Perpetual Motion
Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.
- Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
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Wisps of grey smoke soared into the azure sky, kissing the cool morning air and tickling the almost nonexistent clouds. Near the rising sun, the smoke simply disappeared, lost in the horizon, swallowed by the gaping jaws of the heavens.
The smoke in question originated from an ashen cigarette, which protruded from pursed lips. Scarlet hair curled around light-skinned ears, dangerously adjacent to the simmering stick. A deep breath was taken in a voluminous sigh, followed by another.
The redhead inhaled in the cigarette fumes, letting the vapors steady his mind. Mornings like these always got to him like a creeping spider, spindly legs brushing against his body from head to toe. It was the tension, the stress, which made his stomach jittery and tingling. The feeling fluttered like hordes of butterflies, bordering on the edge of nausea.
It was a poison waiting to inflict his every nerve, like a venomous snake poised to spring upon its prey. There was no antidote, no cure. The emotion was always there, coursing through his body like the blood that smoothly flowed through his veins.
Mello would have sneered, calling it cowardice. But it was fear in the purest of forms, an undeniable terror that pulsated and throbbed to no end. It wasn't exactly cowardice, for Matt knew he was capable of fighting, but maybe it was, dulled into blunt, foolish bravery.
The young man let out a gusty breath, expelling hazy grey clouds from his mouth. Was Mello ever scared? Was Near? Didn't they acknowledge the impending danger looming over them all, and ever dread the future?
Mello reveled in rage and fury, anger masking every one of his emotions. The blond never seemed to be afraid – it was an emotion he seemed incapable of. Sometimes, the passionate determination was channeled negatively, and Mello's emotions clouded his judgment, his actions - everything. Anger was Mello's strength…as well as his downfall. But for now, he would remain standing, Matt was sure.
Near was different. The white-haired teenager was seemingly devoid of feelings – he was a brilliant mind, but not much more. Mello loathed his so-called rival, but his hatred was never mutual. Matt could tell – Near never fought back.
In the past, he was curious, examining Near whatever chance he had. Mello despised him, which the redhead never understood. He had inspected Near's every action, wondering and puzzling over the boy. It was the proverbial needle-in-the-haystack – sifting through every brief memory for the slightest clue that proved Near worthy of hatred. In fact, Matt found that it was becoming harder and harder to find Near competent of possessing an ounce of humanity.
Then, one day at Wammy's House, he discovered the answer to his questions. It was a cool spring morning, and the air was crisp and sharp. It was rather stifling in the orphanage, enclosed in its many rooms. One was prone to feel trapped, wasting away in a place where children were trained and educated of such things far beyond their years.
And so, Matt slipped away, out into the morning where he could think. He wasn't smoking yet, which he believed was somewhat of an accomplishment and misfortune at the same time.
He didn't expect to find Near out there, sitting on a flight of crumbling steps connected to the house's back door. The white-haired boy was crouching in his usual position, slender legs drawn up in front of him.
"Good morning," the redhead muttered awkwardly, hands shuffling in his pockets as he searched for one of his video game systems to fiddle with.
Near barely spared him a brief glance, saying nothing in greeting. His head seemed to slightly tilt to the side in a nod, but the movement was barely perceptible. Pale curls hung on a pallid forehead, dangling above luminous grey eyes.
After five minutes, Matt noticed that the other boy was staring at a colorful object stuck into the ground with childish inquisitiveness. Exasperatedly, the redhead let out a mental sigh, amusement mingling with the hushed sound. Walking forward, he plucked the object from the ground, shaking free the soil that clung to it.
"It's not moving because there isn't any wind," Matt said quietly, twirling the item with an idle finger. He held the simple toy – a paper windmill - to his lips, blowing at it gently. The pinwheel spun in a circle, propelled by his breath. "That's how you make it turn," he demonstrated, puffing at it again.
"Here, you try." Matt set the toy on a stair below the one Near was resting on, wondering how the boy would react.
Slowly, the boy reached down to grasp the pinwheel, fingering it nimbly. Near brought the object to his mouth with cautious deliberation. And then he let out a soft breeze of air, causing the little windmill to spin in a smooth circle.
Even though Near hadn't smiled or laughed, or even said a word, Matt knew the boy had been happy.
Matt felt the corners of his mouth grace into a small smile at the memory. Everything would work out – he just knew it. Maybe Mello would finally decide to swallow his pride and work alongside with Near. Then they would win.
Everything would definitely turn out fine. He trusted them with his life – both Mello and Near, both his best friend and the boy with the pinwheel – to make everything all right again.
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Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
-John 15:13
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