Metal scrapes with a echoing shriek, and the elevator stutters to a holt.
Twenty minutes later, an apologetic and disjointed voice reports through the emergency telephone that the elevator's generator had blown, that someone would be there to repair the generator as soon as possible.
. . . Yeah, right.
That had been forty minutes prior, and since then the atmosphere has turned to lead. Mello can feel its weight pressing down on his spine. Consequent discomfort makes him restless; he stretches and straightens in active resistance to building stress, but it makes little difference. Pressure resonates in his ears and rests solemnly upon his chest. His heart's percussion accelerates against his ribcage as the pressure presents him with a delusional certainty that the elevator's air is thinning. This certainty provokes irritation to rise inside him, to clench his fists and press crescent moons in his palms - The illogical certainty of his claustrophobia annoys him. He can't justify it, and he cannot exempt himself from it.
He wants out. From the corner of his eye, he conducts a blurred surveillance of his companion and confirms that which he already knows: Near is unconcerned, to say the least. Indifferent to the situation.
In fact, Near has already pressed himself against the wall of the elevator and has sunk to the floor. Grey eyes fix themselves mildly at the top of the elevator, searching for hidden entertainment that certainly would never come.
Mello stands. Teeth grind upon each other and remind him, once again, of the growing tension in his jaw. It's a bad habit of his from which headaches spring with disgusting frequency. He hates it.
The white light flickering from the elevator ceiling does nothing to help. Maybe it's because of his present company and maybe it's because of the circumstance, but Mello feels sick. So he paces - He can only manage two and a half steps before he's reached the opposite wall of the elevator, but he retraces this path three times more. By this time, grey eyes have abandoned their fixation upon the ceiling and resettled themselves upon him. Mello guesses that he has become the entertainment.
The realization only makes him grit his teeth more.
Near's gaze becomes increasingly suffocating. Mello attempts to still himself and presses against the wall of the elevator. He distributes his weight on one leg and attempts to bring poison to his eyes when he matches the other's stare. Much to Mello's distaste, however, Near remains unfazed, though he does tilt his head to the side. With an ear resting against his shoulder, Near allows silence to present the question he himself would not deign to ask: "You seem agitated. Are you afraid or do you simply hate our proximity?"
Never before had small spaces stressed him. Never before had small spaces torn oxygen from his lungs, had they encouraged adrenaline to drip into his veins. Mello does not fear small spaces. He fears entrapment and fears immobility; to him, Near embodies these threats.
Near is the reason he is confined to being inferior, to being second. Always second.
Always the caged animal wants to move. Always the anxious mind wants to reach beyond its confines and conquer its own uncertainty. Mello fears weakness, and he hates being afraid.
"Shut up," he finds himself murmuring. The crown of his head tilts back against the metal wall. He closes his eyes against sick incandescent light.
Near still does not deign to speak; his response to Mello's bland command should be obvious. To articulate it would be unnecessary. Yet, there's a slight upwards slant at Near's lips.
Mello keeps his eyes shut, frowns at the ceiling, and curses the light for searing past his closed eyelids. "I know you didn't say anything - Very clever of you. Ha ha. Doesn't stop you from being so goddamn loud, does it?"
White saturates Near. White, the combination of all colors - It creates an image so clean, so pristine.
White, the color of hospitals and the color of static.
Sometimes static is more deafening than any other sound.
And so white creates a powerful presence; Near creates a powerful presence and manages to cast a loud shadow.
"Mello is easily intimidated," Near states. A grey gaze resettles at the top of the elevator; Mello had provided the answer to the question he had never spoken and, in the process, had ceased to entertain. If his silence has agitated Mello and provokes him to such blatant oversensitivity - Then Mello is too sensitive to his presence. Their proximity must create restless claustrophobia in Mello.
Near's lips still find themselves twisted in a sliver of a smile. Boredom brews while this relentless agitation of his companion becomes both familiar and tedious. Their proximity does not weigh upon him the same way it does Mello. Nor does their metal entrapment - Although, when Near initially seated himself upon the ground, seeing coffee stains and dirt ground into the elevator's fraying carpet did provoke some momentary disdain.
"Dear Mello - " He addresses internally. His eyes trace the rectangle framing the elevator's only light. "Dear Mello, your sense of inferiority is unfortunate," he says aloud. From the corner of the light's rectangular frame, his gaze dances towards the corners of the ceiling. His eyes' peripherals note the shifting splay of golden hair against the reflective wall as Mello bristles, and Near finds himself appreciating how light dances upon individual strands.
Meanwhile Mello straightens, strides the two steps necessary to reach Near's corner, and towers; he obscures Near's view of the ceiling and offers an alternate vision of long legs garbed in black.
The angle is unflattering and unpractical, Near thinks. Of course, the stance emphasizes Mello's height and consequently creates an illusion of power, certainly . . . but it does not create the most powerful presentation of face. Indeed, a veil of gold falls into the other's eyes as he frowns at Near. Instead of pushing the offending hair out of the way, however, Mello steps back and kneels so that their faces might be level.
Tension grips every muscle in Mello's body. Near points this out with indifferent eyes that linger upon the visible tautness straining at Mello's neck.
"Do you only ever deign to talk to me when I don't want you to?" Impulse wrenches the question from Mello's throat. Once it escapes him, color teases at his cheeks; it isn't what he wanted to say. It isn't the most strategic thing to say, especially when Near's answering silence grates on him. Just as they both knew it would.
Somehow the sliver of a smile hinting at Near's features remains fixed. Mello begins to doubt, not for the first time, that he could ever sway that smile and its bearer.
"Don't talk about what you don't know - " Mello speaks again. His voice is low and threatening, and he already regrets his words. They sound sound childish. He had chosen to minimize the distance, the proximity between the two, and now he reaps the consequence. Pressure intensifies upon his chest. The air feels thinner than it had seconds before, and Near's silence is a vacuum.
Mello needs to break the silence.
So he tries a third time. A concentrated breath gives him a chance to reclaim composure. Blue eyes adopt a steel glint as he states, "You don't intimidate me. You should know better. Or don't you?"
Perhaps he doesn't know better: That Mello should suffer from their proximity, should suffer from a constant feeling of inferiority . . . might be enough to indicate that Mello is intimidated by him. And so the smile expands and transforms into something playful. "Mello makes assumptions," Near murmurs; his tone is musical.
Exaggeration layers itself upon exasperation. The composure Mello claimed for himself evaporates, and he pushes himself to stand. "Nothing else intimidates me."
Nothing else, he had said. This would appear as an admission to intimidation, maybe, but that wasn't right . . . He shakes his head and amends, "Nothing else to which you could be inferring intimidates me - I'm making contextual assumptions, and there is merit - "
His words sound empty and convoluted, even to him. Contrary to his frustration, his steps are light as he carries himself back to his corner of the elevator. Toxicity has drained from his stance, although tension remains.
"I understand." The answer is mild, clipped. Near is pardoning him for his dead-end argument. Mello grimaces and angles for professionalism instead. "You understand why I'm here?" Near is still smiling, although Mello doesn't recognize what he thinks is amusing.
"Mello is here because he cannot leave the elevator," Near offers. His attempt at humor fails to amuse even him. Playfulness vanishes gradually, leaving in its stead a sullen, skeletal young man. An idle finger rises to twist a strand of white hair. "The resurgence of this commercialized Kira doesn't warrant attention," Near speaks with a mechanical tone both vacant and bored.
Mello's answer comes out louder than he intended as he snaps, "The notebook warrants attention."
Near drones, "The notebook only warranted attention when its application was distinguished - As it is . . . The new owner to the notebook performs like an amateur. Notebooks will continue to make reappearances, and they will vanish as soon as they come. It does not warrant attention."
Although his voice remains hard and dull, a gradient of irritation casts a new pall over pale features.
And for once, irritation is absent in Mello even while he lectures: "Context matters, Near - While it does not appear that this present Kira, that C-Kira has the intellect that you want, the context is fascinating enough. It's a phenomenon, and I am going to use it." Arms fold over his chest, as he leans against the wall once more. Pressure plateaus at his chest. He has found a temporary distraction.
Near's voice sounds sullen as he utters the one-syllable inquiry, "How?" He thinks to his finger puppets, embodiments of different frames of thinking: L's judgement, Mello's action. He crafted the puppets, crude as they were, before Mello had stepped into the eye of his lobby's security camera. Before Mello had risen from the dead.
Near wonders how the puppet and Mello compare.
An arched brow and lips pursed with curiosity realize their expressed surprise, and Mello flattens his expression. "I'm not working with you, Near."
"Mello makes assumptions," repeats the other. This time he isn't smiling.
"From context. You proposed it once before."
"I proposed it once before. One time does not make a pattern. You continue to make unfounded assumptions." Near's voice begins to take the quality of giving a very unpassionate lecture.
Mello refutes the instinct to roll his eyes. "Are you opposed to working with me, then?" The question is empty, for he already knows the answer.
This, Near confirms with little hesitation. "No. Mello is more than welcome to conduct his research at my headquarters and assist in future investigations. However, Mello should be careful not to make assumptions about the context of my intent."
Mello quotes through gritted teeth, "'Mello is easily intimidated.' You are guilty of the same crime, Near."
The insult necessitates no response, and so none would be given. Thus suffocating silence builds once more, and with it Mello can feel the pressure at his chest building too. "You assumed I was dead," the statement hurtles from his lips. It's an accusation accented with slight sneer of pride. It twists his features and offers something rather grotesque to features that should seem angelic.
"I did." The words come like a confession, though they are devoid of vulnerability. Near thinks again of the crude finger puppet of Mello. He compares the toy's cleanly cut hair to that of the man in front of him: jagged, but neat. Near twists his own hair again, pulling slightly, and lets his hand fall to his lap. "It was not an unfounded assumption given the context, but it was a wrong assumption. Your death seemed inevitable."
The sneer becomes more pronounced. Inevitable . . . Why should his death be inevitable? His resources had been limited at the time, yes, and he had been close to death. This he can acknowledge, though he is loath to do he heard Kiyomi Takada's body collapse in the back of the truck and when he had pulled the truck over to check, he saw the letters M-I-H-A already etched into the scrap of paper in her hand. Despite the recollection of those four damning letters, he neglects to remember that he, too, thought his death was inevitable.
He would have died, if she had not done so first. As it was, he had fallen out of the Kira case. His resources had both died and vanished; he became irrelevant.
When threatened with irrelevancy, being pronounced dead seemed preferable. It still does, although it had almost been worth it to see undisguised shock write itself into Near's widened eyes and into barely trembling fingers. The shock hadn't lasted nearly enough, Mello thinks. He wonders what had been going through Near's mind at the time; he wonders if it had been static silence.
And if it had been static silence, Mello hopes it was deafening.
Announcing himself to Near puts him back in the competition, and the competition must begin on square footing.
For now, however, he revels in the small triumphs of having fooled Near, of having fooled the world. It's childish, but it's satisfying, especially when he notes how Near's fist clenches in his lap. It's not very often that Near finds himself wrong. Mello can't resist gloating a bit more - "Miss me?" The fist clenches tighter and then relaxes. Answering his own question, Mello mutters an unfeeling slur: "No, of course not. You're a heartless sack of-"
"Dear Mello," Near thinks to himself again. His finger puppet, although a clear depiction of some kind of mobster, seems to reflect the boy version of Mello rather than the man in front of him, although the two bear much in common . . . And Mello continues to make unfounded assumptions. So he speaks aloud, "Dear Mello - "
It's a reminder. It's a thought without a conclusion.
Mello freezes; he narrows his eyes. The want to interrogate lingers upon him. Still, he finds himself repeating, "Dear Mello?" The first time he had seen the note, scrawled onto the back of his photograph, he had hoped to repel surprise by interpreting it as he wanted to: an instrument of aggravation.
Still, this interpretation was a projection of a willful imagination. So when he read the penned invocation in Near's voice, he recognized it as an incomplete thought and wondered if Near even knew how to finish the sentence he had begun. Mello scoffs. "What about it?" He clamps down the impulse to interrogate and denies the curiosity that comes with it, though isn't very successful.
Near traces a finger along the seam of white linen pants.
"Is that your way of saying you missed me, Near?" It's a taunt delivered through a monotone voice. Eyes roll, and Mello finds himself studying an old scuff mark marring the forearm of his jacket. Unfortunate. The jacket isn't terribly old. "Or are you just pissed off that I managed to pull one over on you?" Near does not like to lose, after all. With muted interest, Mello watches Near's jaw clench.
"Five years, and Mello continues to be easily intimidated, continues to make unfounded assumptions, and continues to blind himself with desires of self import. It is not conducive to rational thought," comes casual criticism.
Blue eyes flash as Mello retaliates, "Your performance of L is lacking."
The finger, still trailing along threaded seam, hesitates. Puppets of Mello, puppets of L, puppets of himself; he channels different modes of thought. None seem suitable.
"I am L," he murmurs; he assumed that role years ago. The letter N became irrelevant. "The position is no longer up for contention." Perhaps that wasn't a good thing.
A huff of laughter escapes the standing man. "You are up for contention. That's why I'm back. You understand." If he could establish himself against the coming phenomenon of genocide and new Kiras, then Mello could certainly dethrone the king.
Life was not yet over for him.
The reigning king looks unconcerned, however, and bored of the conversation. Still, the king grants a staccato response: "You are getting repetitive." Of course he was. Their conversations never seemed to carry them anywhere new.
Sometimes Mello thinks that he would be glad to find his Medusa; he wishes to transform to stone. He always reveals too much, breathes too much, wears passion on his sleeve. The arms folded across his chest tense and clasp at nothing, hiding expression in their clutch. Near must be chronically understimulated. Scant hours had passed since Mello presented himself from the grave, and now Near was already bored of him.
So Mello frowns. "There's something else." An unnecessary prefix to a coming offer. "I won't work with you." Near doesn't look up. Nothing Mello has said has strayed from repetition. Even so, stony eyes fix themselves upon Near as Mello continues. "I won't work with you in the long haul. But I'll cooperate with you. You have resources that I need. And I won't be indebted to you."
His voice is harsh and cracks like a whip. He hates to make this offer.
Snubbed annoyance leaves a bitter taste on Near's tongue as he contemplates this. Before, Mello possessed intel that Near could make use of. Now it appears he has nothing. Mello's assumption of his displeasure at his having been deceived is founded, but he thinks that this should all be beneath him.
Somehow, it isn't.
Near does not believe in God. Yet, dissatisfaction makes him sore when God's omniscience evades him. So, he grudgingly revisits an old question. "How?"
Although Mello's arms still wear themselves tight, his fingers begin to beat a rhythm, staccato and irregular, against his bicep. How does he plan to be useful? What does cooperating entail? These unspoken questions are annoying, grating, infuriating, and demeaning. They cast an image of an idle mind upon Mello's being, and he resents it.
He has never been idle.
"I can help your performance, N. For a little while at least." Knees sink and arms unfold, bringing an end to fingertips' percussive beat. Instead, fingertips brush against the worn fabric of the elevator's carpet. There on the balls of his feet, Mello balances; there he ensures that Near look at him. "I can ensure that you're fit to compete with me."
So it seems the beast has strayed a few steps away from its normal confines. Mello often performs confidence with desperation; now, however, a discordant earnestness resonates in his tone, in his squatted stance. Near wonders if desperation powers his earnestness, too.
Even so, Mello's bargaining chip does break the monotony; it falls away from the course of ceaseless repetition.
He accepts the offer without bowing his head and without giving one syllable ascent. Instead, he prompts a question that he know will make Mello bristle. "Can Mello manage?"
Predicted behavior manifests itself, and a smile almost teases at Near's lips once more. Defiance commands Mello to stand, commands him to walk the few short steps necessary to sit next to the other. In turn, Mello attempts to seize command with intentful silence - it's a hopeful demonstration to prove how comfortable he can be with quiet, with stillness. However, Near can see the constant clench of the other's jaw and remains unconvinced. "I'm indifferent," Mello says. It's an ambitious claim. "To our proximity, that is. I can't stand you, but I'm indifferent." Yes, he can manage; he can manage if it's his choice. It's a necessary step to win.
A white curl finds itself entrapped again by an idle finger as Near considers. Mello lies. He performs his lies with this demonstration and with this proximity . . . but it is a childish display. So he opts to watch the curve of Mello's jaw. His tension seems relentless. "That must be new," Near observes.
A snarl twists his lips. Mello, still crouching, hates himself for it. The sound encapsulates animal frustration and sugarcoats an animal nature. When he had worked, when he had led the Mafia before, the same caged and animal frustration created the lasting impression of raw power. He possessed no inhibitions, but had the mind of a professional. They had loved him, for he was the one who brought whispered advice that ensured a steady stream of income be allocated into different bank accounts. He was the one who looked at individual wars with disdain and offered counsel promising triumph.
He helped them win their petty battles so that he might pursue his own victory.
Yet, the impression of raw power he created was limited. Exist though it might, its influence was limited when he did not have the resources, did not have the extensive power, did not have the ability to win. So he had lost as he had always done.
Because of this, resentment had been a constant for him since he was twelve.
His eyes close and bring him into the dark - a short attempt to recollect himself. "That must be new," Near had said. It felt like another loss. His shoulders tense. They relax, and he heaves a breath with the effort of accepting this new defeat so that he might recalibrate and make the switch from defensive to offensive.
"What about you, then?" He throws the question at the other, spits it, and hopes that it's enough to make the other keep his distance. Still, he knows the question is vague; structured poorly and weak, the question lacks the direct fervor necessary to seize Near's attention. "What about you, Near? Can you manage?"
Mello breaths in again; his lungs shudder. The elevator feels so damned small. "Your security is good. I'll grant you that. Getting any video surveillance into your headquarters would be impossible with what I have right now." Wasn't that a nice way of saying the truth, that he had nothing? "But do you really think I was going to waltz in like I did without doing my research? I did what I could, and from it sounds like - You're not managing your best or performing like L would." Grey eyes are boring into him, telling him that he's still being repetitive and telling him that his offense hits nothing but air. Frustration continues to seize at the back of Mello's throat, so he continues.
"Your agents have full trust in you and your abilities. Why they're so loyal to you - Beats me. You've as much social charm as a dead fish. But they were uncertain when they last left your headquarters, talking between themselves. They were too polite to mention details of the case of course, too polite to reference their employee by name, but I heard concern. Did you pick up on that, L? They said, 'Walking into headquarters seemed like walking into a labyrinth today." They said that some of your perspectives confused them, that they couldn't be sure your decision to bypass the case was the right one. And now I'm agreeing with them. It's a pity they were too afraid to put an end to your bullshit."
The corner of Near's mouth twitches, and he remembers what may have been an hour prior -
The door to headquarters had opened. Near hadn't looked up. Whoever it was, Near thought, could wait. He placed another card onto his tower.
Then he watched it fall.
Geometric towers built of cards that hinted at beautiful symmetry lost their shape, and structure around him collapsed everywhere. Near sat frozen, and he felt for a moment as though he couldn't see. Annoyance gripped at his jaw, ready to present itself in irritable speech - Then he heard a muffled crack, the crinkle of a candy bar's foil, and he knew.
Anger blended into shock and into injured pride. He refused to look until heavy black boots carried the intruder directly before him. To look and to confirm would mean that structure really had collapsed around him.
"That stupid card tower," Mello continues now. "Was the most compulsive thing I've ever seen. More compulsive than anything I've ever done. You should be twenty-one, right? It makes sense. You look older than the last time I saw you. Older - And more like a goddamn skeleton with unwashed hair and less control than you'd like."
The comment shouldn't unnerve him. Hearing Mello's attempt of attack was a childhood experience far too familiar for it to prick him as it does now. Near's mouth twitches again, and he resumes his tapping his fingers against his thigh. Tap once with only his index finger, only his middle finger, only his ring finger - The bearers of the finger puppets he creates to channel his thinking. With thoughts only slightly soured, he wonders if time has made him more sensitive; it has been years since he had listened to Mello try to dissect him like this . . . Of course, perhaps it was Mello's "death" rather than time that was responsible for making him more sensitive to this attack. His expression sours. The change is minute.
For the first time, Near presses himself upwards and stands. Mello's eyes follow him, barely concealing a glint of surprise. This simple motion is revealing than any verbal response he had ever gotten from the other. So he continues, "You're too specific, too detailed. You can only work to your full capacity when you want to, when the circumstances are just as you like them." The words rattle and disintegrate from his tongue, and Mello isn't sure of their truth even though he has collected observations of the other. He has made study of the other's work ethic, of his work approach; even then, Mello does not fully understand.
Still, he understands better than most. He understands that Near's work depends upon a structure that had long since disintegrated. Furthermore, although he cannot guarantee the truth of what he says, he trusts his intuition and instinct enough to believe that he articulates some semblance of truth.
"And now you're too isolated, which says something - I guess. Would you be able to articulate the circumstances in which you could best work? Or do you need someone else to do that for you?" He's glaring now, and his chest heaves with the frustration that had never evaporated. Mello's standing now, too, wearing a condescending smirk he had conjured with the hope that it would act like barbed wire. A step lessens the distance between them, and Mello jabs a finger against the other's chest. "Can you manage, Near?"
Agitation seizes Near's body like an electrical current. He can't express it, so he frowns. Perhaps he was more sensitive now because he recognizes truth, because Mello had died, because he was L, because -
He always knew he would never surpass L. Neither would Mello.
"The records say that L died when he was twenty-five," Near murmurs. His tone and his voice are distant. This answer was not one that Mello was expecting, so his finger jabs again against Near's chest and pressures him for further explanation. For once, Near concedes. "Mello died at age twenty. I rank higher than Mello. I rank less than L. The clock is surely ticking. It makes sense that I should be a skeleton now - " This job is almost finished. Someone else would shortly become L.
It's faulty logic. They both know it.
"Mello is alive. Mello is twenty-three. Mello has had enough of ranking bullshit." With repeated emphasis upon his own name, Mello mocks; he points out the flaws of Near's logic that he needn't and neglects to acknowledge that, frustrated though he may be with the ranking system, it haunts him. Rolling his eyes, he drops his hand from Near's chest and leans one shoulder against the elevator wall. "So you can't manage," he scoffs. There's a black streak staining the wall to the right of Near's head; he studies it. It looks as though it could be residue from a briefcase, perhaps? Or was it grease?
Near studies the corner of the other's jaw; it's clean-shaven. He finds himself shrugging while agitation seeps away from his bones. Sometimes he can manage. Sometimes he can't. He doesn't crave control like Mello does; it would be illogical to do so. Control is evasive.
They were, after all, stuck in an elevator.
Their intended floor was only two stories from where they had been.
The thought almost makes him laugh.
Blue eyes tear away from the black streak, and Mello looks smug. "Guess you really do need me to pay up what I promised. To help your performance - " He opens his mouth to continue, but finds himself interrupted, conscious of the other's fixed gaze. Uncertainty trolls him, makes him contemplate the age-old question: Is there something on my face?
With eyes still fixed upon the other's jaw, Near interrupts this thought with a question of his own. "Has Mello been competing from the grave?" Obvious questions reap an obvious response; Mello narrows his eyes, feels a resurgence of frustrated resentment - Near had never felt the heat of the competition like he had, and it showed.
At least Near respected that Mello was a competitor of some kind. So Mello demands "What difference does it make?"
"If Mello has been competing, despite being presumed dead - " Near pauses and takes a careful breath. His gaze shifts from Mello's shaven jawline to the glaring black of his leather to the golden tone of the skin of a living man. Presumed dead. Mello looks so alive. "Then Mello has misspoken. He said that rank does not matter to him anymore. However, I have been under the impression that Mello has always competed to surpass rank entirely . . . and that he has been disappointed by having been ranked second instead."
Twice now in the same conversation, Near has reminded the other of what his rank had been.
Near cares very little for rank. He is L, and Mello was correct; Near had never felt pressured to compete for the title. Rather, becoming L had seemed inevitable . . . Just as Mello's death had been.
But Mello had made it interesting, even if he did tend towards repetitive speeches and behaviors. Mello had created the idea that there was a competition and had tallied the victories and losses.
As Mello frowns upon him now, Near is sure that he still is tallying. Near is also sure that Mello believes himself to be losing, even if he had some small triumph in listing traits that edge Near towards defeat. A pale lock of hair finds itself twisted around his finger once more.
"Before that, Mello spoke of ensuring that I, as his named competition, should be in my best condition so that the competition may begin anew. If Mello has been continuously competing, is he not resuming his competition rather than starting it anew? It is clear why he would assume that I would need a new start - Besides my not knowing of the competition's existence given your death. However, Mello has failed to describe why he needs a new start. Did did Mello lose? When?"
The lock winds itself tighter around his finger and digs into his skin. Mello's frown grows more pronounced. Although the words drift with languor from his tongue, Near is dimly aware that they drift with increasing speed the longer he talks. Blue eyes are fixed upon him, and Near is reminded how saturated Mello is.
And he is skeletal. A skeleton. Has he always been waiting to become a skeleton?
He is L.
"Did he lose when he was fifteen, when he gave up his competition in favor of a different competition? Or did he lose when he scarred himself?" Finally his finger frees itself from tightly wound hair; it moves instead to press against the discolored skin of Melo's cheek. "Did Mello expect to die - Was dying a loss?"
Did he intend to die for the sake of this competition?
Near had always assumed so. If Mello had intended to die for the competition, then did he do so willingly - with the belief that his death was a victory? If he had intended his death to be a personal victory, then certainly such behavior was compulsive - More compulsive than towers of cards that embody chains of unbroken thought.
Did he intend to die for the sake of this competition - Or did he intend to survive, to hide himself and his life? Did Mello realize that the disappearance of his life would ultimately prove to be loss for Near? Mello could not be captured and channeled into a puppet as well as Near might have liked.
Near becomes conscious of the tension gripping his body; as he looks at the strain of Mello's muscles, he wonders if his own tension is as visible as the other's. If it was, he wonders if Mello would bother to see it.
Mostly, he wonders why he is tense and why his speech had accelerated so. Mello's death had made him more sensitive. M came back to life and, in doing so, resurrected N - not L. The thought makes him frown, although the expression is miniscule and fades quickly. Years have passed since the end of the Kira case, and it is only now that he is forced to consider what the death of M meant to N.
His death had ensured that L would never be surpassed, of course.
So what?
Maybe he had missed Mello. Even if Mello previously had dismissed the notion with trivial accusations, it is possible that he had missed him, that he had never paused to diagnose how he himself fared after the Kira case. If he had inwardly acknowledged the manifestations of stress following the case, he had rationalized them in terms of victories, losses, and grey . . . He kept his own tally and refused to bias the scores with the same competitive heat as Mello.
Victories: Kira had been apprehended. Whether Kira died or not was inconsequential; it only mattered that the case had been concluded.
Losses: Kira would have won had it not been for Mello's recklessness. Near had not addressed the absence of puzzle pieces within the case, had not initially addressed the fake notebooks as he should have. Because of that, he had been close to losing.
And of course, if you can't win the game, if you can't solve the game, you're nothing but a loser.
Grey: The investigation had been messy. Mello had stepped into the role of killer. Mello had been killed in turn, taking Matt with him. His death had been his own doing, Near had reasoned; there was little to mourn.
There was never anything to mourn.
Then again, Near hadn't been managing very well.
Perhaps he should have mourned. Perhaps he had missed Mello, if Mello's death had meant that he would resign himself to trying to think as L would.
He's also beginning to think that Mello's frown must be seared and cemented into his features. As Near had both spoken and fallen silent, Mello's frown became more pronounced with the realization that this is retaliation. Agitation drapes itself like a storm around Near, and it expresses itself with deteriorating calm. It asks questions that make Mello tighten his jaw with distaste.
So, shifting in place, Mello answers succinctly: "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Mello's motion brings awareness to Near and reminds him that his fingers are still outstretched, still pressed tauntingly, delicately against the skin of Mello's jaw. Although the touch should perhaps be intimate, agitation renders Near's grey gaze cold - The touch has become analytical.
Of course, that is nothing unusual. The long fingers that press against marred skin are accustomed to toying, to fidgeting, to making tactile exploration of the world to better the communication of neurons. He reasons that the constant activity of his fingers allows an efficient conversation between stimuli and analysis.
Touch focuses him, centers him, makes him present.
Of course, decks of cards and matchsticks are the most familiar to his touch. Skin is alien to him. It occurs to him that the number of times he has touched Mello is scarce; he thinks with some flat amusement that, while he may be indifferent to their proximity, touch certainly provides something new.
New stimulus, new response. The featherlight touch turns heavy as Near presses his finger more firmly against Mello's jaw. The tip of his nail scrapes the skin, and Mello's brow furrows at the sharp contrast - But he does not flinch. Near is reminded again that he is not touching a ghost.
There has been too much stimulus, too little time. His nail digs in further until Mello mutters a distracted: "Stop it."
Near does.
Then there is unexpected proximity.
Stimulus and response: An interaction commanded by impulse. Mello is aware of the whispering pain against scarred and sensitive skin . . . And he also is aware of how both his and Near's tension had become palpable and personified. The tension robs his senses, and suddenly there's white - all consuming white. Who began what is uncertain, Mello thinks, and he finds himself gripping folds of white fabric and tracing his fingers upwards to the bend of Near's shoulders. Lips fall upon chapped lips. An absent invasive thought floats into mind - Wondering whether or not Near uses lip balm. He decides it to be unlikely. He's conscious of Near's uncertain hands coiled at the lapels of his jacket, and he's even more conscious that the other's eyes are open. A hand slides from Near's shoulder to the back of his neck, guiding him closer and teasing at his bottom lip with his tongue. The hands at his jacket fist suddenly, pulling him closer.
Surprising. He answers and pushes forward. The hand cradling the back of Near's neck floats upwards still, twisting into white curls. A sharp inhale prompts deeper contact, and he feels as though he can no longer breath.
This is bizarre.
Lips break apart, and the two men separate. Yet, Mello keeps his eyes closed, conscious that Near has never stopped staring. The silence is awkward, and Mello finds himself tempted to feign a cough so that something might break it. The only thing that stops him from doing so is the immediate realization that however disconcerted he might be, Near must be more so. After all, it was Near: isolated and unsociable. It was Near: a waiting skeleton. With this thought in mind and with consequent transient triumph, Mello's eyelids flicker open.
Near is dragging the pads of his fingertips against his own lips with a curious gaze fixed upon his companion. Mello is suddenly all too conscious that no trace of pink colors Near's skin; in fact, the other bears no sign that he might be as flustered as he. Watching Near thumb over his lip, Mello wonders irrationally whether Near had been expecting the contact, whether he had seen it coming even while Mello had been blind to it.
Near drops his hand from his lips - previous agitation has dissipated, displaced by this new stimulus that projects him into a fresh stream of analytical thought.
Dear Mello. You initiated that. I know you did.
He knows only because he is conscious that he himself could not have initiated such a kiss.
That the kiss happened was the consequence of magnetic impulse, and Near often thinks of impulse as a shadow. Often, it is insubstantial enough that it does not demand his attention. Other times, he sees it trailing behind him; at those times, he hopes that it will follow him or that he would follow it so that he might be pushed to action.
For once.
Instead impulse always chooses to evade him.
With Mello having initiated that contact, Near is certain that the kiss was a gesture that had lost its meaning; perhaps it had never had meaning at all. Instead, it was the mere product of an electrical surge of emotion rattling inside Mello's skull. It was energy manifested without articulation.
Without thinking, Near presses his thumb to Mello's lips. He has clear intent, clear motivation: He seeks clarity of thought, and this tactile exploration will help him think. It always does. Therefore, such a gentle touch can't be impulsive - his intent isn't as jumbled and distorted as was Mello's; this tactile exploration will help him think.
That is all.
Unfortunately, the touch was not having the same effect on Mello as it was on him.
Instead, his touch causes the Mello's brow to crease, and Mello fights the urge to cross his eyes to look down towards the offending finger. With this battle having been successfully won, Mello demands again: "Stop it." The order trails away as he speaks, and before Near can oblige, Mello's hand clasps over his wrist. Somehow, in the same instant, Mello's other hand falls against the small of Near back and drags him closer.
Impulse.
It's different now. Less chaste. Mello's teeth skim his bottom lip, and Near knows that his hitched breath proves to Mello the surprise that had previously been invisible on his features. Lips prove pliant against the other's, and Near tells himself that kissing Mello like this is not what it is to cave to impulse.
Instead, he thinks of kissing Mello as an ongoing conversation. A discussion of losses that had occurred, of stimuli and response, of how -
Of how he had missed him.
Dear Mello.
Near had always thought of Mello as a nuisance. But Mello is interesting, and he is charismatic. When Near looks at him, he is reminded of an addiction waiting to happen.
Of course, it is uncertain whether Mello can decipher what he is saying - Because Near can't quite find the words to describe how Mello's energy is contagious, how tasting him is like tasting color. Near can't quite figure how to articulate how this, and he can't see why he will ever need to do so.
Still, this could be a medium for communication, one that might allow Mello to see more dimensions in Near's expression than those Mello limits himself to seeing - It could grant an insight otherwise unavailable. Near is quite certain of that.
After all, how does one misread a kiss?
Mello's fingers are still draped around his wrist, and Near's hand hovers uncertainly to his side until it seems to reach the conclusion that it can proceed with its tactile exploration. Help me think speaks an internalized demand. So, the hand rises and finds respite against the other's cheek. Exploration loses it hesitancy with the realization that Mello's skin is soft, textured, and warm against his.
How can one misread his kiss?
Even while Mello presses against him and crowds him against the elevator wall, Near is sure that Mello hasn't stopped to interpret whatever impulse this may be. If kissing Mello is a conversation, then it doesn't help him understand Mello any more than he had.
Near's back makes firmer contact with the elevator wall, his breath catches again; the sound is almost audible, and Mello's lips have left his. They instead trace a path from the corner of his mouth to his jaw to his neck. Near's hand slips, falls to the back of the other's neck. Fingers twist slightly into golden threads of hair when teeth skim over damp skin.
Has Mello thought about what he's contributing to this conversation, he means to ask; instead, the question escapes him: "Do you know what you're doing?"
Or is this only impulse to you?
Mello freezes at his neck, and Near is certain that he has narrowed his eyes. Then he feels a nip at sensitive skin, and his fingers tighten inadvertently in the other's hair.
"Are you asking because you don't?" Mello's voice, though muffled, is smug. Near resists the urge to roll his eyes, but permits himself to tug the other's hair in idle reprimand. Fingertips at the small of his back press into him in a faint display of indignation. "So that's a 'yes,'" Mello murmurs again. The tip of a tongue dances over the tender skin. Near sucks in his cheek and begins to say something about Mello's insight being narrow, about if Mello could just look at the grander scheme of things - But Mello has seized his chin between his fingers. "Want me to keep going or not? You have to answer yes or no."
Near twirls a strand of Mello's hair and tucks it behind his ear but remains silent. He considers, frowns slightly, and settles to answer: "If Mello knows what he is doing, then he may proceed."
Annoyance manifests itself in a stream of ghosting swears escaping Mello's lips, but he silences himself as he leans close enough that Near can feel warm breath against his lips. "I know what I'm doing, and I've decided . . . I want to unravel you."
There. An answer to two questions.
Perhaps it had been impulse, but now it is not.
Mello's voice is velvet, and Near's eyes narrow. Their lips meet again as Near breaths a question, "Can Mello manage that?"
A challenge.
He may have missed Mello, but Mello is still a nuisance.
Besides . . . they both have their pride.
"You sound like you really want to find out," Mello mutters. His eyes fix upon the reddened patch of skin he had just teased with his teeth, and he traces upwards - Noting now that a pale flush has dusted the other's cheeks and lips. When he meets the other's eyes, he's aware that grey eyes gleam with more life than they had moments before.
His lips turn upwards into a triumphant smile when he kisses Near for the third time. Yet, he cannot prevent himself from thinking again that it is bizarre.
Bizarre that he should come back after all this time.
Bizarre that they should be stuck moments after meeting.
Bizarre that Near and his silences and his subtle running commentary on Mello's decisions should continue to grate upon him.
Bizarre that he doesn't mind the press of Near's body against as his own.
Bizarre, too, that Near should come alive under his touch. New stimulus, new response - Mello slides a knee between the other's legs, breaks the kiss enough so that he might hover just far away enough that he can see more of the flush of the other's skin and so that Near can feel bursts of warm breath against his skin.
Instead, he feels an annoyed huff of air touch his lips before Near threads his fingers through golden hair and guides him with to where he wants, where he can brush his lips lazily along Mello's jaw. The gesture lacks the same tentative curiosity as before. When an unwanted shiver surprises Mello, he finds his hand dropping to trace a line down the Near's ribs. His fingers come to grip at bony hips, and it occurs to him that Near has grown since the last time time he had seen him.
The thought almost makes him scoff. That Near should have his growth spurt after he was eighteen seems less surprising, less unusual than it should have been. Of course, Near is an outlier.
And then he's distracted. He can feel Near's hair tickling his skin as he nuzzles into his neck, as he changes direction to tease with teeth at his ear lobe.
He had always been sensitive. Mello isn't sure whether he resents the fact or not. He tightens his grip on the other's hips tighten and tilts his head slightly to offer more access.
Bizarre, isn't it? That Near should be lapping at his neck in a way that's almost greedy. That Near should become so colorful from just a little contact. "Do you know what you're doing?" Near had asked him.
Of course he does. When he had presented himself to Near hours ago, he had not intended for this proximity, nor had he ever. But he cannot forget either how an impulsive kiss had stolen the air from his lungs.
He had been left breathless - But it was not the same painful breathlessness that took him when the elevator walls pressed against him; it was not the same furious breathlessness when Near never reacted enough to anything he did, anything he said.
The truth of it is simple. Mello hates to be ignored, to be cast aside.
He fears, more than death, that he will allow himself to become insignificant - And Near's decision to touch certainly flatters him to significance; it speaks an alternate story that makes Mello question whether Near himself knows what he's doing, knows why he's doing it.
He brings both hands to Near's hips and floats his fingers upwards beneath the fabric. The pads of his fingers skirt against taut skin, and Near pauses in his attentions.
It's becoming increasingly difficult to rationalize this tactile exploration as being entirely conducive to his thinking. He must concede that sensation has an ever growing role in this conversation - Near wonders if his skin has always run cold, or if Mello's touch is simply hot against his abdomen.
He wonders if temperature has anything to do with why he's shivering.
Mello's saying something - Dragging the back of his nail against the his sides, making exploration of his chest - And, without permission, Near's hips roll against Mello's thigh before he hears the question.
"Yes or no? Do you want to see how I can unravel you?"
It's a question he doesn't want to answer. If he should answer a simple affirmative, then he caters to the craft of the question which urges him to crumble - And to be tempted by sensation entirely.
The press of his lips against Mello's neck has been clumsy, he knows, but efficient. However, it's inadequate to give the answer he need give without conceding to crumble. So he bites down against Mello shoulder, laps at the skin before granting the crisp answer, "If Mello thinks he can manage, then he may proceed."
The answer does an adequate job of leaving his composure unbroken. Before he can be too pleased with himself, Mello's hand is drifting back down. Nails scrape lightly at the sensitive skin of his stomach, and then there is firm pressure around his length. Near's breath catches and leaves him mouthing openly at the tender skin he had bitten a moment prior.
Somehow, the hand gripping him had surprised him.
Tantalizing fingers squeeze around him, teasing him with pressure. More surprising than the sensation that volts through him is the moan it steals from his lips.
The sound of it makes him freeze, makes him aware that he had miscalculated how Mello could manage.
Mello could unravel him.
Mello isn't even touching his bare skin yet. His cock twitches within cloth confines and against Mello's hand.
The realization makes his skin feel hotter somehow; he feels fevered, and he shift his legs open just enough that Mello can touch him more. Curiosity commands him to do so, he tells himself and tightens his fingers in golden hair.
Mello's shoulder disappears from beneath his chin with a fluid motion, and Mello's kissing him again, reorienting him until his head rests against the wall - His eyes are closed until he feels something replace the pressure of Mello's lips.
Eyes snap open to see the pad of Mello's thumb resting against his lips, parting them slightly as a bold hand dips below the elastic of his clothing -
Of course, Mello's smirking. When Near hears the groan that Mello's thumb prevents him from muting, he knows why. But he can also see how dilated Mello's pupils are.
So he lets his own hand explore, lets his hand touch fire and drift down the other's neck, across the notches of Mello's spine - His fingers trace circles there, at the skin of the midriff.
Mello abruptly pulls down white pants, white boxers; sensitive skin meets cool air, and a shiver rockets through him. It disrupts the idle circles he traces against the other's skin and prompts his hand to drop further to the curve of Mello's hips so that he might pull the other man against his own.
It's a vain attempt to cover himself. It's a half-hearted attempt to cover himself - Now he's too aware of just how hard Mello is against his hip, and Mello is relentless: Thumbing over the head of his cock, massaging his balls in hand with teasing fingers, and slowing the twist of his wrist -
Mello has never stopped watching him, Near realizes. Not since impulse had bid Mello to kiss him.
It's interesting, he thinks, to be seen.
To be seen like this.
His hips jolt forward, into Mello's hands; his breaths feel shallow, and it's unfair that he should feel so drowned in sensation when Mello only looks aroused, only looks alive, but it's good to see him - He can see the few scattered faint freckles decorating Mello's skin, and the heat that Mello is transferring to him reminds him that Mello's life is contagious.
Curiosity has been abandoned. Sensation wins.
He hasn't felt this present, this centered in years.
His hands roam without regard - Along Mello's chest, to Mello's cheeks so he can bring him forward for an open mouthed kiss, down to his ass.
Near's almost alarmed when he feels Mello moan into his mouth, but it makes him think - Makes him wonder whether his attention can unravel Mello just as Mello can unravel him. He's hesitant and distracted, but with uncoordinated and staggered movements, his fingers free Mello from leather - And trace over his cock with featherlight touch.
Near realizes that it's a puzzle when Mello shudders against him and presses into his touch. Featherlight touches make Mello pant; tracing the vein on the underside of his cock makes him nip at Near's lower lip, and pumping Mello fast makes him breathe godless prayers.
The sound of it makes him thrust into Mello's hand with a desperation he would later be reluctant to acknowledge. Mello, dropping his head against Near's, has the audacity to comment on it with a low voice, "You know, I don't think you'd recognize yourself right now. You're red, you're coated with a sheen of sweat, and I don't think I've ever seen you wanting touch as badly as you do now - "
What do you know? Near wants to retort, but Mello's hand is squeezing him again and Mello is re-adjusting himself so that he can align their cocks, can rub them together with a slick palm. So Near instead finds himself short on breath and draping his arms around the other's neck and - why does this have to feel so good - his head is falling back against the wall until he's kissing Mello again and he can swear he feels Mello's heartbeat -
When he comes, he sees white.
His moan is a broken hum, and his eyes are clamped shut.
Sensation deafens thought, and he knows his legs are trembling - So he slides down until he can seat himself comfortably on the elevator floor and look up. Blue eyes with pupils blown wide fasten upon him, and although Mello's hand is wrapped around himself, he is frozen.
"Dear Mello - " Near mumbles because this, this has been an unfinished thought; he can't bring himself to think coherently, to speak coherently. Still, however, the words make Mello bite his lip and close his eyes.
From his seated position, Near reaches up to trail his hand up the other's calf, up his thigh until he can push away Mello's hand and replace it with his own. He applies pressure the way he had before, the way that should make Mello talk to God - Mello obliges with jerking hips, with fluttering eyes, with curses and staccato prayers and aimless questions that hint at disconnected intelligibility.
If Mello is a puzzle, then Near has to find the final piece. So he continues to work Mello with hand while he struggles to raise himself to his knees so that he can pump him with two hands. And - on impulse - he presses his lips once to the head of Mello's cock and retreats.
It's enough. Mello comes into his hands with wide eyes, and he's still swearing as he slides down the elevator wall next to Near.
After an orgasm, Mello doesn't bear the same lethargic attitude that tempts Near into a haze, that tempts him to sleep. Instead, Mello blinks a few times and fights to steady his breath before he wipes his hand decisively on Near's shirt.
The pettiness of the gesture does not register immediately. When it does, however, Near cannot prevent himself from frowning and looking at the soiled sleeve of his shirt with unfiltered disdain. "Mello," he begins promptly, "Has revolting habits."
For once, Mello does not answer with offense. Instead he snorts slightly and adjusts himself so that he might pull up his pants. Only then does Near, still frowning, think to do the same.
They sit in silence. Mello, with his elbows resting on the tops of his knees, staring at the elevator wall. Near, with his knees drawn tight to his body. He had caved to impulse, he concedes. And now he's shivering; he's not sure he had ever stopped shivering.
There was too much stimulus, too much sensation, and too much - Near still feels as though Mello's life has infected him, unraveled him, allowed him to feel himself after he had long since let "Near" suffocate with the task of internalizing the strengths of three individuals: himself, L, and Mello.
He had tried to keep Mello alive in that fashion, he supposes, so he says so. "Mello's death was not convenient." Mello shoots him a sideways glance that's disgruntled and bemused and penetrating. Maybe he's noticed that Near is still shaking.
"I'm glad he's not - " Near tries again. Speaking after orgasm, he decides, is not very efficient. There are too many chemicals coursing through his veins, he's too tired, and he doesn't want to say any of this.
Mello cuts him off. "Why?" His voice is low and harsh, his expression raw.
Near's looking at the stain on his shirt again. He brings a finger up to twist itself into a strand of hair that looks more dishevelled than it had minutes prior.
"Why?" Mello's asking again, and finally he's looking directly at Near. "Stop . . . Shaking like that," he adds a fruitless command. Near's grey eyes are sullen upon him, and Mello frowns. "Shut up," he answers the silence and shakes his head. Already, he seems ready to resign.
But Near had started this conversation. He supposes it would be right to conclude it. So he answers listlessly. "Mello has the power to change the game. He does not always use that power, but he possesses it. Mello is charismatic. He motivates action."
Near isn't cold. He's still shivering.
"For fuck's sake - " The silence that had crept upon them explodes with Mello's gruff voice. He's rolling his eyes as he scoots himself closer and drapes an arm around narrow shoulders to demand again, "Stop shaking. Am I charismatic enough to make you listen?" He's joking, trying to relax himself into the situation.
He's not sure if it's working.
Still, he persists as he leans in to press his lips against Near's; the action is chaste, almost gentle even though Mello himself is rough. Impulse does not motivate the touch, and the realization shocks Near's body into stillness, though he answers the touch in kind. Mello speaks, "You sound good, you know? Moaning in my ear. Who knew?" A second kiss, light and quick, follows. A minute frown tugs at the corner of Near's lips, but he finds himself leaning against the other as Mello settles back, tilting his head back against the wall of the elevator and chewing his cheek.
It's easier to breathe now, even if it stinks of sex. The walls don't seem as small as they had before.
He purses his lips and smiles vaguely at the ceiling. "Yeah. I was competing from the grave. Waiting to come back and kick your ass. You better make it worth my while."
A metallic voice interrupts, informing them that repairs are underway. The announcement is redundant; efficient voices and indiscriminate clanging echo from ahead - somewhere.
Mello untangles himself from the other and stands, pacing again. Near watches him.
The elevator shudders and makes it way down.