Author's Note: I do not own Death Note (orz) Also this story is a bit of an AU…or not depending on your point of view. Anyway, onward!
Of What Do We Pursue?
"Nate. . .Nate. . ." A soft voice called out.
"Nn.." Near felt a hand brush away his bangs and a gentle kiss placed upon his brow. With effort his eyes peeled open. However, the light wasn't piercing like it normally would be upon waking. It was dimmed just enough to feel comfortable.
"Oh good, you're awake. It's time for breakfast."
He slowly sat up in his comfortable bed, the sheets at the right warmth, and looked up in time to see the retreating back of his. . . mother?!
No, this wasn't possible. He was an orphan, resided at Wammy's House for-
"Nate, come down before your pancakes get cold."
Impossible. He couldn't consume yeast—a particular allergy of his. He slipped out of the bed in the room that looked too much like his own room before entering Wammy's, and padded downstairs to the kitchen. It was all like he remembered, except faded, like a living dream which was becoming more vivid by the second.
Taking a seat at the table he cleared his throat to gain the attention of the woman standing by the stove, stacking pancakes on plates nice and high, and the man sitting across from him with a newspaper spread wide in front of his face. "Excuse me-"
Clang. A plate was placed in front of him, the pancakes obscuring his vision.
"Would you like extra syrup on your pancakes?" the woman asked, pouring the sweet goop from a tiny pitcher before he could even answer.
"I-…", but opening his mouth was a mistake, for the very second he did so a large piece was pushed into his mouth. He found himself chewing on the alluring breakfast food and swallowing it despite his mind screaming at him to spit it out. It just tasted so good.
Then the alarming realization hit of what he just did. He waited for it, waited for his stomach to rebel and inform him of his mistake.
Seconds progressed to a full minute and yet. . . nothing.
"Would you like some milk, son?" the woman asked him with a smile.
He nodded numbly as he picked up the fork. Maybe just another taste. . . .
Slice after slice disappeared into his mouth, and after the plate was finally visible with splatters of syrup here and there he sat back satisfied. It felt good to be able to eat without an accompanying sense of nausea.
The man finally set his paper down and Near felt the giant stack he just ate form into a ball that rose up to his throat. If memory served him right the only things he remembered receiving from his father was undeserved criticism, scorn, and beatings. He felt his arms rise up to shield his head and his legs curl up under his body.
"Nate." The coarse voice called out, making him freeze up.
"Y-yes. . ?" he meekly answered.
"You should wear thicker socks. It's going to be cold, and we don't want you getting sick."
". . . . ." Near hopped down from the chair and scuttled off to do just that. He found a good, thick pair in his drawer and changed his socks immediately. Now in his room he saw his desk and some papers on it. Walking forward he saw there was a half finished book-report and math problems he hadn't solved yet. Knowing very well his father would have a beating in stored for him if he didn't complete his work he sat down and started working.
Right around noon he was nearly done with his math when his mother called him down for lunch. He didn't want to leave his work undone and so took the sheets with him. Downstairs he sat at the same spot at the dining table, and continued working as a plate with sandwiches without crust was set down in front of him.
A broad hand suddenly came down on his shoulder and he jumped, the pencil streaking a line across the paper. He shakily looked up and felt fear well up in him as his father stared down with his hardened face, scars making it impossible to tell if his expression was neutral or if he was glowering at him. Silently his father picked up the math sheet and scanned the page.
'Here it comes' Near thought to himself. 'He'll find something wrong as usual and hit me until I get it right.'
The hand on his shoulder moved and he braced himself for the impact.
But to his surprise it came down on top of his head gently, moving up and down a few times before his father stepped away to sit down.
"Very good." He commented with pride. "I'm proud of you son."
Near felt his heart thump, but with a childish happiness from pleasing his parent rather than fear and depression from disappointing them. He felt his lips slide up into a small, cute smile.
"Now eat your lunch. You can't expect to play for the rest of the day on an empty stomach."
He nodded then obediently picked up the sandwich and took a bite blindly. After lunch he sat by his toy robots and planes, amusing himself until supper which consisted of succulent roast, mashed potatoes, and a crisp salad followed by dessert of cake and ice cream.
"We love you Nate." His mother said as he slipped on a new pair of pajamas after a bubble bath.
Near smiled and looked up at her when the last sock was on and he had picked up a toy from his toy chest.
"However." His father led him downstairs to the front door, opening it. "You must make a choice. You can either stay here with us forever, or. . leave."
He slowly blinked and looked from the warm faces of his parents to the pathway leading to cold, mysterious darkness. He hugged the stuffed plush closer to his body, the path scaring him. And yet somehow he swore he heard a voice calling out to him from the darkness. A quiet yet familiar voice. His curiosity rose, and he felt a desire grow within him to follow it.
Then again all it took was one slam to close that frightening path forever and stay here with his warm, loving family.
"Nate, dear, why don't we close the door and tuck you in for bed, hmm?" his mother urged. "You need to sleep."
The plush seemed to shift in his arms and when he looked down he noticed it was pulling towards the doorway. Upon closer inspection the plush had a tear dripping from one of its button eyes.
"Sleep, Nate. . .sleep." his parents urged.
The plush pulled harder towards the door.
During his hesitation he didn't take note of his parents advancing on him, nor of their shift from rosy-cheeked benevolent beings to dark, whispy shadows. Only when the plush fell limp did he look up just in time to dodge a chilling grasp from one of the shadows.
"What'ssss wrong, sssson?" one asked in an echoing voice devoid of all emotions.
He took a step towards the door and suddenly the whole house collapsed all around him like a star imploding. All the homely furniture and decorations dripped down like putrid acid, the ceiling and floor melding into some kind of sickening goo.
With all his strength he scrambled to the door, a great suction forming to suck him back inside. But his determination to get out of there was even stronger and despite the excruciating pain he felt stab into his body when he crossed the threshold, he kept running forward. He knew he had to run, just keep going. . . just keep following that voice. . .
Bright.
It was too bright. The light was painful.
"Near. . .Near!"
He groaned. His mouth and throat felt dry, his head throbbed.
"Near!"
He wanted to tell the voice to stop yelling. It just made his head hurt more, but then realization hit and he fought to open his eyes.
Near became aware then of something warm encasing his hand and figured it to be a pair of larger, calloused hands. He slowly turned his head to the side to get a better look at the person next to him, and to try to avert his eyes from the glaring lights.
"Near. . ." the voice breathed before he saw a blond head bow, the pressure around his hand increasing with the tightened squeeze.
"Me…llo?" he replied, his voice barely above a whisper and very scratchy. He felt a cough rise up from the effort.
In response Mello rose up, and released his hand to cup his cheek. "I don't believe it...you're alright."
"What…do you mean?"
"Don't you remember? You were out in a coma for. . well damn I forgot how long, but it's been a hell of an ordeal . ."
He became aware of the IVs stuck all around him and the beeping of the heart monitor. White. Bright lights. He was in a hospital.
Mello looked exhausted. Just how long did he stay by his bedside? "Brat…making me concerned like that…"
His cracked lips managed to flit upwards. "Thank you. . ." he mumbled. Was Mello's voice the one he heard earlier? His tiny white hand reached out and Mello grabbed it again.
He thought back and wondered if he'd really give up the present for a nice past. He had hesitated after all. However, the present, as unpleasant as it could get, had Mello—his light, his sun. Would he give him up for a seeming utopia?
"Near?" Mello's voice pulled him from his thoughts and he noticed he was now seated in a wheelchair. "Shall we go?"
Near looked from Mello's grinning face to the door opening before him and he nodded. 'No', he decided. He wouldn't give up the imperfect present and uncertain future for anything.
Not as long as he had his light to guide him.