NA: What's wrong with me? I write this instead of doing homework. Typical. But on the other side, some of you might apprecirate this. Please tell me what you think! And oh, if you like to give me advice for future drabbles with these two darlings— I'm such a creepy fangirl— then tell me about it in a review and I will do something with it (: I like this one though and hope you do too!

Love and Hate

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III

Massage

Near hated massage. He didn't hate much things—he had learned to see things through the diminution-glass—but sitting on a plastic chair, with shoulders strictly locked and feel a stranger—his classmates were really nothing more to him—touch him with sharp nails was torture. Physical contact wasn't anything he was too fond of, of the contrary it frightened him and it was of that unexplainable, odd kind where you didn't understand why but the results were always the same.

Predictable. Near used to like that. He didn't now.

He sat leaned to the wall and watched his teacher ms Rose, a airhead that liked showing off her suntanned legs in a too short skirt and paint her fully lips blood-red, moved the chairs in a plastic green color in a circle in the middle of the square-shaped room, whistling a tune to herself and acted oblivious to all the stares following her like a tail. Near looped a finger through his nestle of hair and wished he could melt to a puddle and swim away through the thin cracks in the floor, escape, run away. There was no need for him to be here.

Warm hands, soft fingers, those things meant nothing to him, those things only created an unpleasant burn under his porcelain skin. No one understood, no one comprehend and he could never tell anyone. They wouldn't listen, this was the world he lived in, where social intercourses meant everything and maybe they did but not for him.

He gnawed on one of this broken nail-bed in a perfect imitation of L when the teacher stopped pushing chairs around and stopped in the middle, lifting one hand to gain the attention no one wanted to give her. Near caught himself wishing he could curl up in the red carpet and sleep through this class. It would have been more pleasant than this meaningless occupation.

Normal, normal, normal. He was normal. He was sensible to contact, it was not strange, it was not uncanny, it was (not) normal. Near gnawed more intensely on the nail until he could feel the metallic taste of blood on his tongue and for some unknown reason he found himself gazing at blonde bangs hanging in front of a rather pretty—you couldn't expect more vivid and colorful compliments from him—face, which belonged to a boy with the name Mello that didn't seem to enjoy this more than Near did. Of course, massaging wasn't anything for a boy that was eager to grow up and try out all the bad things the world had in store for him. Still, he had something, had a burning inside that pale skin and for the first time in life Near felt envy because he would never be alive, he would be the boy trapped inside the fort he had built around him and if wasn't completely his fault but mostly it was. He had trapped himself and no one wanted to help him.

Especially not Mello. Mello didn't like him. Mello hated him.

That was what he said.

Mello unwrapped the foil from his chocolate bar and snapped one bar with his teeth, licking it with his pink tongue which would have sent a sensual thrill down your spin if you name didn't start with N and end with –ear. And Near was Near and Mello didn't mean a thing.

"Mello, you and Near will work together."

It was only fate's evil-minded surprises and inability to understand his emotions that made ms Rose pair Mello with Near. Near played more furiously with his hair while Mello's light-blue eyes narrowed slightly while he bit off another bar of the chocolate, tossing the ball of foil in the trash-bag in the corner.

Not Mello. Please not Mello. Anyone but Mello.

The god's in the sky decided not to listen to him today. Not that they ever had.

Mello stood for everything Near wanted to avoid, to pull under the cloth and pretend it didn't exist. Mello was rash, his emotions were like an over-filled bottle which content poured out from the bottle-neck to the glass-table, he was alive and he was beautiful and Near was just… Near. And being a Near was never enough in Mello's world. In anyone's world. Near was nothing.

"Get up, idiot," Mello said when he had approached Near, licking off the chocolate from his lips with that still bored glance in his eyes. The tone was more mild than usual, sounding more like a radio-program with horrible reception, a voice filled with nothing that Near couldn't touch. Near looked up and then stood up on his fragile legs that barely knew how to walk, trembling and weak, like a string soon cut. He refused to look Mello in the eyes—Mello didn't like him and he wasn't going to waste time with someone that only saw him through the sunglasses—and stared forward, to the chair, saw the scratches from sharp nails on the material and walked closer, placing his hand on the back of the ungracious chair.

Did he have to do this?

"Who will start?" Mello asked, moving his slender fingers through those golden bangs, eyes tired and bored.

Near considered the question and found out he wasn't going to slip away from this torture which direction he decided to take. "You?" he answered with his dead voice and received an irritated glare from Mello, who slipped on the chair and crossed his legs. Near gulped and wondered why Mello couldn't have worn a long-sleeved shirt so that he didn't have to touch bare skin. Bare skin meant conclusive contact and it wasn't a possibility, however he couldn't get away now. Near was a good boy (sometimes) and followed orders, because what else could he do? Orders were usually simple, but not now. Not now.

"Stop fucking stand there and dream and begin," Mello hissed, low so the teacher couldn't hear him and curse the bad language. Mello's voice always sounded like the lightning was soon there and ran the wire to the bomb. It was interesting to listen to when you weren't the target, which Near almost always was. Like a slap in the face, present and there, unpleasant but alive.

Near gulped—why did it have to be Mello?—and then placed his hands on those slim shoulders, felt warm skin beneath his fingertips and some fragile parts of Near—that worked after the robotic time-line—felt like they were going to burst and sip down like rain. He tried to move his fingers back and forth but the skin felt like stiff paste—he couldn't get through. Mello leaned backwards with his head and Near could hear Matt—Mello's best friend—snicker from the other side of the room at Near's pathetic attempt of bringing pleasure with his bare hands.

Did that sound wrong? Never mind.

"What the fuck is this?" Mello wanted to know after about one minute had gone to thin air and couldn't be replaced. "Touch me, for God's sake. I'm not plague-infested."

Near plucked back a little to the harsh words and then regained his balance, replacing his hands on Mello's shoulders again. "I'm sorry. I have no talent in this apartment."

He knew Mello rolled his eyes even though he couldn't see it. "Is it hard to touch me?"

Yes, it was. It was very hard.

But fine, if Mello wanted it that way. He drilled his fingers deep down that hot skin with the blood swimming underneath and pressed so hard as he rubbed his fingers in circles his tips changed from soft pink to white. He moved sideways to the neck and trailed upwards before moving his hands through Mello's blonde hair. Usually his blonde hair—which was cut in a perfect page—was prohibited area and Near thought he would get a punch straight in the face for this crime but he didn't and after a while Mello turned his head and locked eyes with Near's, expression unreadable and eyes empty.

"That was pretty good," Mello said and then turned back so he couldn't see Near's small smile that he couldn't prevent creating. Compliments from the enemy always had a certain touch, like a candy you didn't want to spit out but to hide in the cheek. Mello's words gave him more courage and he tried something new. He swept his nails over the skin of Mello's arms, soft and felt when those thin flues stood up, then circled his fingers around one thin arm, kneading, touching, gave him everything Near hadn't give to anyone before. It felt okay. It did feel okay.

Near almost enjoyed it. Almost.

But the quarter passed by too fast and now it was Mello's turn. Near grew rigid again, frozen solid in the chair Mello pushed him down to, feelings he couldn't control danced in his head, spun him around. It was one thing to touch and another to get touched and he didn't wish to embarrass himself in front of Mello after the small thrill he had given Near.

It was too late.

When Near felt those warm palms on the thin fabric of his pajama-shirt he started to shiver, started to coil like a worm escaping from the fishing hook, the ventilator slammed open and everything escaped. Blood burning inside him, fighting, struggling and panic bubbled up in him and he glanced at the open door leading to the corridor—he needed to escape, he had to escape, he couldn't take this, he—

Mello removed his hands and snorted slightly. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Near didn't answer, only let the silence cover the situation and hope Mello would go away. But Mello didn't, instead he placed one hand on Near's shoulder but didn't move it, only let it rest there and the sudden blob of hysteria toned. It surprised Near and he stared into the air as if it could give him the answer.

The air didn't but Mello did. "You know, you should let people touch you once in a while," Mello told him with his voice uncharacteristically soft. "You need it."

"I don't think I can agree with Mello there," Near answered, because it was true, he couldn't and Near was never the one to cover his true opinions.

A soft snort and another hand on his white shirt. "Of course not. Why agree to anything that I say?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Fucking hell you did."

Near wrinkled his nose at the harsh language but decided to say nothing more to keep Mello's temper intact. Question him was like running straight to the dragon with no weapons—to use a metaphor Matt would probably like—and Near was too intelligent for such a mistake.

He tensed again though when Mello tried to massage him again, like a tense guitar string that soon snapped and instead of stopping Mello moved one of his sharp nails up to Near's neck and made him struggle like a fish on the dry land. He could feel Mello's smirk from behind.

"Relax, Near," he purred in a voice that didn't make Near relax the slightest, but then the voice changed again, became soft like silk from Kina. "I think you need more massage after this class. I can help you."

It had to be a joke, it couldn't be true, it couldn't…

"You don't like me," Near stated and thinned his lips to a line as Mello worked with his unwilling skin.

"No, I never have stated otherwise, have I? Still, you're adorable when you're not an arrogant bastard."

Could Near please die now? His cheeks burned and he was lucky his hair was so thick or else he wouldn't have any left by now. He twinned and twinned but no matter how much he twinned he couldn't escape the fact that Mello had floored him today, completely.

"Besides," he whispered and touched Near's locks, "I can give you far more interesting massage than this crap when we are alone."

Near was far too oblivious to understand what that really meant but he understood enough to blush. More so because he couldn't deny that Mello was the only one that could touch him without sending him straight to the fire and maybe it was a tiny bit pleasant. Maybe.

"You don't like me," Near repeated and almost flinched as Mello touched his collarbones.

"Hell no I do," Mello smiled gently. "But I might when I'm done with you."

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to be continued