbed for Mello\'s hand and pulled him back towards his seat. "You\'ll get a beer belly."



Mello considered it. On the one hand, he didn\'t want to be drunk. On the other, there was a challenge here that Matt should have known better than to make, but which Mello was determined to win. He wondered how drunk he could possibly be on one beer. It didn\'t seem like a lot, not when he often saw Matt drink several cans of the stuff in one evening without appearing to be so much as tipsy. But Matt was used to it. He probably had immunity. "I\'m getting one."



"Mello." Matt called after him. Mello looked back in time to see his husband place his head in his hands. "Oh for God\'s sake." Mello turned his attention to the bar, then back to his husband. He could back down. He could. But that moment was past. He had to buy the beer now and he had to drink it. It was as simple as that. He watched Matt place a beer mat over the mug of hot chocolate to keep it warm. Mello smiled. He touched his woolley hat and scarf, then glanced down at his Manchester United shirt. His mind recalled the refrain again, \'glory, glory, Man United\'. Mello\'s peevishness drained away, but he was still stranded halfway to the bar. He nodded and walked the rest of the walk there.



Mello coughed as he sat back down. His new mug of plain hot chocolate steamed in his hand. "I told you that I don\'t drink." He edged the other mug towards Matt with his fingertip. "Enjoy your girly drink, Matt."



Matt laughed. "I honestly thought you were going to buy yourself a pint! I was going to offer to back down on the subject of the omelette on condition that you gave me a pint of Schwarzbier." He knocked back the Baileys and hot chocolate before it became any colder. "That could still be the case, of course."



"Play your cards right and you might just be in luck." Mello winked. The redhead smiled at him, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Matty, I\'ve really enjoyed myself today, thank you."



"It\'s been a pleasure to watch you." Matt turned his head away to look out across the market. Mello sipped his hot chocolate, enjoying the warmth, but his vision was entirely taken up with staring at his husband. Mello decided that he enjoyed the sensation of being in love, though he was faintly surprised that Matt could still have this effect on him. After all they had seen each other practically every day for the past two and a bit years. They had grown up sharing a room. Familiarity ought to have breed contempt by now, but all Mello could see was the way the Christmas lights reflected colour in the vibrancy of Matt\'s red hair. "You realise there\'s another three markets, but we\'re fucked for Spanish or Croatian there. Two are German only and one is African and Far East."



"You said." Mello lifted his chin. Action followed inclination without conscious thought and Mello leaned across to kiss him fully on the lips. Matt blinked surprise at him, then drew away to look across at the sea of German beer drinkers. Most of them were men, many engaged in the swaggering testosterone encircling of each other that was the hallmark of drinking establishments up and down the country. Some wore their own Manchester United colours in various ways. Mello felt the adrenaline rise in response to Matt\'s obvious trepidation. He sat back, smirking evilly at the clientele. No-one so much as looked in their direction. Not one dirty look nor lip-read comment, let alone a threat. No-one punched or knifed them. Mello was almost disappointed. He stretched languidly and grinned at Matt. "It might not have gone according to plan, but I\'m glad we came to Manchester. And Matt, I know you." He bit his lip. "Te amo, guapo."



Matt slowly slid his knife back into his boot. "Volim te, andeo."