Author's Note: Yo! So, this is Chip coming to you with yet another story (one that probably won't get any reviews before most of you are still pissed that I haven't updated my VK story yet). This is a re-telling of Chapters 76 and 77 of the Deathnote Manga, using the exact same dialog that's in the translated English issues produced by Shonen Jump Advanced. Aha. It's pretty plain--straight vanilla story-telling if you know what I mean. It's not really slash, but it's kinda sorta hinted along with some het. Keep your eyes open though, because if you blink you'll miss it.
Please, read and enjoy. Review if you're pleased (or bored enough) to do so.
-Love, Chip.
"Mine and Yours"
(A Special Retelling Of Chapters 76, 77
And What Happened After)
A lone, unaccompanied figure in the evening glow of the classy foyer, walking purposefully across the marble floor. A jacket trimmed in faux-fur over a closed-neck leather vest, the metallic ring of the zipper swaying in time with the silver-black rosary as he walked. Leather pants hugged his lower body and legs, lending to him the air of a predatory panther. The hood over his head hid the brilliant fall of blonde hair and the scar that set him apart, making him suspicious if not innocuous. For a single moment the night guard behind the counter looked as if he might stop him. It took only a glance--one glance from his right side to still the portly man's movements.
The hooded figure allowed himself a small smirk. He approached the elevators and pressed the ascension button, glancing at his watch. Seven-twelve, exactly. The lift came down and the doors parted for him, granting him entry into the silver-black cage of the carpeted box. He stepped aside to allow an elderly couple to pass through to the foyer and they smiled at him, no doubt thinking he was such a well-mannered young man. He gave them a nod and a small reciprocating smile that didn't extend to his eyes. The weight of the gun tucked into the small of his back was heavy on his mind.
Entering the elevator, he moved to the corner just beside the press-panel and depressed the button for the nineteenth floor; the doors slid shut, smoothly automated and he admired their mechanical perfection while the hum of the engine buzzed behind the walls, politely covered by the cheery tunes flowing out of the speaker above his head. The image and feeling were, at least, laughable. And surreal.
What seemed like a scant second later, the doors were parting again and the little sticker on the interior of the doorway told him this was the nineteenth floor. He didn't move from his spot, merely glancing down at his watch. Seven-fifteen, on the dot. He held his breath.
The doors slid shut once more and he felt the lift start its descent. Again, he allowed himself a small smirk. His timing was flawless, precise. All he had to do was...
He waited patiently for the elevator lift to sink all the way to the first floor, for the doors to slide open. A tall, elegant woman in a casual business pant-suit entered, her luminescent white-blonde hair swinging behind her. She didn't glance up at him, but rather kept her eyes down at she glanced at her watch. She reached past him to depress the button for the twenty-first floor and studied her nails as the lift doors closed and the carriage began to rise.
All in one movement, he pulled the gun from beneath his jacket and brought it around, pressing the end of the muzzle to the back of her blonde head, letting her know he was there. He didn't expect much of a reaction though and indeed, she just turned her head a little, pressing a finger across her lips--a bid for silence. He didn't speak.
She reached with her other hand to pluck a clip from the inside of her lapel and spoke into it. "Near, I want to take a shower, so I'm taking off the wire for a while."
There was a faint buzz and then a mechanical voice replied with a single word of confirmation. She pressed a smaller button along the side of the clip and then dropped it into her coat pocket, all under his watchful eye. When she turned her head to look at him once more, she gave him a faint smile and beckoned him closer.
He didn't move.
She shrugged and then moved forward as the carriage slowed to a halt and the doors opened. They stepped out together, even as he allowed the hand wielding the gun to drop to his side. She led the way and he followed a step behind, ensuring her cooperation with his silent presence. She dared not run.
Nothing nearly so dramatic happened. They approached a nondescript door mid-way down the length of the hall and she slid a plain, uninteresting key-card into the electronic slot. When the green light indicated an acceptance, she turned the handle and stepped into the room, flicking on a series of light switches along the wall as she did so to illuminate the interior. He followed her in, his eyes scanning all corners and the very open layout. He was familiar with the place and with her.
It never hurt to be careful, but he didn't expect trouble.
She was already shedding her clothes even as the door closed, one article at a time. The coat with the clip-bug in its pocket went over a chair in the dinning area and her nonsensical pumps were left beneath the table, kicked off with almost too-casual abandon.
He leaned against the wall, still near the door and watched her every movement, registering the fluid, unhurried turns and elegant graces that seemed to come very normally to her.
Her fingers moved slowly over the buttons on her shirt, undoing first one and then another from top to bottom until she could slide it off her shoulder and down her arms, discarding it to lie on the carpet and baring her nearly-naked torso to his eyes. Despite the restraining lacy-material they were encased in, she had nice breasts, round and full and a more perfect weapon against most men than any gun. The faint smirk on her lips was deadly as her hands moved to unbutton the catch on the front of her slacks; the zipper hissed down and her hands pulled the material over her slim hips, a few inches at time until they were allowed to fall completely to her ankles all on their own. Her lacy underwear were nearly see-through and made for the acts of temptation.
He wasn't nearly as tempted as she would like.
Casually, she turned on her bare feet and meandered away in the direction of the bathroom, hips swaying and her hair catching the electric glow of the lights in the room. He followed her, not bothering to discard his shoes or remove his jacket.
He found her leaning enticingly over the tub, fiddling with the temperature settings. The water was already pouring down from the spicket and beating a tattoo into the porcelain basin. Pleasant warmth filled the room and he paused to push back the hood of his jacket, lest he swelter.
He knew from experience that the temperature of that water would be a precise one-hundred-and-three degrees Fahrenheit.
She was done adjusting her settings it seemed, because she straightened to look him over, one hand dotted with moisture from her testing of the water. She gave him that seductive smile, sliding the wet hand over the swell of one breast, pushing the cup of her bra away and rendering the entire article of clothing useless as she bared herself to him.
He leaned against the wall, taking up a stance that clearly conveyed he was unimpressed.
She shrugged her shoulders, a rather delicate movement from this woman of such deadly skill. Her other hand rose to slide the other strap down her arm, freeing that breast. She discarded the bra onto the floor and dealt very easily with her panties, merely unhooking the little snap that kept them closed. They slipped along the soft skin of her inner thigh and then to the floor, lying there beneath her feet like a ruined dream.
He waited.
She turned and went into the tub, the curtain fluttering behind her. He heard the disturbance in the smooth beat of the water and knew she was standing under the spray, no doubt allowing the heat of the water to sink into her skin, her bones.
He knew she hated to be cold.
A few moments passed in silence. He continued to lean against the wall, not really in any particular hurry. She had the information he needed and he had a gun, so she wasn't in the particular position to be making demands of any kind.
He wouldn't shoot her, of course--but she didn't need to know that.
A few more minutes and then she spoke. As always, the first move was hers.
"Near came to the conclusion that you would try to contact me, but I don't think he knew that we had already met." There was no tone of consequence in her words, nothing to dissect. He glanced at her silhouette behind the shower curtain, watching the way the shadowy form lifted its arms to push its hair back, the whole movement causing those full breasts to rise and bounce in the slightest. It drew the eye but didn't distract him as she no doubt supposed it would.
He turned his head, to look into the foggy mirror across the bathroom, listening to the irregular fall of the water in the tub. He contemplated her words for a moment. He could see the image of a too-white, too-bright, too-ghostly boy sitting in the midst of his toys, playing with some mechanism or action figure, maybe building something while his mind turned over, examined and categorized information at his particularly exceptional rate.
He felt something between a sneer and a smile stretch at the corner of his lips. "It's so like Near to think that way." He said it with no particular inflection, no meaning. Just an acknowledgement.
There was another moment of silence and he turned his head to watch as the shadowy form against the shower curtain ran fingers down its arms, no doubt drawing the soap suds away with the flow of the water.
"And you no longer have the notebook so all you can threaten me with is the gun, right?" It was more a statement than a question--she knew he didn't have the notebook any longer. He felt his fingers twitch around the gun but he didn't raise it, choosing instead to listen.
"You can't control me, and if you use the gun to kill me, it's only going to make it easier to track you down." She sounded as if she were musing, but he knew it was as much an idle thought as she was a wilting flower. She wouldn't have let him within a dozen feet of her if she thought he had a way of killing her without a trace. Obviously, she'd thought it out, just to be sure. If he killed her, Near would know.
He made a vague sound in the back of his throat that could have meant anything.
She continued. "I'm going to have to place cameras in all my rooms after this. Excluding the bathroom..." She trailed off, leaving the notion unsaid for the moment. He understood her, of course. He would not make it through to this place, to her room, without being seen again. Near would know. He felt the growl rising in his chest but he held it down, swallowing around it like an alcoholic used to the bitter taste of his poison. That brat was a sore spot for him.
Damn Near. He always knew, didn't he? It was his fucking prerogative.
Moments of silence passed--he didn't know how many. His eyes again traveled to the silhouette, just for something to do. The shadow's head was cocked in a particular fashion and tilted in a way that told him she was watching him. "So what are you going to do? Live in the bathroom?" She let out a quiet, almost-sexy laugh. "It's okay with me. I don't mind having you around."
Hell, even he knew that. He chose not to say anything, but his fingers twitched around the gun again. Mistakes were so fucking hard to forget. He'd made quite a few too, hadn't he? All those women, all those men. This woman. That man.
And that boy.
Dwelling on the mistakes of the past was always a bad idea for him. Old wounds opened too easily to allow for the salt of re-examinations.
More silence. There was always a good deal of that with this woman. She spoke when she had something to say and he responded when he felt like it. A perfect equation for pregnant pauses in conversation.
"Near also thinks that the new L is Kira."
Fuck. He brought the gun half way up, the muzzle turning toward the figure behind the curtain--but he stopped himself at the last moment. The arch of motion was paused, the movement stilled, but the anger rolled inside him like a lava flow--roared as the tigers do from their cages.
Three fucking names. That was all it took. Three points of tension and pain and insecurity—all in one sentence.
Near. L. Kira.
Damn her. She knew how to get him riled up. Always had. Always would.
Near. Kira. L-nii-san.
"L...," he growled, thinking.
Matsuda Touta was supposed to be the new L, wasn't he? But the fool was completely useless, a mouthpiece at best and a shotty cover-all for the team of investigators floundering in their work.
He paused his thoughts, glancing at the fogged-over mirror just a few feet away. The shapes were blurry and indistinct; colors were granted reflection but not clarity. He processed the nature of deceit and betrayal and lies, of cover-ups and trickery and superiority.
Damn it. He supposed it was possible that the new L was, in fact, Kira. A good possibility, but he hated to admit it. It meant Near was right. Again. He shifted slightly, dropping the gun back down to his side, his lips twisting in distaste.
Fucking Near.
The shower curtain slid aside very suddenly and there she was again, this time slick and glistening with moisture, the steam wrapping around her like a distorted cloak. Her blonde hair was dark with water but her eyes were cold and shrewd and piercing. He hated her for it.
"So what are you going to do?"
He took a moment to think over his answer, weighing the words and turns of phrase--and the lies. It would be easier for them both if she would refrain from asking questions that exposed his plans, but she was just too good of a detective for that. She would ask the hard, uncomfortable questions because she wanted them answered.
He could understand why Near valued her so.
She was out of the tub, a towel in hand as she rubbed the moisture off her body in slow, sensual sweeps. He watched the motion because it was something to do and something familiar. How many times had he watched her bathe and dry off in this same manner? Always, such a disastrous blend of fantasy and fatalism with this woman.
She was walking away from the tub, toward the doorway. The towel was being rubbed along the back of her neck, into her hair and all around her shoulders. He sighed, fed up with the game.
"Hal, whose side are you on? Mine or Near's?" It didn't matter of course, because the outcome was the same. He was after information and little else. He would never make her a confidant and she would never consider him her friend.
Still, it never hurt to have the assurance of sympathy.
Halle paused in her path, her elegant hip cocked to the side as she continued to towel her hair dry. "I already told you a week ago, didn't I? I'm on nobody's side." She was looking at the tiled floor, tiny drops of water clinging to the end of her eyelashes.
He ignored them.
She continued.
"You, Near, and I all want to capture Kira. We're all after the same goal."
He said nothing. She didn't understand--but he didn't expect her to. How could you ask someone to walk into the middle of a sibling rivalry that spanned nearly two decades and expect them to understand the nature of winning? It wasn't about the two of them being after the same goal or having the same motivations to win.
It was about being the best, being superior. Coming out on top.
That always was a problem for the two of them.
She glanced up at him now, still not turning to look directly but rather watching him from the corner of her eye. "So what are you going to do? Are you going to run away? If you do, I'm going to tell Near that you were hiding in my bathroom, and I met you. Or do you want to meet me later somewhere else?" She was already walking away, taking a half-step or two at a time, growing steadily closer to the doorway.
Meet somewhere else?
That wouldn't be favorable. There was something he needed tonight and it had absolutely nothing to do with what Halle needed. Still, he couldn't allow her to tell Near he was there. It wouldn't do for the brat to be on the look-out for him.
One option then.
He stepped out of his relaxed position against the wall, straightening to stand before her. "Hal, go back to headquarters." He left no room in his tone for argument.
Typical of this woman, though--she made room. "What? I've got no reason to go back there right now." She paused in front of the door, the towel pressed to her front and held there absently, as if she'd forgotten she had it. Her eyes clearly told him she was unafraid.
A mistake, of course. He brought the gun up and in the small space of the personal bathroom, he only had to take three slow steps to have it in her face. Her eyes widened slightly as she stared down the barrel and she seemed to comprehend very suddenly that he was out of patience.
"Make one up. Go back." His fingers were locked in steady strength around the grip of the gun and the muzzle never wavered, staying perfectly still. His eyes crushed into hers, willing her to submit to him.
There was a heartbeat of that familiar silence and then she sighed, her eyes rising from his to roll dramatically. "Okay, okay...stop pointing that thing at me."
How many times had he heard that before? He lowered the weapon but didn't tuck it away, using it instead to gesture toward the bedroom.
She said nothing.
The door opened, closed and silence fell again. He waited in the steamy solitude of the bathroom, hearing the faint sounds of her moving around in the bedroom. He counted the seconds off in perfect rhythm.
She returned with twenty-three seconds to spare, opening the door and meeting his gaze. She was dressed in another pants suit and her hair was hanging damp around her shoulders, a pale waterfall. She beckoned.
He brought the hood on his jacket back over his head and made sure his face was hidden in its depths before stepping back into her bedroom. The gun was held at his side as he moved after her through the apartment and back to the front door. He followed her out into the hall and to the elevator; to the parking garage and to her vehicle. He slid into the back seat, allowing her the front while maintaining control with the mere presence of the gun in his lap.
They drove for fifteen minutes. Silently.
They were there soon enough.
((OOooOO))
The transforming robot in his hand was symbolic. It roamed the city of wooden block-buildings set down on porcelain-tile streets and ravaged an unseen, unheard population even as they cried out for him and cheered his progress. The fools.
He reached out to set the robot down in an intersection, amongst a field of battle-ready tin soldiers and a bumper-to-bumper pile up of Tonka vehicles. A button depressed on the robot's chest sent a signal through the wires and the tiny speakers embedded in its body let out a keening battle-cry, something of a cross between a ghoul and a banshee.
He was not amused.
He supported the robot weakly with one hand as he retrieved a small replica grenade launcher from the armory in the western corner of his little city, adjusting it in his grip until he could slide his index finger into the curve of the trigger.
"Near!" Rester's panicked tone made him look up, but he was not overly worried. He knew what was coming.
Still, it was something of a surprise--or rather, an unpleasant thrill--to see Halle walking with her elegant strides stiffened by tension as the hooded figure behind her pressed the muzzle of a large hand-gun against the back of her head.
The swinging motion of the tell-tale rosary against the exposed leather vest and faux-fur jacket gave Near all the information he needed. He glanced back down at his city, contemplating the robot's predicament. Caught between a rocket-launcher and a hard place.
Rester distracted him yet again, leaning forward to stare at the screens as if he hoped he could reach out through the glass and snatch the woman to safety. He seemed suddenly nervous, shaken. "What--what--what's going on? You were right about him making contact, but..." he trailed off, at a loss.
Near turned his head minutely to look at the screens once more—just a glance—before he returned to observing his city. He was still holding the rocket-launcher between his fingers delicately even as he set the robot down on his back for a moment.
"Please let him in."
He heard the sound of hurried steps and unclipping holsters. The interior doors slid open with a crisp hiss and then shut just as effectively. Near didn't need to turn around to know that the man and his apparent hostage were now in the room.
He could feel him.
Examining the ravaged city below him and the robot laid so quietly down on his back, Near felt the thrill of excitement slip up his spine and into his mind, a whistling echo of nights gone by and a continuous battle with no winner. He allowed himself a small, private expression of delight—he blinked.
Slowly.
"Welcome, Mello."
((OOooOO))
With the muzzle of his gun still pressed against the back of Halle's head, Mello used his other hand to push back the hood on his jacket, freeing up his full range of vision as he surveyed the bent and curled shape on the floor in front of him.
The same snowy hair and the same self-contained air of assurance. Still wearing pajamas at inappropriate times of the day. Still looking like an inscrutable, indecipherable blend of innocent child, devious teen and sinful adult. And the toys, laid out before him like the whole of creation before God. Obviously, the same sometimes-private fascination with control and superiority.
The same Near, down to the last detail.
"Drop your gun!"
Mello's turned his gaze from the ghostly figure to glance over the two men to either side of him, guns drawn and trained directly on him. His eyes narrowed and he felt a sort of arrogance steal over him. The man on his left seemed like the big-and-burly commander sort but the other one looked like a rookie cop with his open expressions and his clear fear of the situation. At least the other man had the presence of mind to hide his unease.
Mello sneered, but moved not a bit beyond that. He expected the intercession.
"That goes for everybody. Put your guns down." Near's voice was flat, unaffected. "It's meaningless for us to shed any blood here."
The man on Mello's right sputtered, looking shocked. "B-But Mello killed the other SPK members...and he kidnapped and killed the Japanese Police Director..." he trailed off.
Mello saw Near's hand reach out and a replica weapon fell loose from his fingers to hit the tiles he was sitting on. With his other hand he drew a toy robot closer to him and, from behind, the blonde judged the boy's bowed head to mean that he was studying it intently. He saw the other hand come up, fingers twisting absently in the loose ivory curls.
"We have no proof of that, and I think Kira is the one who killed the Director...but that's not important right now." He paused, the absence of his voice in the room leaving the air heavy and unbreathable for just a moment before he continued. "Don't make me say it again. Our goal is to capture Kira."
Say it again? Who would be so foolish as to make Near repeat himself? Mello reveled, very quietly, in his greater knowledge of Near's quirks and pet-peeves, if only because he so loved to win. It was something of a treasure to know that he was more familiar with Near's desires and dislikes than those people he chose to surround himself with.
Whether they were guardians or minions, Mello couldn't decide.
Apparently, though, they weren't pacified. Their guns were still pointed levelly at Mello's chest and head, locked on for the fatal shot if he made a wrong move. He narrowed his eyes against their shine of the arrogance and pressed the gun more firmly against Halle's head.
Again, Near spoke, this time with more force, as if he were annoyed by their blind aggression. "There is zero gain for us in killing Mello right now." He paused and Mello could see that he was using both his hands to turn the robot around and around, inspecting it from every angle and weighing it in his palms. "He got the notebook once, and was able to get closer to Kira than any of us. That's something we should respect, and pointing a gun at him is just plain rude."
Mello could see the conflicting reactions in the faces of Near's people but they did as he had asked and lowered their weapons. The younger, slighter man was silent, where the bigger, older man sighed in a resigned manner and muttered, "Very well."
It was too typical of Near. Mello understood what the others did not. The younger boy handled his people like a master sculptor handles clay--with the ease and confidence of knowledge and experience. They couldn't possibly out-think him and they couldn't out-maneuver him either.
Typical Near.
And even more typical--the disingenuous statements. All that talk of how close Mello had gotten and how they should all respect him. Such bullshit. Near acknowledged that his rival had made an unexpected, masterful move in their game--but nothing more. And the guns?
Near just had an aversion to them.
Mello would have bet his rosary that these guards didn't know that, either.
Still, he had to hand it to the boy. He lowered his gun, freeing Halle from his side. "Well said, Near." And he meant it--with all possible meanings and disambiguations. He saw Near's head rise a fraction of an inch and knew the little ghost was probably smiling in his smug way.
There was silence in the room as Halle looked at the commander-man and the rookie-guy. Near continued to fiddle with his toys, turning the robot over and over in his hands, inspecting and analyzing and caressing in his strange way.
Mello could almost feel those hands on him.
He needed something to say—anything—and so he settled on something secret, something subtle. "So everything's gone as you imagined?" He said it just to fill the silence--and to hear Near's voice again. There was no particular love of the sound, but the memory of it--that was something all-together different. It had been some long years since Wammy's and there was a void inside him. L-nii-san was gone. The comfort of home was gone. Everything, gone. He thrust himself straight into the world in an effort to get revenge and to make amends to the ghost of his aniki.
Near represented those memories of the past, those days gone by.
Near was an anchor in the past and a drive for the future. He was literal and symbolic; metaphoric and concrete. He was a hated nuisance, a familiar rival and a once-loved companion. He was a memory and a dream and everything in between that little boys couldn't deny themselves on cold nights.
And—apparently—Near was the fucking key to the most romantic, depressing, foolish aspects of Mello's inner psyche.
The blonde wanted to slap himself for the slip in his thoughts. He was suddenly very glad, for once, that he didn't have L-nii-san's curious and damning habit of thinking aloud. He resolved not to let himself wax poetic and emotional again.
Near was silent for all this time, seemingly lost in thoughts of his own--which Mello refused to try and contemplate, script or narrate. So, when the younger boy said "Yes" in his soft, childish way, Mello allowed it to slip on by him. He chose not to analyze that little down-twist at the end of the syllable, that hidden sigh in the breadth of sound.
"Though I didn't expect you to come all the way here."
Almost as if Near himself knew he couldn't leave it like it was, the boy chose to add that last statement. He still fiddled with the robot, his back to Mello and the others. The blonde said nothing, waiting for the jab he knew would come.
"And thanks to you Mello, I have been able to greatly narrow down my suspects for Kira."
Fuck. Rage bubbled in him and Mello hissed as he brought the gun back up, pointing it at Near's small, pajama-clad form. He didn't care that the boy's people were suddenly on alert, raising their weapons in answer. All he could see was Near...and the truth of his words.
Mello had helped him, hadn't he? Inadvertently, of course--it wouldn't have happened otherwise. But, by his own actions, he had given Near a foot-hold in the case and a clear vision of the possible suspects. He gave him necessary data and observations, all through those stupid satellites probably.
It enraged him. He pushed Halle aside because she was standing too damned close. He angled his gun, fully intending to blow the little brat straight to hell.
"I'm not a tool for you to use to solve the puzzle," he growled, low on patience and running high on angry frustrations. Years of separation between them and still Near could shake his composure like no one else. He did his best not to think of the last time he shouted those words at Near, when the puzzle was an adolescent's natural curiosity about sexuality and Mello was the method of solution.
He became aware, as his hand shook with its fierce grip on the gun, that the two men had once again pulled their weapons on him. God, they were tedious. He briefly considered shooting them.
Again, the fools were saved by Near's intervention. "Commander Rester, don't make me repeat myself. Please lower your gun." His voice was quiet, dead, cold hardly had time to rejoice that Near was upset.
"Mello, if you want to shoot me, shoot."
The brat said it so calmly, without inflection. Mello's hand shook more and his line of sight down the barrel of the gun wavered, became blurred. He wanted to pull the trigger, but his finger wouldn't curve--his mind wouldn't give the order. Regardless of the fact that he knew he couldn't live with killing Near, he wanted to do it.
And Near, that cocky little shit, didn't move an inch.
His finger twitched over the trigger but just that quickly, Halle was stepping in front of him, her hand sliding smoothly over the barrel to force it down, ruining his shot. "Mello, if you kill Near right now, then even if you succeed in capturing Kira, it will be meaningless." She pressed the barrel lower, drawing it away from her body to point the muzzle at the floor. "And if you shoot Near, we'll be left with no choice but to shoot you." His eyes darted to hers, meeting them squarely. She nodded minutely, her gaze steady. "What good is there in both of you dying? That will only make Kira happy."
It was moment--just one--but Mello felt a calm steal over him. It was abrupt and unbidden, but it came nonetheless and he felt himself loosen, the tension slipping away. He took a step back, slowly lowering the gun down to his side as he watched Halle. How much of his calm had to do with her words? Or was it, rather, that the mere mention of Kira winning in the slightest brought him to his senses.
He made a noncommittal sound in his throat. Halle gave him one more indecipherable look and then stepped back. Mello directed his gaze back down toward Near and watched as the boy played with his toys absently, seemingly unconcerned with the passing threat on his life.
"She's right. Near, I just came to get the photo you have of me." And there it was--the thing he needed and the truth behind this abrupt visitation. There was no other thing that could have made Mello return to Near's side--not love or revenge or even loneliness. Only this. A weakness. The only person left who had a physical photo of him.
The one photo he left behind, because he knew he would find it.
Near whispered, "Yes" and reached down, drawing a slim photograph from between his knees where it had apparently been tucked away. Mello didn't ponder the strange locale but kept his eyes glued to the glossy image pinched by two pale fingers and held aloft.
Near glanced over his left shoulder, his eyes sweeping up Mello's body to inevitably meet him gaze for gaze. "This is the only remaining photograph, and there are no copies of it." His words were crisp and cool, like cotton sheets on a winter's night. His eyes flickered away, toward the bank of monitors on the wall. "Also, the surveillance cameras here only monitor, they don't record." He flicked the picture back and forth between his two fingers.
Mello was very aware of the SPK members and their eyes watching his every movement, but he couldn't have cared less. His goal was there in front of his eyes. He took two steps forward and reached out to take the picture between the tips of his fingers. The peculiar way of handling things wasn't as natural to him as it once was, years of normal human interaction having broken him of so many of his particular habits.
Near spoke. "I've contacted all the members of Wammy's House and anyone else from your past who would know your face." Of course, he didn't specify how he knew who those people were and Mello didn't ask.
They all had their little fixations, right?
"It's not a hundred percent perfect, but I think it's safe to say that you won't be killed by the notebook."
Mello nodded absently, listening both to his words and to the sound of his voice. Memories. The picture in his hand was a memory, of course. An image of himself, forever immortalized as the youth he once was. He left the photo at Wammy's when he left--the only one of its kind. He left the orphanage in the dead of night and didn't bother to take back the picture of himself he'd once thrown at Near in a fit of pubescent angst and confused teenage passion.
The oversight wasn't the hot-headed mistake everyone seemed to think it was. He was sure Near knew that as well.
The picture showed him as he was when he left. The shot was taken outside, in the sun that Near so rarely chose to enjoy, just a week or so before the news had reached them of L's death. It wasn't a bad thing, really, but it brought back the bitter taste of memories and pain and heartbreak. To see himself so young and unblemished was something of a shock and he actually turned the picture over in his palm to avoid looking at it for too long.
Written on the back were two words in scrawling script.
"Dear Mello".
That was it.
So the kid expected him to come get it sooner or later. Mello almost smiled but held it back, letting the satisfaction slip into the depths of his mind for some dark night when the chill of loneliness got to be too much. It seemed Near--fucking brilliant asshole--understood him like no one else. He probably even expected--and counted on--Halle telling him all the SPK's information on Kira.
They knew each other so well, didn't they? Strangers who became more, who then became even less than what they were before. And now? Sometime-enemies, sometime-allies. Always rivals, though. And that's how it would have to stay for the both of us. There could be no collective mind, no single-unit product conversions. They could not be L together.
"Near, I have no intention of joining forces with you." He said it quietly but firmly, wanting him to understand and knowing he would. Near couldn't be so idealistic, so foolish as to think they could both discard something that was, for better or worse, the biggest link between them. Competition, superiority. It ruled what little bit of a relationship they still had. After all these years, they couldn't claim very much between them besides it and revenge.
They could never be one L, but they did pretty damn well as M and N.
On the floor, Near breathed out his reply on a single breath--was Mello the only one who heard the resignation and the pleasure that seemed to intermingle? "I know," Near said.
I know. That was it. Mello could readily understand how the other boy felt. L wanted them to work together--that was no secret anymore--and they both would have liked to make L proud.
But they were not L. They were each ideal and perfect and yet, somehow flawed. They could not do as their aniki wanted. They could not make his dream come true. They would forever be in competition. Twins in the womb, struggling for independence and dominance.
However, be it twins, lovers, brothers or rivals, Mello didn't take hand-outs.
He chose to make it an add-on to his previous statement, continuing the thought. No, he wouldn't be joining forces with Near. "But it would upset me to receive this picture without giving anything in return." And it would. Mello might not have been raised with a hell of a lot of manners, but he had his pride.
He saw Near's head tilt just a little to the side, indicating that the boy was listening. Mello again reveled in how well he understood. There was no questioning, no interrogation. Just an acceptance.
Fucking Near. It was so easy to hate and loathe him when he wasn't right there, being perceptive and everything one could ever ask for in a rival.
That asshole.
Mello fixed his eyes to the top of Near's snowy head, tracing the white curls with his gaze. "The murder notebook. It's a shinigami's notebook, and people who touch it are able to see the shinigami."
He sensed the surprise of the other people in the room. "Impossible," muttered the big man, the one Near had called Rester. Beside him, the rookie shook his head, "Who's going to believe that? A shinigami...?"
Mello kept his fixed on Near, watching him as his fingers rose to twirl one of those curls in contemplation. He knew they were as soft as they looked and his own fingers itched to imitate the motion.
He didn't move.
Near's answer was solid and straight-forward.
"I believe him."
Nobody so much as breathed, but Mello felt that annoying impulse to smirk stealing up inside him and he did his best to smother it. No one dared to speak.
"What advantage is there for Mello in coming up with such a stupid story about a shinigami really existing?" Near said the words slowly but firmly, as if he were explaining to a room full of children. His fingers continued to curl his hair, an absent habit that Mello could never avoid watching.
"If he were telling me a lie, he would tell me a normal--more meaningful--lie. Therefore, the shinigami exists."
The blonde wondered at Near's amazing ability to understand him so perfectly--it never failed to dazzle him.
Again, silence fell as the others absorbed this information. Mello couldn't say he blamed them. If it weren't for Near, they probably would have called him crazy.
However, Mello knew Near. He needed more information.
And he would supply it.
"The notebook I had belonged to a shinigami named Sidoh, who dropped it in the human world. He had to come back down to get it." Mello paused in his explanation, taking a small breath before he could continue. "But another shinigami had it before."
Damn. All this anger and emotion and cooperation left him with a heavy desire for the rich flavor of chocolate on his tongue.
"We know that because there were rules written in English inside the notebook for human use, right?" Near confirmed Mello's last statement with that observation and built upon it. "It would be odd for a shinigami to write rules down for humans to use when he wants to get it back..."
Now that he was on the right track, Mello felt they were even. However, he couldn't help but give the brat one last bit of data, something potentially life-saving and the best clue he had. Why he felt compelled to do so, Mello couldn't say.
"And one more thing...There is a fake rule hidden amongst the rules written in the notebook." He turned away, giving Near his back. " He tucked his gun into the front of his pants, the barrel cool against his inner thigh. "That's all the information I can give you." He started to walk forward, toward the door—away from Near.
That simple.
That detached.
Over, just like that.
He'd only taken three steps before he stopped again, realizing he couldn't leave it like this. Too much unsaid, unexplained. Too much lost to time and impatience and the race for vengeance.
The two SPK men were watching him carefully and Halle stood in the background, observing everything. He understood that all those things he wanted to say would have to stay buried in the sands of time. There could be no witnesses for that type of discussion.
Much as he hated it though, he was going to have to be the weak one. Carefully, Mello reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a chocolate bar, for comfort. He slipped the wrapper open with the ease of practice and raised the snack to his lips, but refrained from taking a bite. One deep breath. He opened his mouth, the name on his tongue...
Mello said Near's name…
…even as Near called his.
Silence fell again.
Mello took a small bite out of the corner of his treat, savoring the bittersweet taste of dark chocolate and old love on his tongue. "Which one of us is going to get to Kira first...?" His eyes stared straight ahead, steady and unwavering. He couldn't turn around.
Near curled a lock of hair around his finger and for the first time, a real smirk spread across his lips. "The race is on." In his tone there was confidence and self-assurance--and something else Mello understood perfectly but didn't dare try to name.
With a small smirk tugging at his own lips, he took easy strides toward the doorway, brushing past the man called Rester and the rookie without pause. Over his shoulder, he cast a final glance, absorbing the sight of him—the boy brat.
"Our destination is the same." He said, quietly. "I'll be waiting for you when you get there."
He knew Near would understand. He always did.
The doors parted before him with a hiss and he took a sharp bite out of his chocolate bar as he slipped out into the hall. He pulled his hood up over his head once more, covering his hair and face as he made his way back toward the building's entrance. It took only a few moments.
Before he went out the door, he paused to glance up at the last security camera, posted up on a very obvious shelf beside the exit. He looked fully into the lens, knowing Near was on the other end of that feed--and smiled. He mouthed three single-syllable words and then turned on his heel, waving over his shoulder with the careless air he'd perfected.
In the crush of the crowded city streets, the night swallowed him up in an instant and he was gone.
((OOooOO))
Near watched Mello's journey through the building with hooded eyes, seeing his fluid movements from every angle and analyzing every half-glimpse of his face or expression. The scar barely threw him off at all. It was the same Mello to Near's vision.
A beautiful disgrace—and all the more attractive because of it.
Behind him, Gevanni was tittering about near-misses and arrogant assholes. Near let it go because he didn't have the patience at the moment to correct his flagrant violation of the no-obscenities rule. Halle was trying to calm the hot-head--thankfully. A timely intervention; Near might have done something foolish.
Like throw his robot at the man.
Rester was muttering over the security keyboards, reordering and changing the codes as he, no doubt, struggled to keep his opinions to himself. Near chose not to care.
He watched Mello approach the exit and pause to look into the security camera. Near leaned forward from his position on the floor to watch the image carefully, sure there would be some message here for him.
Sure enough, Mello leaned in close and smiled, looking cocky and at once, like the handsome youth he'd once been--the man Near once knew and might have, very quietly, cared for.
Those lips parted and words escaped, a few by the looks of it--and then he was gone, stalking away and out into the darkness of the night beyond.
With unhurried ease, Near rose from the floor to approach the wall of monitors. His hands fell to the keyboard.
He hit a few buttons and the images reversed themselves by thirty seconds, the longest playback allowed by the system. He hadn't quite told truth when he told Mello the cameras didn't record, but it was an acceptable fib. He watched the footage again, in half-speed to observe Mello's mouth and analyze the movements.
"Mine."
"And."
"Yours."
Near blinked--twice--and then turned off the playback, allowing the feed to run unimpeded. He shuffled back to his toy city and sat down among the ruined block-buildings once more, his mind working over the information. He picked up the fallen robot, cradling it to his chest as he absently curled his hair with the other hand.
Mine could apply to a number of things. Mine, as in Mello claimed the round of engagement as his win, or the bigger game--but that was impossible and Near immediately discarded the idea. However, there was also Mine as in the position of L, belonging to one and not the other.
Or, it could be the Mine Near thought it, most probably, to be.
Mine meaning Near belonged to Mello.
It wouldn't be the first time the blonde had used the words, not by far...
...but that was a very long time ago.
He shifted the robot in his arms, fidgeting. And was an obvious connection between Mine and Yours and therefore, completely without meaning of its own. He discarded it.
Yours could have all the inverse connotations of Mine, so it was pointless to try. It seemed that both Mine and Yours could be used to reflect on the old code, that old secret.
Mine and Yours.
A statement of possession. A declaration of ownership and of right.
Very quietly, to himself—and his robot—Near muttered, "You are Mine and I am Yours."
"Did you say something, Near?"
He turned his head to glance at Halle, who stood beside the bank of monitors, watching him very carefully. He knew that look, knew its every sweep and stop. She was analyzing him as surely as she would a suspect. Rester had finally stopped bothering-about with the security codes but now he was turned, glancing over his shoulder to watch Near as well.
Gevanni said in a corner desk, silently fuming.
"No, Halle--I said nothing." He gave her a minute nod, dismissing her before turning to look at Rester. "Commander—please, take Gevanni and Halle. Retire to your homes for the evening." He .ducked his head a little, but he kept his gaze one them, "I find that I am very tired and would like to rest now." His eyes flickered over the big man and then to the doorway, no subtlety necessary.
Rester looked suspicious, "Are you sure, Near? Maybe we should stay here tonight?" He glanced at the door as well, seeming to contemplate. Gevanni was already standing and packing up his briefcase with childish immaturity.
Near nodded, "Go. I am perfectly sufficient in my ability to look after myself." He turned his head to look back down at his robot, tracing the familiar plastic face with his gaze, "I will not repeat the words again." God, he hated to repeat himself.
Mello knew that.
These idiots did not.
Rester sighed, "As you wish, Near." He turned, pulling his coat off the back of his swivel chair. "Goodnight, sir." He walked out the door, beckoning to Halle and Gevanni, who fell into step behind him. The younger man waved over his shoulder, "G'night, Near!"
The curled figure on the floor made an insignificant sound.
Halle was the last one to move. She paused on the other side of the doorway, the parted glass doors between herself and the boy-man she worked for. Her eyes moved over him carefully, measuring his stillness--the silence.
"Near," she said, "We'll be here tomorrow, bright and early." She crossed her arms over her chest, watching as he turned his head at an angle to look at her. Their eyes met, his cold white-water ones boring into hers.
"Good evening, Halle."
She nodded. "Evening."
((OOooOO))
The minute the doors closed, the stillness and absolute silence of the room pressed in on Near's ears, making him very aware of his solitude. He glanced up, taking in the monitors and what they reflected.
Nothing interesting.
Not since Mello left.
Sometimes, memories came to him. Things he didn't want to remember. Mello was in the past. That old Near was in the past. The late nights spent doing things that teenagers dream of doing—enjoying it and despising it in turns.
Mello and Near were in the past. They weren't together now--never would be again. There wasn't a thing to be done about it and Near didn't want to try. There was nothing there he'd like to resurrect—no relationship to miss.
But it didn't stop the memories from rising.
He reached out and set the robot down again amongst the block-buildings, taking great care to lay him on his back, his legs at a right angle to his body, his arms held out in front of him. White-water eyes moved over the prone form, touching each juncture, every sharp corner.
So many jagged edges.
His hands dug around beneath the toppled remains of one block-condominium, withdrawing a slim black remote with two fingers. He pointed the sensory-iris at the main monitor and touched a series of buttons, bringing up the thirty second playback.
Another lie. He could, if he saw fit, retrieve footage.
Again, another thing Mello didn't need to know.
He touched his finger to a few more buttons and the feed went into a loop. Over and over, the hooded figure of Mello stalked down the hall with his predatory, long-limbed grace, the leather pulling taunt over his backside and his legs. It was a saunter--the strut of a man well acquainted with his body and the various things he could do with it.
Near watched laid back on the floor, curling up on his side to watch the play of images. One hand stayed to curl in his hair, the other setting aside the remote. Freed to do as it pleased, the hand wandered to his chest and then slipped lower, touching each of the translucent buttons in turn as it moved steadily downward. The material of his waistband was mapped in touch as he observed Mello stopping before the camera to look steadily into the lens, that smirk stretching his lips.
The words, whispered in silence, were loud in his mind--a whisper in his ear and a thrill up his spine.
"Mine and Yours."
His fingers slipped under the material of his pajama pants, tips dancing over the smooth flesh he rarely paid attention to. God, he hated carnal pleasures--so dirty and sweaty. He wanted to deny that such things ever effected him, but it simply wasn't possible.
The looping video feed. The wandering self-touch. The fine, growing sheen of sweat that was forming over his forehead as he watched Mello's sensual saunter over and over and over.
His fingers curled much more quickly in his hair, the fever climbing over his skin and searing his nerves shut. Thoughts went out the window, inhibitions and limitations forgotten for the moment.
Just another reason to despise everything Mello stood for. No one else could do this to him.
The pressure built, watching the smirk stretch over those lips and the words there, like the sounds of sin. Whispers in his mind--arousing and familiar. Cocky. Sure. An arrogant expression on his face, his blue-grey eyes sharper with passion. A pink tongue darting across his lips to lick away the remnants of dark chocolate, tasting—tormenting.
Near's finger curled tighter and more quickly in his hair; the coils in him wound to a snapping point. He arched into his own touch, his sides aching with tension. His mouth opened to gasp for breath, his lungs burning. Too much sensation, too much. He pulled his hand away from that flesh and quickly brought it down to his side, leaning on it to crush his fingers down into the cool tiles. His head spun with light-headed disorientation and he had no choice but to stare at the screens, watching.
His senses returned him very, very slowly.
The sweat was cooling on his forehead, his muscles loosened and drained of their elasticity.
He couldn't move.
Near never allowed himself that release—not those few, unspeakable times in the past when the memories overtook him and not tonight. That was something he'd never do again. Sexual intercourse was dirty, sweaty, dispassionate entertainment that lost its thrill at the height of its course. Why allow the climax to come when you could snuff the activity prematurely and savor the tormenting tingle instead?
Near never climaxed, but he liked to bask in the thrill of almost doing so.
The screens kept showing him the loop of Mello for many, many minutes as he laid there, his fingers moving more slowly through the revolutions in his hair. He could close his eyes every now-and-then, still seeing the images flicker there behind his eyelids. He new every step, every flair--every tilt and angle of that smirk and every enunciated syllable of those words.
"Mine and Yours," he whispered to himself, drained of the will to keep his eyes open. He did not usually sleep when left alone, but he had no interest this evening in building a tower of dice or another city to rampage.
No. Tonight, he was tired.
His released his delinquent hand from its pinned position beneath him so that it could slide across the tiles in search of the little remote control once more. He found it easily enough and within a moment, he broke the loop on the feed. It would play til its end and then quit itself in blackness.
Pale eyes watched the form stalking down the hall again--for the millionth time, surely. The leather-clad body was familiar now, the sounds inaudible on the footage but very clear in his mind. He could hear the faint ruffle over the jacket against the vest as Mello paused beside the camera. He saw the minute swing of the rosary against his chest and was hypnotized, just for a moment, by the faint glint of fluorescent light caught on the edge of the crucifix, like a tiny star.
He had memorized the faint mockery and its imaginary taste of it on his tongue—every facet of that expression on Mello's face. He knew the cold, piercing nature of those eyes as they stared into the camera—at him—and the curve of those lips as they mouthed the words that could damn or enflame him, against his will.
"Mine and Yours."
His eyelids grew heavy as the feed shut down, the screens fading to darkness all around him, casting the room in half-shadows battled only by the faint glow of the mechanical devices all around him. The toys lay scattered around him like so many secret-keepers and the city-blocks stood still in silent silhouette to his sensualism.
He shouldn't have done it, but he wouldn't dwell on it either.
He pushed the robot's legs down flat with the tip of one finger and folded its arms up across its chest, mimicking the sleep of the dead in plastic repose. His gaze wavered with sleep tugging at him, but he managed to push the toy away, to lie in the very center of a cross-section of the city, resting at its apex.
He hand dragged the seemingly endless distance back to his body, weighed by lead; he surveyed his plaything with the last of his conscious ability. His lips quirked up at the corner, jaded.
"Goodnight, Mello."
The words slurred as the veil of darkness descended over him and those ghostly eyes shut, resting the too-active mind and restless body of this creature so caught between man and boy.
The glow of the mechanical devices caressed both the sleeping form of the man-boy and his array of entertainments. For all his knowledge and his quirks and his intuition, Near couldn't possibly know. In his unconscious sleep, he never had time to process such a thought, or judge its validity.
Across the city there was another form lying curled in bed on its side. Arms flung wide to touch a partner who was not there, lips too arrogant in their tilt and too sweet with the touch of chocolate. Eyes of blue-grey closing on exhaustion and spent stamina, exhausted by his submission to that same, particular temptation that seemed to have haunted him all evening.
And the name of that fucking brat on his lips.
Sleep granted them both the necessary time they needed to pretend it didn't matter.