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

[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.]