Title: Naked but Oblivious
Fandom: Death Note
Pairing: Mello/Near (though not so much sexy as it is... hateful... XD)
Word Count: 491
Notes: This is part of a series I'm planning called 3 Libras (I love APC ;.;); I just want to explore the Mello/Near rivarly (and to a lesser extent, L's connection to the two) and all of its nummy possibilities. :D

It was Near's physical frailty that made the rivalry bearable for Mello. When he saw the small boy sitting awkwardly on the floor, legs crumpled under him at odd angles, as if he hadn't the strength to stand, Mello felt a surge of superiority. Every time. Near would extend an arm, showing the thin whiteness of his wrist, as he reached for a puzzle piece or a toy, and it was enough to make Mello burn with the need to scratch and snap, eliciting tears and blood. He imagined blue bruises on thin, pallid skin, peppering the younger boy's body. He imagined scars raised on the velvet white of his arms and legs and stomach. He was bigger and stronger and more human than the aloof, friendless Near could ever be, and that gave him the advantage.

But then Near would open his mouth, and the illusion would disappear.

Mello would never admit that Near was smarter than him, not in a thousand lifetimes, but he recognized his own weakness. It was apparent when he watched Near's face-- a mask that betrayed nothing (if there was even anything to betray). So unlike Mello, who lived with his emotions, fury, despair, near-psychotic glee, on display for the world. The cool apathy of every move Near made was a demonstration of his perfect control. That little mouth, thin, pale lips, only twisted with slight discomfort, and dead eyes that would widen with pain, but nothing more. His voice remained a soft monotone, girlishly young, and his face remained unlined by expression. So smooth.

It was absolutely maddening.

Mello watched him from the hall doorway, watched him as he sat, holding a model plane aloft, even making little puttering noises. Acting like a toddler when he was probably calculating the airflow over the wings and the exact amount of fuel it would take to get the plane to Calcutta at his estimated speed. This particular trait, this obsessive compulsive need to count and estimate and generate percentages (as if he were a supercomputer of flesh and blood), had been admirable and impressive when Mello had seen it in L. He could remember watching the man do demonstrations for the other orphans at Wammy's House, and the thrill of observing his immeasurable talent ran through him still. When Near rattled off a series of numbers for the fawning teachers that surrounded him however, Mello just hated him more.

There was the gripping urge to stalk across the room and kick the boy viciously in the ribs. Kick him until he cried, silent sobs of surrender, like notes composed by Mozart echoing off the walls, too quiet to be heard down the hall where protective patrons slept.

Sometimes he dreamt of biting too. Leaving his raw red marks while Near shuddered beneath him, too frightened to call for help.

Instead his attack cut through the air, muffled by the sweet of chocolate in his mouth.

"Freak."