I'm fluent in three languages, but I can't identify a single sufficient word to describe the scene before me.
It started with the thump of knuckles striking wood. Then the twist of the handle. Then the groan of rusted hinges bent backwards to accommodate the white shadow slipping in and anchoring to the floorboards.
My arms find the strength to lift my weary body and position two elbows in a weak support. Immediately, I wish I had just succumbed to gravity rather than observed the eerie spectacle. Large, black pupils like silhouettes of castles swirling in a grey moat, fastened to me, vacant. Despite their urge to do the opposite, my eyelids pull themselves open wider.
The hair atop the head of this mysterious figure is pure platinum that frames a ghostly complexion, and slightly tousled by sleep. Pristine white pyjamas complement pallid skin. The image should seem fitting amongst the light-toned decor, but instead presents a jarring discord.
It's not so much the appearance of the intruder, but rather the identity. He shouldn't be in my room.
"Near?" I whisper.
In a more conscious state, I would have already peeled myself away from the warm embrace of my sheets and thrown a punch or a few creative insults at the frail boy. But with my eyes threatening to close with any hint of strenuous activity, I'm forced to remain, bound to the mattress by the superglue of exhaustion.
No words escape his lips. His legs shuffle to guide him towards the bed until he crashes into the end of it. The impact folds him at the torso and he hauls himself up onto the quilt. I make a futile attempt to retract my ankles before he sprawls himself out across them.
I reach over the limp figure to angle his face towards me. Long eyelashes kiss the alabaster cheeks beneath them. My eyes narrow at the sight but I'm in no state to protest. I finally surrender to my body's ache for rest.
-:-
"Mello?"
My head jolts upwards with the sudden panicked voice arising from the edge of my bed. Near is crouched beside my sheathed feet. His bewildered gaze struggles to decide where to land, between my face and the alarm squealing from my side table. I slap the clock to silence it.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I growl. I revel in the hoarse, menacing quality offered by my recent slumber.
Near stumbles backwards and releases a small squeak as his legs lose the mattress to instead meet the cold floor. The closed curtains invite slivers of morning sunlight through the gaps between them. In his new position, Near's eyes capture the rays and glow as if they, too, are miniature suns that could illuminate an entire planet.
It's a sight I've never witnessed. Those same grey orbs are usually so empty and jaded. I could swear I notice a twinge of fear in them as well, but I attribute that thought to the remnants of fatigue staining my partial consciousness. Fear doesn't register with someone like Near.
He clambers to his feet and dives towards the door. I consider saying something, but my paralysed tongue denies me the opportunity. What would I even say? Why are you here? Where are you going to go?
For the moment, I refuse to rent anymore space to the thought.
Until it happens again.
The first time, I'm so engrossed in a rare, pleasant dream that I don't let him keep me from the promise of euphoria lingering behind my eyelids. The second time, he crawls beneath the covers and shares the single bed with me. Each morning, he repeats the same routine of leaping from his position, shooting me a baffled stare and hurrying out of the room followed by a trail of silence.
But the third time, I decide to question him.
"Why are you doing this, Near?" I ask.
"Mmm… Mello…" he mumbles.
He presses his chest closer to mine. I tense at the sensation of him so close to me. This is a particularly strange night for him to show such affection. We received the results of our midyear exams today. He received 100%. My score was 98%. I berated him, threatened him, backed him into a corner with my fist raised.
But he came back anyway.
If I'm being honest with myself, it was the memory of these very nights that compelled me to refrain from hitting him. Something about the innocence in his sleeping form, and how his tiny hands grasp at any part of me they can find. Something about the way his presence warms the lifeless room – even the first two times when he shivering throughout the night, exposed to the bitter air.
He's no longer the robot boy with the perfect scores, who's always a step ahead of me. He's cute, and peaceful, and vulnerable. He's human.
I need to know why he does it.
"Wake up," I urge.
I clutch his shoulder and gently shake him. His eyelids barely part at first, but soon snap open when his pupils ascend to greet mine. He shuffles backwards until the wall catches his back. With his arms rigid at either side of him, I have an uninterrupted view of his chest to watch his violent breaths elevate the pace at which the surface rises and sinks.
I don't allow myself time to consider the consequences of my actions before my hand has darted out to hold his. He yanks his wrist away instantly and slides over to the edge.
"I'm sorry…" His voice is less of a whisper than a collection of articulated sounds formed on the wave of a quivering breath.
"It's okay."
I try to reach for him, but he recoils.
"I… don't know how I keep waking up here," he says. "Please don't hurt me."
I blink a few times in quick succession. Near, the cold, indifferent boy, is now sitting on the end of my bed, pleading; frightened.
I don't resort to violence with him often. It mostly happens after a set of exams, or on other days when I'm, for whatever reason, particularly fed up with being second to him every damn time. He never flinches. He endures it, and responds with the most logical answer he can compose in response to my incoherent yelling fits.
But here he is, begging me to leave him alone. The sight is so uncharacteristic. I can't do much but stare with my jaw hung open. Maybe he's always this way when he's tired. To be fair, these past few days are the first instances in which I've actually seen him asleep, or so early in the morning that he's still hardly awake.
I manage to string together a sentence to break the silence. "I'm not going to hurt you."
I extend a hand and gesture for him to crawl back to the upper end of the mattress. He hesitates, but obeys. His body is freezing and trembles beneath my touch. I tug the blankets from my side towards his, to enshroud his quaking figure until the shudders diminish.
My arm is wrapped around his shoulders. My pulse more than doubles at the close proximity, now that we're both fully cognisant of the events unfolding before us. It doesn't take him long to settle into my embrace and add his own arm to the equation, draping it over my abdomen.
A pale finger climbs up my side and finds a tendril of hair towards the front of my golden crown. He glances at me, as if to check if the action is okay, and I offer him a nod accompanied by the most genuine smile I can muster. My face is more accustomed to scowls and glares when directed at him, but just for tonight, I can welcome the change.
I hover my upturned lips beside his ear. "I think you've been sleepwalking."
"You're probably right." He nestles his head below my collarbone. "I'm glad I have."
I can't explain why, but I'm glad too.