Silenced
If there was one thing Mello hated, it was silence. Silence unnerved him, and because Near was nearly always silent, Near, too, unnerved him. Yet at the same time, Mello respected silence. 'Silence is golden,' went the saying, and Mello always remembered it.
There were few with the gift of "enough" silence. Not so much that they became creepy and disturbing (like Near, Mello grumbled to himself), but a decent amount, to where they didn't babble endlessly. Matt was very gifted, by all standards.
In Mello's mind, Near had become #2: there was no way the the white-haired boy had what Mello did. Mello had the boy's beautiful eyes, hidden by strange orange goggles. He had the smirking mouth that tasted like oranges (and smoke) and felt like silk; he had the boy's long, smooth fingers. At night, Mello had the boy's smooth touches and the feel of soft skin rubbing against fresh pink scars as the boy made delicious and dangerous sounds. In the morning, Mello could glance at the boy and know that he was his, and always would be.
And of course, Mello had the boy's silence of "enough." The short conversations, the muffled noises, and the quiet when Mello was tired. The boy never had to be silenced.