March 2005
His head arched back and his small, puckered mouth opened with a loud cacophony of coughing. Shoulders heaving and tiny body trembling, Near awkwardly rolled his way from his bed, eyes streaming, he padded through the hall wearing only one sock with his white pajamas, approaching the nearby toilet with only one thought in mind—get everything inside his body out.
Bracing his hands on the cold porcelain he heaved, hacking, eyes streaming, vomiting painfully. It felt as if his stomach itself was trying to escape his mouth.
Behind him, he heard a familiar voice.
"Shit."
Hands cupped the sides of Near's face, pulling his hair away from his sweaty cheeks, getting it out of his eyes. He shuddered where he knelt on the cold tile floor, unable to stop gagging into the bowl. He felt those cool fingers gather his hair up, heard the person behind him rummage through a nearby drawer until the person found what he was looking for, and used the rubber band to pile Near's hair into a messy, short ponytail.
Utterly spent and exhausted, Near slumped to the floor, leaning against the side of a bath tub. He closed his eyes, and heard Matt swear again.
"Jeezus, Near; what's wrong?" Near's only answer was a groan, and he somehow knew without looking that Matt was pinching the skin between his own eyebrows, as he always did when he was feeling stressed.
Matt shoveled his noodley arms underneath Near's body, hoisting the fourteen-year-old boy up with some difficulty. Near's black eyes flew open at that.
"Just put me down, Matt; if I'm going to die, it may as well be here."
Matt rolled his eyes.
"You're not dying. Stop being so dramatic—it's just the flu."
"Are you certain?" Near questioned, noticing how hoarse his voice sounded, how weak his body felt even as he loosely knotted his arms around Matt's neck. "Because I'm certain that this is what death feels like."
Matt didn't say anything, just carried Near down the row of sinks with slow, burdened steps until he reached the sink where Near kept his things.
"You'll feel better once you've brushed your teeth."
Near doubted this statement, but didn't protest as Matt set his feet down on the floor, handed him his toothbrush and a bottle of toothpaste, and helpfully turned the water on for him. Though his movements felt sluggish, he did as he was bade, rinsing and swishing the awful vomit taste from his mouth.
"Apparently you were correct," Near informed Matt as the last of the water swirled down the drain. "I do feel minutely better. What's next?"
Matt looked confused. "Next?"
"Well—what else am I supposed to do that makes this better?"
The older boy stared at him briefly. "Haven't you ever been sick before, Near?"
"No," replied Near, his calm, cool tone gone as he wiped away the natural tears that always spring up when one vomits, using a tissue. "It seems as if my minimal interaction with people hasn't given me much chance to harbor any germs or illnesses."
Matt sucked in a breath, even as he tugged one of Near's arms over his own shoulder, steering the wobbly teenager back to his own bedroom. "Yeah, and I bet your immune system's crap because of that, too."
He noticed the fact that Near was wearing only one sock.
"I don't think I've ever seen your bare feet before," he commented mildly as they maneuvered their way through the dark, empty hallway, slowly shuffling back to Near's bedroom.
Near frowned at this. "I didn't have time to fix it before I needed to vomit, and I suppose I was tossing and turning in my sleep; it must be tangled up in my sheets."
Back in Near's bedroom, Matt flicked on the light, which caused both boys to wince. The bed looked slightly as if a war had been fought in it; the pillow had been flung across the room, the sheets were twisted into knots, and the comforter was completely bunched at the opposite end of the bed. Matt touched the bed, noticing how damp the sheets were; Near must have been sweating a lot.
"Near, you sit down here," Matt instructed, pulling the wooden chair out from underneath the desk. Too weak to argue, the cotton-haired boy did as he was told, tucking one leg underneath him, his own foot cupping his behind, his other leg left to dangle off the chair entirely like the tail of a cat.
Grumbling something underneath his breath that sounded vaguely like "I'm not Mary Poppins, you know," Matt stripped the bed of its sheets, balling the fabric up and tossing them into Near's hamper, before messily smoothing a fresh set of sheets, found in Near's closet, over the mattress.
"You." He turned to Near, tossing the sock he had discovered mixed in with the sheets to the boy on the chair. "Change your clothes. You have puke down your shirt." Near stared uncomprehendingly at Matt, who noticed the boy's usually dull eyes growing shiny with fever. Dammit… did he have to do everything?
Snatching an identical set of white pajamas from the closet, Matt strode to Near and none-too-gently yanked the boy's shirt over his head, absentmindedly observing just how small Near's chest was, each rib prominent enough to have its own shadow against Near's extremely pale skin.
Tugging the clean shirt over Near's head, he tossed Near the bottom's to the pajama set.
"You do the rest. I'm getting some stuff."
Feeling as if he were in a hazy trance, Near complied, before sinking to the floor, no longer crouching, just panting with small, wheezing breaths, feeling absolutely wretched.
It seemed to take Matt forever to return, armed with a hot water bottle, a cool forehead compress, and several packets of Paracetamol and a bottled water. He stopped when he saw Near's unusual position, curled on the floor and mumbling quietly to himself.
Now he's delirious?! Matt felt frustrated; all he had wanted to do was use the toilet before going back to bed, not end up playing nanny to a sweaty, undersized child.
Using one arm to sweep Near into a sitting position, Matt tipped several pills from the Paracetamol packet into the child's mouth before holding the plastic water bottle to Near's lips, encouraging Near to swallow, which he did after only a moment's hesitation. Then, boosting Near up on top of the bed, Matt gently covered the boy up with his blankets, laying the compress on Near's forehead and setting aside the hot water bottle for later—in case it became necessary.
He was at the door and flicking off the light switch when Near's weak croak of a voice stopped him.
"D—don't leave me…"
Matt stopped, cold, in his tracks, flashing back to the words he had uttered to Mello four months ago. Don't leave me, said in much the same tone of desperation and loss.
Spinning on his bare foot, Matt made a 180 degree turn and found himself slipping into Near's bed beside the boy. Feeling awkward and very foolish, he rolled onto his side, away from Near, and closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. If I get sick because of this, he thought to himself, feeling very grouchy, I'm going to be so pissed…
He felt himself start to slip away, when he heard a whisper, so quiet it could have been his sleepy imagination playing tricks on him.
"Thank you."
`.`.`.`.
He awoke when the beginnings of the springtime morning sunlight began to shine through the bedroom curtains, acutely aware of something very warm pressed into his side. Near was tucked underneath Matt's arm, his face pressed into Matt's ribcage, his warm breath heating Matt's skin.
Running his hand along Near's forehead, Matt felt relieved; the fever had broke; it seemed as if Near was going to be alright.
Matt was surprised at how light he felt inside; it seemed as if the great, Mello-sized wound in his heart had, overnight, begun to heal. Just a tiny bit.
Slipping out of Near's bed and stumbling to his own bedroom, he smiled, just a little. Maybe Near wouldn't be so bad to have as a friend, after all.
~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~
Leathery black wings outstretched to their fullest extent, the Shinigami made his way through the sky. Even being as large as he was, he was still whisper-quiet.
No human would look up as the god of death passed them by overhead; they would feel no chill of Presence, no "fingernails on a chalkboard" sound of fear, no rising of the hairs on the back of their necks. Nothing so great as that; no matter what their fiction professed; nobody could tell when Death itself was looking at them.
And look he did; he had never in his life of hundreds of years found anything so fascinating as a human. Pressing his face to windows, he observed. There was always something brewing in the life of a mortal.
Tokuda Naizen had begun an affair behind his wife's back—with another man. Young Nobunaga Tsurayuki was being bullied at school and, instead of telling on the bullies, he resorted to carving out his feelings into his skin with knife blades. Asanuma Maiko was so ashamed that she was unable to get out of bed in time to make it to the bathroom every night that she refused to see her grandchildren, believing that they must hate her as she hated herself.
Yes, it was true, Ryuk mused, that humans were very interesting. Every deception, every twist of fate, every heart that was broken but kept on beating… there was absolutely nothing like this from where he was from.
Sitting on the rooftop, hidden slightly behind a gargoyle as he ate an apple, he chuckled as he watched the older man force the young girl to her knees in the dark alleyway, the muzzle of a gun pressed to her jaw. Regardless of whether the girl lived, Ryuk knew this man would soon be dead; Light would see to it that this was the case.
And, speaking of Light…
The Shinigami took flight once more, effortlessly soaring through the air, following a meandering path that only made sense in his mind back to headquarters, tossing the core of the apple onto the ground, grinning maniacally as a human nearby stopped as it fell in front of her, and, confused, looked around for who the thrower could be.
Landing on the ground with an inaudible whump, Ryuk strode forward a couple of steps, phasing through the wall of the building and sniffing around until he found Light, who sat at a computer typing away, the rest of his task force scattered throughout the room, doing much the same things.
"Hello, L the Second," he greeted, his gravelly voice seeming to have no echo to it whatsoever.
He knew Light heard him, knew the man could, out of the corner of his eye, see the pale blue skin, the bulging yellow eyes, the fanged mouth. But he also knew, from past experience, that Light would never acknowledge the Death God while others were around, no matter how much of a fuss Ryuk made.
"Some things never change, Light," Ryuk sighed, looking over Light's shoulder at the computer screen and grinning when he saw file upon file of criminal names and photographs. All humans may be interesting, but Light was by far his favorite.
Patting the boy on the head (and correctly interpreting Light's momentary glare for what it was—a demand that he not call attention to himself by messing up the strands) he headed into the break room where he knew a paper sack of apples waited at the bottom of the refrigerator.
Yes, Light was great, Ryuk chuckled to himself, smiling as he recalled the numbers over Light's head.
Too bad there isn't much left of him.
~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~,~
Well, it's not completely fluffy… but it's better than being completely dark and gloomy, right? Two of these lines here are sort of "borrowed"—Ryuk's line about a broken heart still beating is a reference to the movie "Fried Green Tomatoes", and the title is a reference to the villain song in the 1997 animated movie "Anastasia".
Oh, and both segments of a chapter are in response to the requests from colbub and zaurora. Thank you guys for the requests! They help a ton.
And thank you, everybody, who reads/reviews/enjoys this story! I feel so encouraged! : )