A never met Mello or Near; he never knew how they felt about having to live up to the genius, the pure brilliance that was L. He was first generation, him and B, the future back-ups should something happen to L. As Wammy said - not directly but through bits and pieces every day, through their constant lessons and practice runs - they were meant to save the world. Even if the world did not know they existed. Sometimes, A felt as though there was a black hole in the earth where Wammy's House was supposed to stand, and for a split second a dart of chill would scurry down his spine. It was one of the few feelings he afforded himself, secretly.
A was curious, ingenious and yet fragile, bendable to the point of breaking. To him, that was an advantage. He would bend himself until his body defied all logic if it pleased the only person who mattered: L. He didn't know his real name or where he came from or what brought him to Wammy's House in the first place, but the man's image, coupled with his legacy, hung overhead both A and B as soon as they entered the House and were integrated with the system.
They were only backups in training; A never expected to actually meet the legendary L. But one winter's morning brought with it a dark silhouette in the hazy Manchester mist, his feet making crunchy steps in the snow-covered landscape that surrounded Wammy's House. From the first cry of someone close to the window, which echoed through the building in the other children's voices and those belonging to their teachers, one name, one single letter was on everyone's lips: L.
The great detective had come home.
A didn't learn of this initially; B had dragged his sleepy body into the bedroom closet and locked it closed, promising to let him out once L was gone. L's visits were legendarily sporadic and short; even so, he knew this was the only chance he'd ever have to meet L in person, perhaps even hear a word his way. In the relative darkness of the closet, B spent half his time preparing a makeshift device to open the doors from the inside while mentally preparing all the things he'd like to tell L: that A's studies had turned from manageable to overbearing; that Wammy was cold and distant and seemed to favor B over him; that the probabilities of him becoming L's backup were becoming smaller every day.
Before A could put his device, hewn from a coat hanger and a piece of gum, into action, the door lazily swung open, sunlight from a nearby window spilling in and around the form of a man gnawing lazily on his bottom lip, hands pushed down into his pockets, hooded eyes set upon A's small, pale physique.
"Your presence at Wammy's House is no longer needed. Please get rid of yourself."
And with that, L walked out of the room, leaving A alone on the floor, clutching a mangled coat hanger so hard his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and made bleeding red crescent moons on his skin.
A day later, B skipped his evening lesson to find A curled up on the floor in his closet, body wrapped around an incense burner emitting a garlic-like bitter fragrance; he had stuffed socks and other garments under the door, but not before taking all his study materials and packing them up in a box to leave outside the door.
Years later, Mello would flip through them and try to spot the random pages where A had inscribed his name; he sincerely believed that on one page in one book A had left his real name, but he never found it, so it burned along with the rest of A's things in the incinerator.
(The last thing A remembered before the sting of burning arsenic finally knocked him out was the look on L's eyes, as if the man would have been genuinely sorry for A's loss if he had the time and the ability to care.)