This River Is Wild
Part 1 - 1998
A/N –
This part/chapter/whatever it is (and its subsequent sequels) are some of the first for DeathNote that I wrote, and you may come to the conclusion that I have a Near fetish.
Of the degree; extreme. Times a gajillion.
But honestly, who wouldn't?
This part/chapter/whatever is set in the carefree Whammy days in September of 1998. Mello is about 10, Matt is almost 9 and Near is a little older than 8. L is... 18. A little bit over a month away from 19.
You have no idea how hard it was figuring out their ages. Wikipedia, please be a little nicer to me next time!
Don't own DeathNote nor the song 'This River Is Wild' by The Killers (though I do think it is extremely awesome).
I ain't got no, so don't sue me. ;-)
It was 3:15AM, and Nate River was stirring.
Well, not awake; that would imply that he had been asleep, and he most certainly had not.
White tendrils of hair running smoothly in line with the creases in his valance, Near blankly stares at the luminous numbers of his LED bedside clock. He has stretched himself across the bed, head hanging off the edge so the numbers are upside down. They seem to mock him with brightness.
Near wants to sleep. Very badly, in fact. But sleep doesn't seem to want to claim him; he doesn't even feel tired.
He closes his eyes in mock slumber, trying to force a circle through a square.
3:16AM
Cracking one eyelid open, he appraises the clock. One minute.
He sighs.
By the soft shadows of light filtering in through his window he can see the basic outline of his room; desk, lamp, bookcase, dresser... which, ironically, holds only one type of dress.
He smirks in the dark; one of Mello's gripes with him involved the method of his dress,
all in white, always in white
but it always seemed a weak jibe in comparison to
ROBOT
all the others Mello had acquired over the years.
Near could understand why Mello disliked him so; the blonde boy had never beaten him in a test, examination or task throughout Near's entire schooling career. Near imagined it was extremely frustrating for the boy, whose brilliance was apparent from the beginning, to be deemed second to a younger ward.
Late one night, after visiting the bathroom, Near had noticed a crack of light from under the door in the library. Curiosity getting the better of him, he had pushed the heavy oak door open. Down the other end of the seemingly endless rows of shelves, head resting on a thick textbook about the human psyche, was Mello. He had fallen asleep studying again, but hadn't even been able to make it back to his room.
Near had stood beside him, watching his thin shoulders rise and fall with each breath.
Others may have tried to rouse the boy, or perhaps attempted to make him more comfortable. Near did neither; he turned on heel and left.
Not because he didn't care about Mello, not because it made him feel good about himself, not because he shrewdly realised the lack of sleep would cause Mello to score less than him (this had happened anyway.)
No...
Because Mello would have done the same for him.
3:23AM
It's strange.
Near stares at the small crack of pale light that filters in from under his door, lighting the way for the wards to relieve themselves in the middle of the night, still on his back, cheeks going faintly pink as the blood thrumps in his temples.
He alone holds sway over his blooming mind's power, and yet...
He brings a pale hand up to his hair, which beings it customary dance without a thought.
...And yet it seems his mind controls him.
It's his imagination; more vivid and downright spookier than all the other children at Whammy's. His thoughts twist with idle importance, much like the smoke from Matt's concealed cigarettes, a habit that not even Mello knows about. (Near only knows of because he, quite literally, stumbled upon the redhead one afternoon in the garden, and had been under pain of death and other discomforts, sworn to secrecy.)
He wouldn't have told on Matt anyway. He supposes that they all need their escapes, be it sugar rushes, nicotine hits, or conjuring up improbable things that smiled and leered in the twilight. It just depended upon how much you needed them.
Near needs his imagination like a junkies needs their needles. He has his dope, but he needs to administer it at regular intervals or else he'll go crazy.
His toys, simplistic as they are, serve as his muse, the push of the injection that he needs. After all, imaginations are useless if there is nothing to stimulate them.
It doesn't seem to be working tonight though; no matter how many times he concentrates and wills things into existence beside his bed, all smiles and tales to tell, he just can't.
3:29AM
He can hear the giggling in his head. Noises of blissfully naive they are not; these giggles are rooted deep with malice, seasoned with hatred.
It hurts him in places that are supposed to be innocent and carefree,
Because those places exist in others why can't they in me
when the other wards, (some younger than his tender 8 years, but most older) poke him and tease him and try so very hard to get a reaction out of him as he reads or demolishes puzzles at alarming rates.
But when they finally grow bored and start to wander away, one will always whisper;
"ROBOT."
The others snicker, and Near feels something hot and potent roll over in his chest.
That's what hurts the most.
The taunting, the teasing... they all had him confused, yet utterly convinced.
He had realised, even now, when the real years of experimentation are beyond comprehension, that all hypothesises and educated estimations require something (or, someone) to test them.
This was why he wandered, almost of his own accord, into Matt and Mello's room, relishing the sweet smell of chocolate and the smooth curve of Matt's utility knife under his curious fingertips.
Robots don't bleed, after all.
So when the two laughing older boys skidded into their room they found it not empty and sweet but filled with the smell of rust, a soft curved smile on a paling face and a torso usually wrapped in white now steadily staining a deep blood red.
The small, knowing, triumphant smile on Near's face stays long after he feels the blood
the life-force that possesses me, now I'm just like the rest of you, see
rush from his head and had fallen, twitching, to the floor, black stars obscuring his vision.
3:39AM
That had been two days ago.
The news of Near's collapse had spread through the halls like wildfire. He supposed that that was how gossip travelled best: underground.
He assumes that Mello, or possibly Matt, had been tortured out of information concerning the event, but no-one had come to ask Near himself about it.
...Well, almost no-one.
L has been back for just on a week now; he is currently in between cases, and although he is now old enough to live on his own if he wished, the man has never been one for the norm.
Near smiles faintly just at the thought; the raven haired enigma had arrived, as was his want, unexpectedly upon the doorstep, and had been met with an even mixture of squeals of delight and impressed murmurings. He had appeared at dinner every night, (remaining subdued till the cheesecake had been passed around) but the wards knew better than expecting to see him at any other meal. Near doubted the man ate anything was wasn't sickly sweet or coffee.
After being confined to his room (with no toys; he assumes that is his real punishment) Near sits alone, mentally preparing himself for countless hours of boredom masquerading as a recovery period. None of the others visit him, but it's all he expects.
So it is with a degree of suprise (and a slightly higher degree of gratitude) that he finds L, the unshakeable, unstoppable man of hushed legends, sitting, crouched on the edge of his bed as he wakes the next morning, toes dimpling the bedspread, eyes wide. Not with concern, nor empathy. The fact that the insomniac is even here, is even looking at him is enough for Near. They are similar in this way; their presence speaks volumes. Others question their worth, their usefulness, their tangibility... but the fact that their minds
so heavy but never a burden
decide that they are to even acknowledge a source of discrepancy is sufficient.
A type of twisted Newton's Law; Near thinks now, still lying in the calm of twilight, fingers tugging his white locks absently, unmoveable objects affected by external forces beyond their control only move when they deem it necessary.
"Nate."
A statement. No answer was required, and even if there was, Near would not fulfil his wish.
So much more is said in those eyes than words could ever formulate. The two stared at each other for a moment, a moment too long and perhaps not long enough.
L blinks, shattering the silent shouting of their thoughts and leaves the room, slouching.
Mello, of course, was sitting just outside the door. He gives Near a withering glare behind L's back, and follows the detective down the hall like a trained puppy.
It's a race, Near knows, or a competition between himself and Mello to take over from L. While Mello has not gone to corrupt Near's stance on becoming L, he has also not gone to further himself in the tournament.
He has gone to watch.
L's door is always open; but the gesture is not an invitation. The only children allowed to stand in the doorway are Mello and himself. Matt once loitered very quickly there, and L didn't mind, (the gesture, in fact, brought a ghost of a smile to the man's pale lips) but the others wards don't have the nerve to even consider it.
It's almost a desperate type of osmosis; Mello and Near stand in the same room as L, watching him research, think and solve in the hopes that one day, they can become just like him. He doesn't talk to them, and they don't talk to him. Observation only.
His hand relinquishing it's familiar territory of soft hair, Near hums, making noise in the stillness of the night. Near doesn't know about Mello, but he only goes to learn how to be better than L, not be just like him. L, like all other
robots
humans, has faults. No matter how much this unsettles Near, he is determined to rise above trivial matters such as weak points; (L, for example, almost always chose cases that involved mass murders or children) because he is only as strong as he makes himself.
3:55 AM
Near's hands, the pale spiders that they are, cast webs across his small torso and slowly trace the mark left there. Starting perfectly in line with his bellybutton, the line carves its way towards and over the slight curve of thin, narrow hips before tampering off.
He can feel it; under all the gauze, stitches and bandages he can feel the ragged cut he inflicted upon himself.
One did get rather messy during experiments, but that was to be expected.
Near had been cleaned, reprimanded and sent to bed for recovery, but the rusty smell remained in Matt and Mello's room, much to their chagrin.
Apparently, when Near had fallen down on the hardwood floor after the beautiful dark stars pressing down upon his brain had taken over, most of his blood, the newfound life-force, had stained the ancient wood.
So now Matt and Mello were sleeping on cots outside their room, waiting for the wood to be torn out and replaced. If Near strained, he could hear their soft breathing.
It was soft and in sync, but the rhythmic tide did nothing to lull him to sleep.
4:00 AM
Serenity.
Near finally moves; the pain in his head sighs in relief as he does, but that induces
the experiment
the cut along his hip to sing out its own protests. He ignores the demands, resting his gently pointed chin on the back of his palm. He watches the door.
Sometimes, not often, but enough for it to not be seen as a temporary bout of madness and hallucination, he can hear Mello and Matt mumble in their sleep.
For some strange reason, it makes him think fondly of links, ties, and anchors. The fact that these two nine, almost ten year olds murmur and mutter to each-other (of this fact, Near is the most certain of – 99.95 percent) in the depths of R.E.M sleep, makes him hope.
Not for himself, not for love, not even for Matt, Mello, innocence and toy trains... but for humanity.
If people, even at such tender ages, even after suffering through so much pain, after having nothing else to lose, can still find the strength within themselves to cling to each-other and whisper secrets in the depths of sleep, then...
He smiles; a tender, cautious thing.
A soft snuffling causes him to lift his head further, senses honing in and sharpening in anticipation.
"Meh-" A yawn. "Lo?"
This sounds different; almost a conscious effort to formulate words. Near's forehead tenses; his version of a raised eyebrow.
"Shhh... Matt... Shhh..."
Defiantly awake.
Interest and curiosity mounting, Near slides off the bed, his sock covered feet muffling his footsteps, and sits beside the door.
"Wh- what are you doing?" Matt's voice, usually calm and silky, has a slightly panicky edge to it, though Near can't figure out why.
"I wanna talk." Is the stoic reply.
Matt sighs. "It can wait till morning." A frumpof bed-sheets and a chorus of bedsprings agrees with Matt.
Mello clucks his tongue, and the bedsprings protest wildly as they find themselves accommodating an extra person. Matt groans. Near can sympathise; Mello being Mello is hard enough to deal with during the day, let alone at four o'clock in the morning.
Wearily; "Bout what, Mel?"
Bluntly; "About Near."
Aforementioned boy places his ear to the door; to hell with subtlety.
He surprises himself with such a statement, even in his own mind; it's really more of a Mello thing to say, Mello with his blonde hair and icy blue eyes and sneering lips, all Bloody Hells, and Holy Shits and the like.
Near halts his minds march along on the roads that lead to Mello, and listens again.
"What about Near?" Matt whispers.
There was a short pause. Near imagined Matt was rubbing his denim eyes, trying vainly to wake up enough to reason with Mello. Near wished him the best on his endeavour.
"Why... why did we cover for him? Why did we lie... for Near?"
Near winces behind the door. Given the lack of shame on you's and should have known better's, he had suspected that Matt (and possibly Mello, although he wasn't holding his breath) had lied on his behalf to reduce the severity of his actions regarding his experiment.
It was a working hypothesis; he had been unconscious for a good half hour after he saw them burst through the door...
But something in his stomach told him otherwise. Perhaps he was just deluding himself, so desperate for attention that wasn't to do with his genius, even though he thought himself above such mundane actions...
But the way Mello said it...
His cut tingles, as though agreeing with him.
Matt huffs outside the door. Despite the sound being absolutely adorable, Mello ignores him.
"He wanders into our room, cuts his damn stomach-"
"Hip." Matt interjects around a yawn.
"Whatever. It's not the point I'm trying to make. He cuts himself open with your knife, bleeds all over our floor... and the first thing you say is; 'Is he OK?'"
Another pause.
"And then Roger runs in, and starts yelling, and you turn to him and..."
Another pause. Near pictures Matt cocking an eyebrow expectantly and the corners of his mouth twitch.
"You lie! You stand there, and apologise for leaving your knife out! You... stand there and say 'He must've fallen, it was an accident!'"
"Yeah? So?" Matt sounds totally at ease with the situation.
"And then... you look at me, and say; 'Mello must have left a chocolate wrapper on the ground, and he tripped.' And..."
Mello tries to continue the tirade, but ends up stammering, and swallows heavily.
"You know, you agreed." Matt points out, something edging his voice. Irritation? "You nodded, and apologised. You lied too, Mel. So don't sit there and-"
"I... I... I know."
Near shuffles even closer to the door.
"I just... don't know why! Why, Matt? Why did I lie for that little albino twat?" A thump; Near assumes Mello has punched a pillow in frustration.
"Because... he's our friend." Matt says simply.
Near feels his brain short circuit. Black sheets cover the reasoning centres of his brain, and his fingers tremble upon the hard wood of the door.
Friend?
"Friend?" Mello stage whispers, to make sure that Matt hears his indignation. "Near, our friend? No! He never hangs out with us; he never even talks to us, he just sits in his flipping room all day, doing his flipping puzzles!"
"Well, fine. Maybe he's not our friend. But Mel, you have to admit... he's like us."
What?
"WHAT?!?"
"Shhh!"
Mello tries to make another protest, but the bedsprings sing and Near can only hear muffled insults. There was a 5 percent chance that Matt had tried to suffocate Mello with a pillow, but it was more likely that Matt had placed one of his hands over Mello's mouth.
"He's... smart, obviously."
Mello made a sound that sounded like 'Duh', even around Matt's fingers.
"But... there's something else too. Listen, Mello... who would you be friends with if you didn't have me?"
"I'd always be friends with you." Matt had apparently removed his fingers.
"I mean, if I wasn't here."
"I'd go find you."
A pause. Near hoped that no-one needed to use the bathroom at this end of the hall.
Incredulous: "Really?"
Softly: "O'course."
"Gee... Thanks." Matt's voice has a smile in it, so sweet Near can taste it.
"So, what were you trying to say?" Mello prompted.
"Huh? Oh, right..." Matt chuckles, the sound a tad too earnest.
"Friends have things in common, right? Well... we all think the same way."
Silence. Matt sighs, and elaborates.
"OK... when I look at a clock or something, I know how it works. Without having to take it apart. When Near looks at his puzzles, he already knows the end product, without have to look at the picture. Mel, when you look at a chocolate bar, you already know the best way to open it."
"Yeah," the blonde interjects cheekily, "quickly."
Matt laughs. "I set myself up for that one."
Mello laughs too. "Too easy."
"But seriously... we think the same way. Haven't you ever noticed that?"
Mello is silent, and Near can't take it anymore.
He opens the door, and steps out into the hallway. He has long decided not to conceal the fact that he was listening, but if they asked him, he would deny the duration.
A hand introduces itself to his hair, and he stares at his sock-covered feet.
"I noticed." He whispers.
His heart beats loudly in his chest. Even though it is only two words, he is stepping over carefully drawn lines in his mind, letting them blur. Two words, and he is acknowledging that he knows of others, that he thinks about others than himself... cares, even.
He really didn't think it was possible for his legs to stay up after stepping out, but they are handling the pressure better than he is.
To a normal 8 year old boy, admitting to similar things with peers is natural. Acceptable.
Near has never even spoken to the other wards until now.
He can feel their gazes, twin flashes in the dark, beckoning him.
He doesn't want to look up. He looks up anyway.
Mihael Keehl, for the first time in all his tough talking, rough housing nine and three quarter years, smiles at Near without a trace of poison. Near can instantly see why Matt is friends with him; for someone who's entire existence seems to revolve around being a perpetual thorn in everyone's sides, that smile makes Mello look so...
Human.
"People like us stick together." Mail Jeervas decides sagely, and throws back a section of the doona Mello and himself are bundled under.
Near smiles. He can see the two boys' eyes go wide, and it occurs to Near that this is the first show of emotion anyone at Whammy's has ever seen from him. He clamours carefully onto the bed, and rests his head on Matt's shoulder. Matt starts to chuckle, but stops when Mello's head buries itself into the crock of his neck.
Near listens to Matt's breath catch, but is too suddenly too tired to smile.
"So," Mello asks, sleep tugging at his eyelids "solved any good puzzles lately?"
But Nate River is already asleep.
6:00 AM
Quillish opens his eyes. Rubs them. Stares at the clock, hating it for having the audacity to show such an ungodly hour.
He has to use the bathroom.
The jokes about becoming old ring in his ears as he slides on a dressing gown and starts down the hall, dimly lit for the exact purpose he is about to indulge in.
He starts, almost absentmindedly, creating lists for the coming day; Bake L strawberry cheesecake, send Roger on an errand to the local chapel, ask Near if...
"Near?" he whispers in the half-light, inching closer to one of the cots set up outside the small boy's room, the one that should only house Matt.
Instead he finds three boys, all asleep under a quilt thrown haphazardly over their legs. Matt is in the middle, sitting up against the wall. Being Matt, he looks completely at ease, although Quillish grimaces at the thought of the stiffness of the boy's back when he wakes. Mello is on Matt's right; his head curving into the other boys neck, his arm resting on his chest, his eyes flicking under their lids, sighing. And Near...
Quillish smiles. Near is on Matt's left, pale fingers resting on Matt's arm almost tentatively, his head propped against the older boy's shoulder, a content... no, happy smile on his small face.
They look like the biggest bunch of misfits he has ever seen; Mello with his rosary pressed into his thin chest, Matt with his goggles slipping over his eyes, and Near with his twists of pale hair swaying slightly with every deep breath in...
And yet, they fit so well together.
Quillish chuckles, straightens the quilt, and makes his way down the hall, whistling.
A/N -
Please review! They send me into peals of girlish laughter, with much hand clapping and the like.
Got the mental picture? Make it a reality, people.