forget about the past. be at rest; i'll make things right.

[996b]

[Roger dozed on the ride from JFK. More than once, he started awake, mopped his brow, and cradled his mouth with his limp handkerchief. Mello watched him while he did this, which made the sweat pour more. Neither of them spoke. Mello watched, and Roger roasted, and that's all they shared. That, and maybe certain ghosts. Mello did wonder what particulars were haunting Roger, after going back like they did...

It's Sunday morning, in a sense. There's enough light for the sky to be downfeather grey. It's the hour of the ugly duckling: given a bit more time, the grey will shed, and the morning will reflect a pleasant spring. The building holds almost no one. Anthony Rester has been assigned overnights while Roger, as Watari, has been away, and there will be an on-site nurse working a night shift. At last, a legend: the letter L. Near is on the second highest floor of the building. Mello hardly glances up at its height. Near is undoubtedly in a windowless room, so there's no point in fantasizing about an impossible alignment from this distance. He doesn't want to be marvelled at as a speck, anyway. He has more of an affinity for the term 'larger than life'.

Mello carries only a leather satchel with him, and the driver will see to the rest. He departs from Roger with a low exchange of murmurs. Inside, the corridors are quiet. The lighting is all faint blue at best, often just washed out. The elevator could almost lull him to sleep--but the rise of it ends, and just one hall remains.

Three times, he keys in security. His steps are measured. He keeps as muted as the pre-dawn grey, bringing it with him to this windowless place. Finally, in his bedroom, the time feels right. The present is as it should be.]

I'm home, [he says, grim, as if saying it is a betrayal he's choosing to make, against... something. He hangs his jacket over the back of his desk chair.] Looks like you did as I'd hoped. This place is perfect.

Comments

[precisely]

[There is no need for windows. No real use for them. Near has always preferred the ambiguity of a secure building that's sealed off from the world, hidden away from bullshit like celestial movement. Even if sunlight weren't his mortal enemy, he doesn't think that he would be all that fond of feeling it on his skin. It's too warm. It makes him feel sticky. And moonlight isn't any better because all sorts of things will stay hidden in it. Fortunately, the app on Near's phone can account for the weak light of predawn. The hour of the ugly duckling has never been brighter or clearer. Tuned to the building's external cameras, the app shows a sleek car pulling up to the curb, and it shows the passengers departing from that same car afterward. Mello is more than a speck to this artificial eye. And, unaligned though they are, Near still curves his thumb over the image of Mello, stroking him like a saint medallion.

Near hasn't gotten any work done. He isn't sure that he's slept all that much. He's barely been able to get out of bed, for that matter, even to do things like fetch toys or art supplies from his own bedroom. It looks like he's only brought along an old-school Nintendo DS, a sketchbook, a set of colored pencils, and a wind-up monkey with little metal cymbals, all of which he's left in a pile at the foot of the bed. Meanwhile, he's curled up in and among the many soft pillows, staring intently at the app on his phone, watching and waiting as Mello comes closer to him. Bleary-eyed, he doesn't look away even after Mello steps into the bedroom, if only because it wouldn't be very easy to see him in this windowless gloom. That doesn't change the fact that everything is as it should be, at last, finally, thankfully. Everything is back to the way it's supposed to be.

Near reaches over and turn on the bedside lamp to the next-lowest setting. His eyes are bloodshot. His hair is a mess. He's wearing a loose, oversized hoodie--something he must have found and pilfered from Mello's closet. It's thick black fabric with thick black laces criss-crossing down the sleeves, and it's definitely too much for his thinned-out body. The silver eyelets gleam when he fully sits up. Now he's looking up at Mello, just now rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes--]

Welcome home, Mello.

[His voice is dry and and dusty and scratchy, like he's kind of forgotten how to speak in just the time it's taken Mello to fly back to New York. He thinks his delivery could have used some work, too. It was supposed to be more momentous than this, more eye-opening and life-changing, more like he's acknowledging the heavy things they talked about over the phone, more like they're...

Suddenly, he has to stifle a yawn with one floppy cuff of the hoodie.]

Come back to bed already.

[996b]

[Mello opens his eyes. Mello's life shifts in place. The shift runs so deep, and the sight is so clear, that Mello turns his face sharply as if to shield himself from the brunt of Near's welcome. Such a mild thing, no less temperate than sunny California... Mello remembers deals made in San Clemente, murders in Huntington Beach: the wealthy constructs of palm trees, the sky high price of a view like that. And he remembers passing up the chance to do more than look. He didn't so much as stick his feet in the sand in San Clemente, or Long Beach, or La Jolla... He went on past the vistas, didn't stop to feel them out. He had better things to do. What use were sights and shores to him?

And he could pass this by just as simply, couldn't he--chart the experience, cherrypick the gain, just utilize it--not even cruelly. He could keep Near tucked into this bed, see him at rest, more pliantly guided into the challenges of the coming day. Mello's bed is a backdrop to good business. He wouldn't feel conceited saying it's in the world's best interest for Near to sleep, to go to sleep here, in his bed, in the signature black swallow of his clothes. He could pass this by, like palm trees, and it would still do Near good.

Or he could relax into the sand.

There's no naming a price for the view inside this room. No garish realtor could assess it, and no bohemian photographer could do it justice. This is far removed from sunsets, from sand dollars, from coves and beachfront condos. It's not the edge-of-the-world horizon offered by the ocean, but it feels like a precipice even so. Though hardly lit, Near promises all the colors of the human body in the sprawl of his veins, his shadowed throat, and the neglected weariness of his eyes. He's tired. And Mello is tired. He's tired of passing things by.

Near's voice is dry, dusty, and scratchy, and Mello feels he could roll around in that, could come to rest flat on his back, arms spread--that most basic vulnerability, outlawed in the animal kingdom. He may find all the makings of a brush fire here, but he could bed down in it for good. He could do that--for good. He zips himself out of his black vest; he undoes the gleam of his belt. And he stops there to light his octet of candles.] Thanks, [he says to Near while he does it, and his striking of the match is deft. You know, this "welcome home" is the first sacrament he's heard that didn't resonate, steeple-high, with the weight of the grave. And Heaven help him, the offer of eternal life never sounded like Near inviting him to bed.

He sits on the edge of his bed to unlace his boots, then sets them, paired, to the side. His back, scarred on one side and smooth on the other, is facing Near--you know, against the animal kingdom's advisement. Then Mello turns at the waist, toward Near. He reaches for Near first with the length of one arm, before burying both of his gloved hands in Near's hair. He holds and steadies Near's head like his hands are a well-loved easel.] You've just been squirming around in here, huh? What's keeping you up? [Nothing like a brush fire in his voice--he more resembles the candlelight, all the way into his approach, all the way into his landing. He kisses Near's mouth once with just enough weight that it isn't tender. It's firm and short-lived. It's his feet finding the ground. He's still holding Near's face when he draws back, and he frowns with the kind of dour mouth Near is better known for.] You did me my favors and you greeted me well. From now on, count on me coming back. [Might be a hell of an oath he's swearing right now--] So you don't have to toss and turn the whole damn time.

[precisely]

[The weight of Near's head has more in common with eggshell than canvas, when he leans in and against one of Mello's warm palms. It's an immediate reaction, instinctive in its own right; he can't help the gravitational tilt of himself. He leans into Mello's palm and he closes his eyes more than most of the way, clearly savoring what sunlight can never be for him. He's vulnerable, still. In a different way, but he's so vulnerable. It wouldn't take much for Mello to pull his long, brittle hair from his head. It wouldn't take all that much pressure to break the bird bones of his neck. The legend known as L has so many enemies that would trade anything for the chance to be in Mello's position. Near wouldn't even blame him for putting an end to it. The offer still stands: If you want to shoot me, go ahead. No one else is allowed to see Near at his most vulnerable, at this point where he's totally willing to be destroyed. The kiss, a perfunctory greeting, strips away even more of his thin, thin outer layer. It's strong enough for him to lick his lips afterward, and enough for him to taste a teasing hint of chocolate, too.]

Mello, [he says, softer than ever, and it's almost a question, almost a query in and of itself.] Has anyone ever told you... [Reaching up with both hands, he lays each of them over one of Mello's, to cradle it and its leather glove in turn.] Has anyone ever told you that you have quite a way with words? [Mello is frowning at him, but Near is starting to smile for real. Probably, he's feeling shy and a little stirred up, if the downward angle of his gaze is any herald. He's still licking at one upturned corner of his mouth. But he's focusing his attention and intentions on Mello's gloved hand, on pulling it away from his face, pulling it down but closer to him... He's plucking the stitched leather from each of Mello's fingers... Little by little, he's so much more careful about unwrapping Mello's scars than he is when he's tackling a pile of glittering Christmas presents. As safe as Mello makes him feel, he wants Mello to feel just as safe and supported.

And he has already touched and tasted every crevice and every whorl of melted flesh on Mello's body. Regardless, there's something almost unpracticed in how he presses his lips to these few stiffened fingers. It would be chivalrous if he were willing to believe in any of that silly bullshit.]

The next time you go somewhere, I want you to take me with you.

[It's a simple sort of declaration, seemingly less full and troubled than an oath being sworn by heaven, or by earth. The helpless way he closes his eyes, though, tells a different story. Neither of them have much space left for regrets, but this is something he wishes he had been able to give voice to when they were both children. No time like the present, really. He kisses the curl of Mello's bare knuckles, and then he reaches up to get rid of the other glove, wanting there to be fewer barriers between them. No time like the present.]

[996b]

[Don't say that, Mello thinks, and it feels like a helpless thought to have. Well, isn't that wretched. Mello worked hard to put helplessness behind him, spitefully leaving it in the damp of Winchester. After he bailed from his childhood home, helplessness caught up with him only a few times. By and large, he could evade it. He seriously could. He built himself high, running nearly on the adrenaline of soon, on the fumes of his potential--even when Yagami began to pen his name, Mello didn't feel helpless. He knew what he could do: he could blow himself halfway to hell. And he did, and he wasn't helpless then, either, because from there he could... What was it, again? All the smoke, all the smell of himself. He knew he could do something; he knew he would be fine. How soon did he know that? How long did he lie there before he could get up? When did it come, the firm veto of his own fear? And why isn't it coming quickly now? He feels helpless, here and now, watching Near bare him, and kiss him, and bare him again. It's funny of him to be the frightened one. Near spent all that time chasing him, more effort than he ever knew, and now Mello is afraid of the purest pursuit Near could give him. It strikes Mello that Near has done this before--he's entrusted the whole of himself to Mello before. Mello dug up that letter and read Near's stupidly vulnerable confession of a first and last name. To think L's successor could have been expelled and shipped away before he even reached the top, if anyone had known... He was ready to trust Mello with that. He's trusting Mello to take him anywhere. So, next time Mello goes. Don't say that, Mello thinks, and it feels like a helpless thought, because it's one more thing he can't allow himself to fail.

He's still frowning when he shifts his hand to thumb along Near's bottom lip. He'll answer, first:] Yeah, I've heard that. [It's neither boastful nor wistful. It's a wick set in wax, the core of a candle: the center of the slow burn. He fits an arm around Near, holding steady against his lower back--holding steady. Then he shifts, no longer turned at his waist. He cups the side of Near's face, then the back of his head, before he's guiding Near's head down to rest at his bare collarbone.] I've heard I have a way with words, and I have a good head on my shoulders, and I'm gonna go places. I have a bright mind and big ideas, according to some. And a sharp mouth, and a fresh attitude, and a look like the devil. I've heard all kinds of things. [He stops because his throat hurts. It's defiant. It threatens rigor mortis. He manages to swallow, then says,] Where do you want me to take you?

[precisely]

[Near had to rewrite that letter several times to get it right. First, there was the penmanship: he didn't have the knowledge of how to make it look pleasing to the eye. He worked at it, and he worked at it, and he broke the nibs on a few of Roger's fountain pens from how hard he worked at it... but, eventually, he produced twenty pages of college ruled paper with elegant-looking cursive up and down the page. It was a hemorrhage of the heart. From there, he performed a triage on what he wrote, trying to save only the details that mattered, the essential things he did want Mello to know about him. You're my best friend. The boy once known as Nate River, he wrote, when "Nate River" was still more than a threat of expulsion, wanted Mello to find something he loved to do and then spend the rest of his life doing it. Near can't be sure that Mello has read his letter already, but he's willing to make an educated assumption, with Mello's fingers again buried in his hair. He comes to rest against Mello's bare collarbone, and he thinks about telling Mello that he disposed of the twelve or so drafts by running them under hot water in the boys' bathroom. The black ink dissolved in a great big streak down each page, and then the paper itself dissolved soon after. A lifetime's worth of secrets down the drain.

As soon as Mello gets settled, his legs on the bed, his back to the pillows, Near climbs on top of him. It's more insistent than Near usually prefers to be. It could be that he's getting greedier--or more willing to show just how greedy he can be. His hands, gentle, warm from the blankets, move up and down the off-kilter geography of Mello's torso, not yet ready to have a home in any which place. Yeah, Mello was always destined for great things, for greater things, and anyone with more than half a point of IQ should have been able to see that. A bright mind, those big ideas...

In his letter, Near said that he wanted to become the next L, but he wouldn't be surprised if Mello were chosen over him. He definitely didn't want it to go to Number Three, in any case. That guy was a total fucking idiot.

Near mumbles, first of all,] Someplace fun. [And he's still very tired. Mello is more like a hit of morphine than anything resembling adrenaline. C₁₇H₁₉NO₃.] I want to go back to the beach before it gets too warm out. [They've gone a few more times since the very first time, and Near has even been bold enough to go down by the water's edge, to look at the small things that live in the surf. He saw a real live sand crab once and it was the freakiest thing ever.] But I was also thinking about how... I haven't been on a train before. All of those toy trains, and I've never been on a train myself. And a train can take you to all sorts of places. There isn't a train station up in Appleton, but that doesn't mean... [He pauses, then, and this time he can't muffle the sound he makes when he yawns. Mello must be something of a wet sandbank himself, because Near is really starting to sink into him. He loops both of his arms around Mello's waist with the stubbornness reserved for barnacles.] Doesn't mean we couldn't take a train to, hmm, Brunswick Station, and then... [He trails off here because he doesn't know enough about this sort of thing. They could rent a car, maybe? Isn't that how they'd get from one place to another? Mello's skin, by the way, smells like everyday sweat, the cool and filtered air of a plane cabin, and still that faint suggestion of cologne. It's more distracting than Near might be willing to admit.]

I want to thank Appleton for looking after you in my stead.

[996b]

[This thing that rises into and then from the back of Mello's throat--it takes him a second to realize it isn't bile. Remarkable and unfamiliar: it rises and then hits his tongue, but it isn't bile. He's not hurting, or broiling in fury or a chemical fire. The thing that comes up through his body, into and then beyond his chest, is kindness. It isn't often that Mello feels kind, but he feels a kindness, a tenderness, you could say. He thinks of someplace fun, of the beach and its cool sand, and real live sand crabs, too. He wants to share the rest of it with Near, a closer view of the water, and how to spot where fishes are. He can picture himself wading calf-deep with Near, the slip of his body, tucked high against Mello. Near could hold onto Mello's neck; Mello would hold onto Near's thighs and let Near rise up beyond his shoulder. Mello wonders: Do you know that I'm going to keep you safer than I ever was?

And it fills him, like the kindness. Like the bile, but it's not bile either. It rushes up into his throat faster than he can realize, enlivening his tongue. Mello opens his mouth like he might say something: a declaration, an argument, something brazen that only he could get away with. He says so many things like any of those. You saw through the meat of a man's throat and you get a pretty bit of privilege for your trouble. You bring his head in a bag to the highest bidder and you can talk all sorts of smack. Mello thought he was going to throw up, when he was earning all those rights. (It always was the bile, back then.)

He doesn't want to talk any smack right now. He doesn't quite want to throw up. But he does clamp his mouth shut, pursing a full bottom lip against the top one, his words equally as plush behind them. His hair starts to sweep away from his toughened cheek when he turns his head, like he's going to shake it, but then he doesn't shake it. He just keeps it tilted at that angle, stalling out, and then he shuts his eyes. He holds onto Near like Near holds onto him, which says a lot of what those plush words inside him say. Then he leans in to kiss the side of Near's face, somehow curt about it despite his own grasp.

It seems to help him, in whatever way he needs. He's more relaxed when he presses his nose into Near's hair, instead.] Doesn't mean we couldn't take a train, [he agrees. Near's curls dam whatever was in Mello's mouth, and he feels somehow relieved.] Make a weekend of it, if you wanted. I'd take you the way I went, if you need to see it-- [Mystery is killer. Would it help to follow Mello's feet? To see the wheres and hows he crept along when he should have been a dead man?] --like I did the trailblazing for you ahead of time. [His hands grasp the backs of Near's thighs, but they're security, not a rough grapple.] How do you like that?

[precisely]

[Insatiable. That's the word for it. That's what this is. Near has the object of his affections close at hand, and it still isn't enough for him. This is Mello's fault, of course. Near didn't know what he was missing out on until Mello showed him what it was. That goes for so many things, like the beach he wants to go back to. Without Mello, he never would have known that he likes--not loves, but he does like it a lot--the feeling of wet sand on his bare feet. The first time he took off his shoes and socks was terrifying; he was convinced something would bite him, sting him, or come up and snip off his toes. Mello patiently set aside his shoes, then his socks, and then helped him to stand back up again. The dry sand was weird and alarming, too messy, getting stuck all between his toes. It reminded of him of baby powder with more grit and zero comfort. The wet sand, though... that had no real comparison. Silky, almost-sticky, really dense yet could be compressed further, with a cool quality not unlike strict metal flooring. He liked it. A lot. He doesn't want to say he loved it, even though Mello poked at his cheek and said he was smiling, for once. He did like it. He likes having Mello hold on to him, too. It feels good. Lately, it seems, he has been in the business of finding ways to feel better.

And he didn't know what it meant to go without affection until Mello kissed him for the first time. Actually, it was more like he kissed Mello for the first time, taking initiative in ways he didn't know he could, but they were kissing each other and it was enjoyable. It's enjoyable even when Mello kisses his cheek, as he does now, in his especially perfunctory way. Near squirms in response. He wants to be closer and more comfortable. He wants more of whatever this is. Mello's hands settle at the backs of his thighs, and they feel like the start of something rather than the ending point. After going days without sleep, Near wasn't expecting to feel anything akin to anticipation.

He sighs to himself.] I like it, [he says, such a simple thing. They can go on a pilgrimage to Appleton together, by train, by car, whatever, so he can find out why Mello preferred it over him.] I want to see where you lived, and the places you frequented every day... where your interests may have taken you, or your appetites... just all the things that contributed to who you are today. That sounds agreeable to me. [Without Mello, he never would have known just how soft and unsteady he is. How impressionable, or how persuadable. Mentally, emotionally, even physically. The backs of his thighs are very soft, like vanilla pudding, with only Mello's hands to give them form and function. The constant aching of his lower back isn't such a big deal when it's Mello holding on to him.

He sighs again, and this time it's out of luxury instead of relief.]

I don't think there is anything I would like more.

[His archives. They'll fill them in, and keep them current.]