Mello was a lot of things. Impatient, impulsive, impossibly ill-tempered, devastatingly attractive, and probably a little gay. Yes, he could be described by any of those words. But late? He was never late.

Today, he was running late.

It started with the age-old excuse: his phone battery drained overnight, and thus, his alarm hadn't gone off. He awoke buried under an array of blankets – he liked his room frigid at night, so there was a use for all of them – when obnoxiously persistent sunlight assaulted his retinae a full two hours after he was supposed to be working his ass off at the gym. All the prior necessities, like coffee, a bagel, hairstyling, concealer under the eyes and clear mascara to hold his brows in place, were forfeited automatically as he sprained an ankle jumping out of bed, his swears loud enough to be heard by a curious passerby in the street.

Mello hopped to the bathroom in earnest. Thoughts were flying through his brain a mile-a-minute, interrupted by various curses and the occasional Slovenian slur. Grabbing a toothbrush and not bothering to add paste, he scrubbed his mouth furiously, ripping off his boxers with a clumsy left hand. He wouldn't even have time to shower. The meeting with an important client was supposed to start in less than ten minutes, not to mention he'd slept through an hour's worth of debriefing already. He wouldn't have any knowledge of last minute changes and he was the one giving the presentation.

Spitting unceremoniously, Mello set to work fixing his hair, pulling it back into a no-nonsense bun. The flyaways and greasy bangs would have to wait. It almost hurt his heart to walk into work without clean, voluminous hair, but this was the price he paid for letting his phone battery whittle itself down into oblivion. A spritz of deodorant missed his armpit entirely as he rushed back into his room, grabbing the first pair of slacks he could find.

No time to color-code an outfit today. He would have to wear a tie that didn't coordinate with his belt or shoes. Shameful.

Mello let out a noise of frustration as the shirt buttons rebelled against his fingers, refusing to close his shirt up properly. Was it this time-consuming on a normal day? He stepped into some shoes as he worked, forgoing socks entirely so his frazzled brain could focus on tucking his shirt in and finding a belt. One of his least favorite ties lay innocently across an armchair and he resigned himself to it. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and there wasn't anything more desperate than potentially fucking up a rich client's business ventures. It wasn't warm in his room, by any means, but he was starting to sweat with anxiety. This sucked.

Thankfully, he had taken the time last night to prepare his briefcase, so all the important files were printed with copies and ready to go. Mello snatched up his phone, double-checked that his ensemble was at least partially presentable, and sprinted out the door.

He was so late that the streets were free of rush hour traffic. It was a relieving death sentence as he sped along in his sensible-yet-flashy Mazda, plugging his phone into the car charger as he watched the road intermittently. A small bing notified him that the phone was charging but still not ready to be turned on. Mello grit his teeth and pressed down on the gas. If he got pulled over, so be it; police shenanigans were a better excuse, anyway.

The clock warned him he was three minutes away from being late to his meeting, but still ten minutes away from the building. Shit.

Pedestrians were a blur as he sped by, miraculously hitting six green lights in a row in his rush. He felt a pang of guilt as he realized he hadn't taken the time to pray this morning. Mello's rosary felt heavy and thick against his chest, and he wondered if it was dangerous to try to make up for it while driving. Maybe if he didn't close his eyes?

A woman and her child walking out of a store caught his attention, and he decided against it. Being late to work was not worth the death of anyone. He could pray on the way up the elevator.

Mello peeled into the parking lot, waving his ID card at security and gathering his things as he rushed. His sloppy parking job would probably get him yelled at by a co-worker, but there wasn't time to waste worrying about it, and he locked the car behind him with a hasty flourish.

His slacks, regrettably, didn't give him the room to parkour up to the seventh floor. It would've been far faster. He didn't fancy himself a rock climber, but he'd always been interested in new challenges, and today seemed like an appropriate day to just fuck his life up even more by falling off a building as he tried to climb it. But the slacks. Mello pressed the power button on his phone repeatedly as he hurried towards the building entrance, clicking his tongue impatiently when it took its sweet time to get ready for the day. Stupid technology.

He tore the front door open, and a surprised shout came from behind him. Mello stopped for a millisecond to investigate. He'd knocked a cup of coffee onto some redhead's striped button-up.

"Shit, sorry – I just, sorry," Mello called over his shoulder as he continued inside, jogging to the elevator. He slammed a palm onto the up button and felt his foot tapping impatiently. Were the elevators out of order? Did they normally take this long? Would the stairs be faster?

He was just about to take his chances on the stairwell when the doors slid open like the gates to heaven. Mello jammed a thumb onto the close-door button right after, but a hand stuck through the doorway and interrupted the sensors. He was developing a nervous eye tick, at this point, but bit his tongue and waited for the other person to enter.

It was the coffee guy from before.

Mello avoided eye contact, staring at the ceiling like it was the Sistine Chapel. It was really just a mirror. The man, dressed in a striped shirt and dark-wash jeans, gave him a cold look. His coffee was nowhere to be seen, but the stain was pretty big, covering his entire chest. On a different day, Mello would apologize and offer to pay for both the shirt and the drink, but he hadn't had his own dose of caffeine yet. He wasn't even ready to be standing.

The man pressed his own floor number – fourth floor – before pressing five, nine, two, four, ten, and finally, the seventh floor.

Alarm bells rang in Mello's mind as he whipped his head around to look at this complete and utter douchebag. The doors to the elevator slid shut, sealing his fate. He couldn't even form a coherent question as he stared openly.

Deep blue eyes met his gaze, challenging in their ferocity, and the redhead opened his mouth to speak. "You started it."

Mello felt a few retorts short-circuiting before he could say them. His face flushed angrily. "What the hell are you doing?" It didn't deserve a reply, apparently, because the man just gave him a half-hearted smirk before turning away. "I have a meeting I need to get to!" Okay, yeah, he'd fucked up the guy's shirt, but this could fuck up his career! He let out an indignant screech as he punched the open-door button, pressing it as fast as humanly possible. It didn't matter where he got off, he could make it up the stairs faster than this god-forsaken elevator would ever take him.

There was a quiet scoff of laughter beside him, and Mello resisted the urge to turn his frustration into an all-out brawl. Being late was bad enough.

When the doors finally opened, he spit out a venomous, "Fuck you," to the man, and made a beeline for the stairway. His sleepy muscles jerked into motion as he forced himself to take three stairs at a time (impressive, for his rather short stature), and hurried up five flights.

Mello was definitely sweating now – and regretting not taking the time to apply deodorant properly – but he was finally on the seventh floor. Stacy, the receptionist, took in his arrival with wide eyes.

"Don't ask, just – is the client here yet?" Mello wiped his brow with the back of his hand.

"Oh, um. Your client is behind you." The receptionist gave a timid smile. Mello turned on his heel, and almost screamed. The redhead looked incredibly smug, leaning in the doorway to their office, hands deep in his (admittedly expensive) jeans pockets. He belatedly realized the elevator hadn't taken any longer than the stairway, and would have saved him the trouble of sweating through his business clothes.

The man shifted, and Mello snapped back into it, extending his hand in apology. "I'm so sorry, I didn't, uh, I didn't realize, Mr. Jeevas. We're honored to have you here."

"Matt, please." Matt waved away the handshake. "I tried to call, to tell you I was running late, but, ah…" He trailed off, looking pointedly at the phone in Mello's hand. A quick glance told Mello there were indeed two missed calls from an unidentified number, as well as some Snapchats and texts from his friends.

They stood in what was decidedly the most awkward silence of Mello's life. It was embarrassing beyond anything he'd ever experienced, and the tinge of pink on Matt's cheeks was enough to signal it was for him, too.

"Right, so, we're discussing a serious investment in some of our graphics card stocks, and I was wondering if you had considered becoming a potential partner for the time being? It would be mutually beneficial, of course…" Mello let himself go on autopilot, steering his client into a spacious cubicle as his mind took a breather.

"How much were you looking to receive?"

"Ten billion."

"…sorry?"

"Oh, you can't swing ten billion? All right, the deal's off. We're dropping you as an investor and all the stocks you own will crash by ten tonight." Mello cracked a smile. There was a pause before relief slid over Matt's face, and he laughed.

"Holy shit, I thought –"

"Hey, you started it."