[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?