never-ending system of abrasions.
it's in the water, baby.
o1.
There are moments when Near has the feeling of walking on a wire. A line, a tangent and narrow rope on which he can barely place a feet. And strangely, he feels as if someone has made him a funanbule against his sandstone.
If he sways too much on one side, if he yields, he breaks the far too thin bond that keeps Mello to apathy. Just one too sudden movement, one sentence used at the wrong time, one too indifferent glance, and the storm falls bluntly, making his ears buzzing, invading all the space.
Violent. Vulgar. Terrible. Devastating.
And he wonders sometimes if there is a limit to this hatred or if it extends without barriers, spreading in him as an incurable disease and striking its target with the only goal of hurting at all costs.
Is there any a reason? Is it free? Is it frustration, jealousy or any other destructive feeling? Will it ever ends?
But whatever the question that he may arise, he has not the answer. Only speculations. Shadows too crystal clear to be caught, voices too far away to be heard—and he is in the middle of this battlefield, unable to infer anything.
And no matter how much this lack of answer may leaves him perplexed—he says nothing. He continues to listen silently, to intercept the insults without replying, and to look at him without blinking. And somewhere, it does not hurt, because the words slide over his heart and bounce back to go suffocating and dying in a dusty corner of his mind.
It's a never ending cycle of abuse. And with all these years that have never cease to widen the gap between them, it doesn't surprise him anymore.
He says nothing, and he waits for Mello to gets tired to see no reaction on his face.
Then finally, Near leaves.
(but for whatever the reason, he never closes completely the door.)