"Zakk?" Mello was leaning against a rotting warehouse, a payphone pressed up against his ear. "Hey, yeah, I was wondering if I could crash with you tonight...no...m-hm..."

He sank to the ground. The phone crackled ominously. A breeze had picked up, blowing Mello's shoulder-length blonde hair around his scarred face. The view was desolate, empty save for a fence surrounding a vacant lot. Every time the wind blew past it, it creaked noisily. Mello was down to the last phone number he knew besides Matt's and...well, that other number which was permanently tattooed to his mind, but was simply out of the question...Mello shook his head, clearing it as it began to wander.

"Mello?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you gonna be alright?" Zakk Irius, his affiliate in B.U.R.N. and a rather "close friend", sounded tired. It was understandable. It must have been about 2:30am. Nevertheless, Mello, being Mello, wasn't ready to give up his beauty sleep simply because someone else was tired.

"Yeah, look, can you come get me, Zakk?" Mello spoke softer, huskier, "Please? I'll make it worth your while..."

A sound, like a bed creaking, came form the phone. Mello imagined him heaving himself up, just in case there might be some skin involved. Mello was amused. Zakk was twenty, three years older than Mello, although Mello never gave out his age to anyone. He assumed most people probably thought he was even younger.

"You are incorrigible, Marshmellow..." Mello could hear the smile in Zakk's voice.

"Baby, your marshmellow's getting cold..." Mello was getting caught up in the high of his risque behavior. A word flit across his mind: ...impulsive...and a voice, too. Where had he heard someone say that, describing him? He had gotten so good at repressing memories...Fortunately, Zakk yanked him out of his reverie.

"I'll get my car. What streets are you at?"

Mello told him and gratefully hung up the as soon as it got quiet he was again barraged with the voice:...impulsive... Maybe because of what Matt said, about Mello's secret fascination with the past, but as the word 'impulsive' slipped into Mello's consciousness, the voice, and face, became painfully clear.

The lights were flourescent and Mello felt exceedingly warm. He was standing atop the main kitchen's countertop, a truffle clasped in one sticky hand. The scents came back to him, powerful and fleeting: chocolate from the melting truffle, lilacs in a jar beside the sink, fresh paint and...whatever Near smelled like. Almost a fruity scent. The boy was standing in the doorway holding Mr. Einstein, his teddy bear. The sleeves of his pajamas were too long, and Near's hands disappeared inside them.

"What are you doing, Emmy?" Near's nickname for Mello, because he was "M" at Whammy's. Mello often called Near 'Pooh', much to Near's disappointment.

" 'Nuffing." Mello's mouth was full of chocolate. Forbidden chocolate. L's stash.

"That's Ewo's ('L's', but at the time Near had a difficult time with the letter.)

Mello rolled his eyes, and swallowed the mouthful of gooey chocolate.

"Why shouldn't I get any?" He said, hoping against hope Roger wouldn't come in.

Near just smiled at him and pointed his finger at Mello.

"You're im-pulll-sive."

And what had Mello wanted right then? Not the chocolate anymore, certainly. Impulsiveness was Mello's thing. Just back then he didn't know how it would destroy him. Near knew. Near was the spectator, and Mello the frantic performer.

Near twisted his hair between his fingers.

"I won't tell. Pwomise."

Mello bit his lip. His whole being ached for Near. He hoped Near wouldn't tell if Mello decided to do anything brash because of his aching.

"Thanks, Near-chan." Mello's smile was genuine.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the memory faded away. Mello sat against the building, his mind racing. Why was he thinking about Near now? It had been years since he'd seen him, and for all Mello knew, he could be dead. Or fifteen years old. When Mello had turned criminal to reach his goals, what had Near done? Was he still at the Wammy House, waiting to succeed L? Sitting on the floor, alone, for three years? Was he thinking about Mello?