55. Rosemary
Near is home.
Socked feet hooked over the stool rungs, he works slowly through the monstrous pile of rosemary that needs de-stemming. He still hates being put to work at menial tasks, but at least he has grown enough that Constance doesn't have to get him a box and lift him up onto the seat anymore.
It's strange being back. Two and a half years he's been living in a world of metal and plastic and cold floors and blue-white fluorescent lighting and agents and the constant threat of sudden death. Near didn't think he had changed much until he actually stepped over the threshold: back into a world of stained glass and wood banisters and tea with scones and the eager arms of people who not only have never taken orders from him but who taught him to do up his buttons and put band-aids on his nicked fingers when he was a toddler. The moment he reentered that world he felt like those two and a half years had somehow turned him into a thing of metal and plastic and cold fluorescence. He doesn't quite fit anymore.
Near has always had it in his mind that the House could never change either, not significantly. He needs it to be the same. He's grasping for consistency and constancy, because Mello's death is far, far too bone-deep, root-ripping of a change.
But it has changed, despite all his wishing otherwise, and it's the combination of the same and the different that he finds most jarring. His room is almost exactly he left it—the clothes in his dresser even still fit (they were freshly laundered and folded, too, something he barely noticed until after his talk in the garden with Roger, when the unsettling notion occurred to him that Marta had planned for his return to make him personally feel welcome and not just as a matter of logistics). But most of the uppercase letters are gone now, along with a few scattered lowercase letters who were older when they entered the House, and Roger is not nearly as aggressive in recruiting new students as Mr. W was. The relative silence of the place is stifling. Near never felt that he needed any of them as individuals, but now that the mass of them are gone, he wishes they were back just so things would feel normal.
Extra hands are still always appreciated in the kitchen, though, despite the fact that there are fewer mouths to feed these days. That much hasn't changed. With the Kira case over, no longer trumping every other personal consideration, his overactive mind is left with nothing to think about but…well, things he'd rather not think about. So here he is, trying to find that same hurt-dulling comfort that he used to find here as a boy.
There are footsteps in the doorway behind him and a half-familiar voice calls out, "Cookie?" Then, "Oh. Uh, it's you."
"Sember," Near acknowledges listlessly, not turning around.
Roger managed to dredge him up out of the dark depression that seized him after Kira's defeat (he thinks, with little interest, that Lidner and Rester were concerned he might simply starve himself to death, in those black several days when the iron struts of discipline and necessity that held him up through the case gave way and left him staring at walls from sheer tiredness and his aching dread of an uncertain future), but he's exhausted, and hollow, and grieving, and the last thing he feels like doing is talking.
"I, um. Ah…is Cookie around?"
"They're all delivering tea trays. I expect she will return momentarily."
"Well. Uh. I guess I'll just, uh, wait here then."
That doesn't really deserve a response. He picks up the next sprig of rosemary and continues in his task.
To his annoyance, S sits down at the table across from him, drumming his fingers nervously on the wooden surface. Just as suddenly he self-consciously stops. Then,
"Good God. You look absolutely terrible. Have you been eating properly?"
At this wildly inappropriate intrusion, he looks up through his fringe and gives Sember a dull, unfriendly stare to communicate that any further attempts at conversation, and especially of anything so personal, are wholly unwelcome. S is examining him with a frown, and doesn't seem to notice.
"Yes, you're definitely looking anemic," the other young man goes on clinically. "Probably an iron deficiency. You should consider taking vitamins or talking to the nutrit—"
"Sember," Near interrupts, "please stop talking."
"Oh. Right, uh. Sorry. Habit." Sember shifts in his seat, looking at the floor and the ceiling and everything in between except for Near. He's gotten big, Near notes critically—still a bit chubby, but also big, tall and broad and generally a large man. He would probably be quite imposing if he wasn't so nervous. Near is used to Rester towering over him, but the agent has a good twenty years on him at least. It seems quite ridiculous (and slightly unfair) that someone his own age should be so big.
With a quiet snort, Near returns his attention to what he's doing. It only lasts for about ten seconds.
"Look, uh, I know you don't really give a damn what I think, but um, I'm leaving in an hour, and, well, I—I doubt we'll see each other after this. So…thanks. And I'm sorry," Sember says very quickly, as though he's determined to get it all out before Near tells him to shut up again.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Near says flatly, stripping a stem in one irritated motion.
"Well, I mean, you know. Kira. You destroyed a tyrant. That deserves the thanks of anyone who wants to live in a free society," Sember mumbles, picking at some invisible speck on the tabletop. "And. Um. I, uh, I heard about—about M…. And I'm sorry. For your loss."
"Insincerity suits you far worse than your usual drivel."
For several moments Sember does not reply, and Near thinks that his intentionally harsh response has accomplished what he hoped and S will finally leave him alone. Then he says, quietly, "I wasn't. Being insincere, I mean."
Near is aware that he's sickeningly sincere. He's aware and it pains him. He's already broken down once over Mello's death, and it was a draining and humiliating experience that he has no desire or intention to repeat. Being reminded by every damn person who feels obligated to express their unwanted sympathy is about as helpful as being whacked in the stomach with a sledgehammer every few hours. Not for the first time, Near half-wishes he could get away with just locking himself in his room again and sleeping for several more days, or go back to his old HQ in New York where nobody seems to think they have a right to be so damn personal.
Dropping a handful of rosemary into the bowl, he laces his fingers and regards the other narrowly. "You have never liked Mello. And he and I were not friends."
"Maybe not, but you two were always…well…close. I don't have to like either of you to offer condolences."
"I did not ask for your condolences."
"Well, I've given them anyway," Sember says a little crossly. Throughout the whole conversation he hasn't met Near's glare, but continues to dig at the wooden tabletop. "You needn't make like it some terrible insult, jeez. That just what people do."
"People invent far too many empty rituals for the sake of the illusion of altruism. We'd be better off as a society if we abandoned such meaningless gestures," Near mutters, picking out another rosemary stem.
"No we wouldn't. They're there for a reason. You're wrong, Near. About people, about—a lot of things."
Near stares at him. Sember stares back, looking a little shocked at his own outburst, a slow flush crawling up his plump cheeks.
"How many years have you been waiting to say that?" Near wonders out loud, though he's not particularly interested. He's not wrong, and it doesn't surprise him that the other boy disagrees. But he didn't expect Sember would ever voice that opinion.
"Well. Um." Sember fidgets with his glasses. "I didn't exactly, uh, plan on saying it."
"Hm," says Near noncommittally, privately amused at S's discomfort.
At that moment Constance returns and Near finally gets a little peace, though his ears are still assaulted by S and Cookie's chatter. From their talk he gleans that Sember has just been visiting the House for a few weeks between finishing his residency and starting a fellowship at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. Leaving for good…for now.
Near wonders how many of the other graduates have returned, drawn back by the gravity of the House or driven back by the alien atmosphere of Outside. It's a culture that Near doubts exists anywhere else, and despite never having had much use for the other boy, there's some resonance between them, the same resonance that can be found in any child of Wammy's House. Neither Lidner nor Rester, much as he depends on them, would ever dare tell him they thought he was downright wrong, however strongly they may have felt it.
In a rare moment of self-understanding, it occurs to Near that though he probably won't always be as miserable as he is now, he's never going to be quite content, because he can't tolerate being close to people but he can't tolerate being alone, either, and the few whose proximity he can bear for more than a minute are precious, precious few and mostly dead. Fatalistic acceptance comes almost as quickly as the realization.
After hugs and final goodbyes, Constance bustles back to work, barking orders at the assistants starting to trickle back into the kitchen, and Sember heads out, giving Near an awkward nod as he passes.
"Good luck, S."
The footsteps pause. "…Thanks, N," says Sember. "You too."
