AN: This one you definitely need to have read at least up through the second chapter of SotF, because this slots right into the plot of that story. Incidentally, these aren't in any sort of thematic or chronological order. This particular ficlet takes place about a month and a half after the New Year that Mello turns eight and Near turns six.
4: Itch
Near wakes abruptly, eyes snapping open and heart pounding in his throat.
Breaking the surface of full consciousness scatters the details of the nightmare like pieces of frosted glass, disjointed and hazy, but it's one he knows he's had many times before. The echoing silence, the empty halls and rooms, and the empty yards and streets, the entire planet empty except for him –
Until a few weeks ago, Near had forgotten about the nightmare, it had been so long since he'd had it; but now it's back. It leaves him feeling unsettled and just the littlest bit panicky, that little bit of a cold itch at the tips of his fingers and in his belly that he gets when things start to go in a way other than what he's expected.
He sits up, shivering a little. He's fallen asleep on the floor again. Feeling around carefully in the near-pitch black cavern of his room, Near finds the computer, blinking at the sudden blue-bright flash of the screen, checks the time. It's nearly four-thirty in the morning. Everyone is asleep (or at least locked up in their rooms) except the kitchen staff, who will be up and about by now to start the gears of the House in motion.
Very little gets by Constance, head chef at the House. Raising six sons single-handedly has a way of sharpening the senses, and a lifetime of running everything from soup kitchens to five-star hotel restaurants only hones them. The instant Near's tiny, tousled head peeks around the doorway, the sturdy old woman has noticed him and is already consulting a mental list of all the breakfast-related tasks a boy his size and age can be put to with a reasonable chance of not accidentally chopping his fingers off or getting stepped on.
She's also getting rather bent out of shape with the powers that be, because this is not the first time this particular child has shown up in the dark chill of predawn in the last few weeks, looking forlorn and pathetic and like he needs something but doesn't believe he'll get it if he asks.
Constance shoots a pursed-lip look at one of her assistants, and he shrugs helplessly in response, making a quick W shape with his fingers. Watari's rules. No exceptions.
Near watches this exchange between the two Grown-Ups with resentment. He doesn't like that they seem to think just because he's little he can't see their sneaky gestures, and he doesn't like that even though he sees it he doesn't know what message is being communicated. He's got a nagging gut feeling that everyone knows a secret he doesn't, something beyond the usual "it's a Grown Up thing" stuff, something that sly questions and eavesdropping have failed thus far to uncover, something that they have been keeping from him ever since Mello started saying that he didn't have time to play with him anymore. Now he acts just like the Dukes, always busy studying and working and worrying about his grades even though he's always done well, too Grown-Up to "waste time with kids" like Near. Near supposes dubiously that that could just be part of Grown Upping, but he can't help but think bitterly that Mello should have waited for him before he decided to Grown Up.
He only has a moment to ponder these injustices before he's swept up into the momentum of the kitchen. Constance doesn't tolerate loitering.
"Up again this time o' the mornin?" The old woman beckons him in, not waiting for a response; she knows by now he won't give one. "Don't stand there poutin', lad, I've got a job for you."
The prospect of being put to work is distasteful, but anything is better than the echoing silence and emptiness of the rest of the House. Near drifts sluggishly in her wake and allows Constance to scrub his hands and hoist him up onto a stool (she puts a box on top, because even on the tall stool the counter is too high for him to reach).
"Take this rosemary and remove the leaves from the stems," the chef instructs, producing what Near figures has to be several bushes' worth of the stuff and piling it in front of him. Taking a sprig of it, she demonstrates, stripping the stem in one smooth motion. "Like this, see? Put them in this bowl."
Near nods, sighing to himself, and picks up one of the smallest stems. Satisfied, Constance bustles off briskly to bark orders at someone else. Drawing one socked foot up onto his box, he starts plucking the needle-like leaves of rosemary one at a time and dropping them listlessly into the bowl.
It's not fun by any stretch of the imagination, but the repetitive hand motions and the sounds of the three or four other people in the kitchen murmuring amongst themselves, clattering dishes quietly, chopping vegetables, and running the faucet on and off makes the cold itchiness go away, as he knew it would. The kitchens are sterilely clean, all brushed stainless steel and gleaming white tile, which Near likes; and it's also warm, almost cozy. The sharp green aroma of rosemary clings to his fingers and the appetizing smells of baking bread and brewing coffee spread through the room as the dark windows lighten to grey.
"Paran, there you are. Pots don't wash themselves, y'know."
Near glances up through his fringe. Looking cross and rubbing at his eyes groggily, Paran shuffles into the kitchen, Constance prodding him toward the big sinks at the back of the kitchen. He must be on morning dish duty in punishment for something or other. Serves him right. Disregarding rules is one thing, but getting caught? Tch. P hasn't been at the House as long as Near, but he's older by a good two years. He ought to know better. Near has already decided he's not very smart.
The older boy aims an openly questioning look at him, which he ignores. He isn't interested in what P might think about why Near is in the kitchen. He's not in trouble. A tiny smile curls the corner of his mouth. He knows where the lines are and how to toe them when the matron is watching. Not like Mello, who until his recent obsession with studying always seemed to have the worst luck in that regard.
…Now, there's a thought.
Winding a bare rosemary stem idly around one finger, Near examines the idea that is unfolding in his mind. It would not be very difficult at all to prod Mello to lash out. Maybe if he gets upset enough, he'll let something slip, and Near will discover what this sudden change in his attitude and personality is really all about—what made him decide to Grown Up so suddenly.
"How are things going over here?" Constance says, coming to inspect his (lack of) progress. Over the last half hour he's only gotten through three sprigs of rosemary. Looking up, Near shrugs.
"So I see," the old woman says, shaking her head. "Here, lad." He accepts the scone she offers him (it's oven-warm in his hands and crusty-soft, curranty and sweet) and patiently allows her to catch him under the arms and set him back on the ground. Then Constance leans down as though she intends to try to give him a hug, and while being picked up and moved around like some kind of doll can be excused for practical reasons, Near definitely can't think of a reason why this kind of interaction is necessary, so he steps back to avoid the encircling arms.
"Thank you," he says almost inaudibly and not meeting her eyes, then turns and to wander out. Paran glances up from the sudsy, pan-filled sink as he passes, clearly envious and out of sorts; Near makes sure to return the look with a smirk.
He's feeling a lot better than he was when he woke up. He wonders if Mello is up yet.