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the world had taken a deep breath and was having doubts about continuing to revolve.
[When that blood-red indicator light starts flashing in Near's peripheral vision, his heart stops. It simply stops.]
Mello.
[And he doesn't remember how he got from his LEGO fortress to the mission control desk where a certain analog phone is waiting for him. It's just one thing, and then it's another, and his shins are aching from smashing through the obstacles he no longer remembers. The phone itself is made of sturdier plastic--that's an assumption, but a good one to make, really. Otherwise, he'd surely break it in half from how hard his hands are clutching at it.]
Mello, tell me where you are.
[He couldn't have gone far. From the rubble, the remains, the gutted skeleton of secret schemes, he couldn't have gone that fucking far. Right now, Near has his agents exploring the tunnel system they found underneath Mello's hideout--he couldn't have gone that far. Maybe there's a hidden room that Mello slipped into, but he won't--he can't--]
I need you to tell me where you are.
[His voice is firm, steady, a bedrock untouched by the earthquake, yet hysteria is crawling up the walls of his mind.]
Mello.
[And he doesn't remember how he got from his LEGO fortress to the mission control desk where a certain analog phone is waiting for him. It's just one thing, and then it's another, and his shins are aching from smashing through the obstacles he no longer remembers. The phone itself is made of sturdier plastic--that's an assumption, but a good one to make, really. Otherwise, he'd surely break it in half from how hard his hands are clutching at it.]
Mello, tell me where you are.
[He couldn't have gone far. From the rubble, the remains, the gutted skeleton of secret schemes, he couldn't have gone that fucking far. Right now, Near has his agents exploring the tunnel system they found underneath Mello's hideout--he couldn't have gone that far. Maybe there's a hidden room that Mello slipped into, but he won't--he can't--]
I need you to tell me where you are.
[His voice is firm, steady, a bedrock untouched by the earthquake, yet hysteria is crawling up the walls of his mind.]
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Even after that, he has to take another breath before he can talk. He's gracious enough to explain,] Didn't expect you to pick up so fast. [He stops to wet his lips, and the taste reminds him that he's fucked.] Look--just checking in. Didn't want you to think I... [It matters. Of course it matters. However angry Near has chosen to be, this still matters to him.] Died, or anything. [He takes a slow breath inward, which feels like a flaying from a steady hand. He sounds like the smell of smoke.] So I trust you're not going to get choked up over this--we're both still in business.
[Speaking is the intelligent thing to do. That's what has occurred to him; that's what he's telling himself. Because if he doesn't keep himself present enough to speak, he thinks he's going to fall asleep here with his head against the wall.]
I'm not tapping out, is what I mean. Figured you should hear it first.
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Of course Near doesn't say that out loud. It feels forbidden to even think of something as morbid as that, never mind saying it. It feels shameful. It feels irredeemably selfish. What Mello did--what he's done--doing--to himself--what he fucking went and did to himself--has nothing to do with the state of play in between the two of them. Mello would have planted those bombs with or without Near's permission. It isn't like he would have told Near about his crazy-ass idea of a contingency plan, anyway. Blowing his own hideout sky-high still seems so theatrical, so ostentatious, that it can't possibly be a thing that has really happened. Ultimately, the charbroiled texture of Mello's voice proves it's anything but a mean-spirited hoax.]
I need you to tell me where you are, right now, please. [Near just doesn't have the time to indulge in Mello's version of events. He doesn't have the time to think about all the other times he paused, paused, paused some more, twirling his hair, and then quietly asked where Mello was at that moment--] Hey, I'm asking you nicely, [he adds, his voice shifting lower, as if that's supposed to make a difference. Maybe it does make a difference, on balance.] If you do me this one favor, I'll make sure the favor is repaid, in full, and with interest. You can charge me whatever interest you like. [They haven't spoken of favors and repaying them since Near was eleven years old and Mello was thirteen.
But he can't think about that sort of thing, either.]
Just tell me where you are.
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He's stopping to take a swig of something. This is where he knew he would head if he ever got fucked up to this level, and it's stocked with liquor for a reason.]
I didn't call you to come and pick me up, Near. --But I didn't call you to torment you, either. [Give him a break. Any man would sound tired when he's spent the wee hours skirting round and round his own grave. He has to allow himself the shedding of a little weight.] I hope you know that.
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There's a much fainter sound of Near slapping a notepad on the desk. He's writing instructions to his team, and now he's holding up the notepad so they can read it.
In the meantime, he says,] I wouldn't mind, if you did. If that's what you're doing. It's not as though I'm expecting you to play nice. I don't have any expectations for how this is going to go down. [He might as well speak plainly and acknowledge the obvious: yeah, if he gets his hands on Mello, Mello's future is going to take shape in a safe house with robust, around-the-clock medical attention. A very secure safe house, at that. No security flaws.] But if you did call me, and you did want me to come and pick you up, I would do that for you. I hope you know that. Mello, I hope you know that it's well within my power to make the pain go away. So, please...
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The pounding on the panic room door is predictable, so Mello doesn't bother to swear. He just takes another drink from his bottle. He sucks some air through his teeth before saying, with jagged courtesy,] I'm putting you on speaker, Near. [And he does, and then he's loading a handgun.] I hope you pay these people well. I hope their widows can live off more than the misfortunes of loyal men. This would be a great time for me to pick out a snake in your ranks. [But he doesn't. Every member of the team does their job. And Mello doesn't kill that many people, in the end. No more than three dead, with some others wounded. Regrettably, Mello is a little too tired for a more spectacular show. By the time they take him, he's quiet. His own body shuts him up; it wants to lie down in a bed.
It isn't until he sees Near that he realizes they've flown him across the country. They must have had him on 'the good shit', as it were. Or maybe he was manhandled into sleeping, and his body clung to that for longer than he wanted, to combat infection. Or maybe he just knew he was going to be safe, and he let himself shut down and rest. Whatever the case, he's been lying here long enough to restlessly regret the comfort.
He pushes the heel of his palm against his forehead, in an exasperated gesture. Right hand; right side of the face. That side of him doesn't look so bad--his flesh isn't fevered, and he's hydrated. The left side of him does look bad, but, you know, it could be worse.]
Is the hospital gown necessary?
[Palm to brow, eyes cast elsewhere--and the corner of his mouth is lifting into the space between a wince and a grimace.]
Seems extreme.
[In these first words, face to face, there's no place in his voice for the hurt from before, when he cringed away from what he thought to be negotiations for his safe-keeping.]
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Mello's new room looks more like an expensive suite in an upscale hotel than anything out of a hospital ward. There's various medical equipment nearby, including a stand for his IV bag, but the rest of it would impress a visiting dignitary or an intelligence official. Everything is soothing greys and buttery golds, with subtly patterned wallpaper, inoffensive curtains, and sparse furniture that looks like it's carved either out of ivory or bleached antler. The bed is soft and spacious, but not so large that doctors couldn't reach for Mello in the event of an emergency. He has been sleeping soundly, though. Up until now, he was fast asleep. Near has to wonder when Mello last allowed himself to sleep like that. He watched Mello sleep from where he's folded up and perched on one of the sleek white chairs, as quiet as any tombstone. He watches Mello begin to wake up, too, and he's watching Mello take stock of the situation, all the while knowing that the door to this suite is locked from the outside.
Earlier, his team cautioned him against going anywhere near Mello, citing what they called the obvious risks, but Near shook his head and brushed them aside.
If Mello is interested in a fourth victim, then Near is only willing to oblige.
"Seems extreme," Mello says, not looking at him.
Near has one of his arms lying across one lifted and bent knee, with his chin nestled against his forearm, in what most people would think is an uncomfortable position. He doesn't move at all, though, not even when he thinks uncharitably of Mello being the last person who should bitch about anything being extreme.]
You were in surgery for almost two hours, [he replies, forcing himself into each word, already exhausted.] As it so happens, chemical burns from sulfur and petrol are more difficult to assess and treat properly than everyday thermal burns. A sterile environment is important to the healing process. [He still sounds somber about it. He sounds as though he's giving a eulogy at Mello's funeral, in fact. This is because he's by no means an idealistic fuckwit: he has betrayed Mello, and he knows it, and he doesn't regret doing it, and he'd do it again if he had to. He betrayed Mello by saving him, and he's still betraying Mello by keeping him locked up in here. Any lingering faith or grudging respect Mello might have had for him couldn't have survived the massacre in California...
Near knew what he was doing when he ordered his team to move in, having decided Mello's survival was more important than anything else. He will bear the consequences of that decision.
Too dull to be a joke, probably:] But I could have them bring you a gown in a different color, if you have something against sea foam green.
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Of course he's not going to do that. For God's sake. It crosses his mind only because he needs to be sure that he would at least be capable of doing it. He needs to be capable. He has so little of that left, now that he's lying where he is.
Mello doesn't bother to examine what he can of himself. He doesn't peer at his damaged arm or hand. He doesn't reach to gingerly touch his fingers to his abdomen. He touches, instead, his fingertips to his tongue, after drawing his hand down from his brow. He touches his tongue and then makes a face. What a sight: his marred face, his chipped nail polish, his disgusted grimace. This is a man who has been proven right, whose contempt is justified.] Take me off the morphine. [He's striding past the maybe-joke.
It's pure defiance. In part, yes, he wishes for a whet knife of a mind, not a pile of gauze. But the purest part of him, the upright shine, is deeper than the flesh and what it's suffered. His pride must be an ashen smear. No better than discarded charcoal. He knows now where the hurt came from, when Near tried to talk him into coming--here? Home? To him? It always hurt like that, didn't it? The damage doesn't come from Near's help--but from how Near thinks he needs the help badly enough that he wouldn't survive without it. Near had to come and pluck Mello out of the cinders because Mello couldn't handle it himself. Ah, and Mello is grinding his teeth, now, isn't he; he's biting at the tips of his fingers; his gaze is far across the room, and his heart rate is pitching upward. His eyes are wide and dense with overstimulation. Even in the midst of the morphine, his brain is firing with intensity. But this isn't the wide-eyed thrill of grand planning. A pallor is setting in, and his breathing has gone shallow.
A two hour surgery. He was assessed, and he is being treated, and these have been difficult things to do for him. This is a healing process, and he is being given the utmost care within it. Any chunk of wealth will be funneled into tending to him, while his condition warrants it. Mello scrapes his teeth against his fingernail, and then he pauses. He had been starting to gasp, but he goes still. He had been starting to sweat, but his eyelashes flutter, before he finally blinks.
His hand drops from his mouth. The panic drops with it.]
What I should have done is show up on your doorstep. [He says it with the weight of thought, but it isn't fearful. Instead, there's a satisfied slip to it.] My gut told me to call you, but I should have just come to see you. You wouldn't have expected it, I think. Not least because you didn't believe I could.
[So it hurts. It hurts Mello to be talked into staying alive, when he wasn't planning on dying there in the first place. It wasn't a negotiation, because they weren't working with the same terms. It hurts him to be kept safe here in this suite, because he didn't need to be kept safe. Any lingering faith Near had in Mello, any respect he had for Mello's persistent strength, couldn't have survived Mello being tucked gently into this bed.
He shuts his eyes. When he settles further into his pillows, his own weight is grim.]
That's what I should have done. You would have looked foolish, then. I'm the one stuck as the fool, but at least now I know.
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Yet Near quietly pokes at a few buttons, turning off the morphine pump. He doesn't want to think about how this is the closest they've been to each other in five years, and how all those tubes and tape really wouldn't stop Mello from enacting and exacting any revenge he's thinking of.] If you change your mind, [he says, glancing over at Mello,] just go ahead and let me know. [As if that will happen. Mello clearly wants to be a martyr to his cause, for whatever-the-fuck crusade he thinks he's on right now--but Near gets distracted when the heart monitor starts beeping. He looks from Mello to the monitor, then back to Mello, his mouth pursing tight and tighter still. The sudden increase in heart rate doesn't last for too long, thankfully. Could have been some belated realization. Reality finally setting in. Near knew that Mello was going to hate being here, but he didn't think it would inspire a ten-second panic attack.
Instead of retreating back to his chair, Near sits down on the edge of the bed. His back is turned to Mello, with his thin shoulders lifted and his head bowed. It's so much easier when he doesn't have to look at Mello's disgusted grimace. He can tell himself that he's doing the right thing, and he has no reason or room for self-doubt.]
And how would that have worked, exactly? [he asks of Mello's fantasy, even though he doesn't want to know. Even though he shouldn't say anything at all. His throat feels like it's tightening around a lump of something, all jagged and bloody.] You were going to, what, let me think... just going to hop in a car and take a road trip across America to come here and visit me? Pulling over at Walgreens for some over-the-counter medicine when your wounds started to fester? Third-degree burns, no problem. Just put some fucking Neosporin on it. No, Mello, I quite believe you are capable of doing that to yourself, and that is why I refused to let you do it.
[Three dead, and four more wounded. Five more with minor injuries, not requiring hospital admission. Almost two hours in surgery. A private flight across the country done in the utmost secrecy. And Near can't even get a single thank you.]
I'm not asking you to stay here for more than a week. I'm not asking for anything else.
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It isn't funny.
Mello is trying to decide whether it's ever felt this badly to be a stupid loser. When he left the House--well, yeah, then it was the worst. When he was trying to make it to America, yeah, it was godawful. But every insult, every defeat, has led him here, to this bed, to lie beneath the weight of Near's unfunny voice, to lie behind the small white shape of his back, his thin shoulders. Mello laughs suddenly, a measly yip from the weariest dog. Near watched Mello skin his knees on pavement more than once when they were children, so he'll know from just the sound of it: that laugh has got all the same hurts. But you know what? Mello watched Near get hit in the mouth. Just the once, when they were children. The kid who did it got hit in the mouth a whole lot more, Mello made sure of that--but he knows from just the sound of it. Near is feeling jagged and bloody.
Mello can't muster a glare at Near's back. He shifts so he's looking at the ceiling.]
I didn't want it to be like this, [he says at last.] I had less than half a plan, but I knew what I wanted it to achieve. I wanted it to be different from this. It was supposed to be different from... [His heart rate jumps again. The texture of the ceiling is blurry to his eyes, and he's worried that he's crying--so his heart rate jumps. But he realizes that he isn't crying after all, so he calms back down quickly and talks like it's nothing.] When I thought about seeing you again, I figured I'd be dressed to the nines. I figured--I would be dressed well, even. For God's sake, I wanted to be standing upright, at least. [So, he isn't crying after all. He's not even humid. If anything, he's dried out like Death Valley.] Damn it, I would have come to see you, you bastard. But I didn't want you to see this. [He's dried out. Actually, he did expect to cry a little. He wonders why he doesn't--if it's stage fright or whether it just doesn't matter as much as he thought it would when he realized what he'd done to himself.
At once, he realizes what's missing.]
Where are my beads?
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In declaring war on Kira, Near made peace with the idea that his life might be forfeit. He's prepared to die if it means bringing Kira to justice. Mello, of course, isn't meant for that much of a sacrifice. Especially not when it involves suicidal bullshit on his part.
Near's voice is brittle, and bitter:] I caught you, Mello. [He's still speaking with a bruised jaw, and a bloody mouth. He's having trouble breathing due to a certain anxiety. His words trip over themselves a little bit, like they did when he asked Mello to help him get to the nurse's office. There was a lot of blood and it scared him a lot. Even after Mello whaled on that kid, he was still very scared.] I c-caught up to you, and I caught you, finally. Finally. And I know how much that must sting for you. I know that must be terrible for you, as it's something you'd rather not live with, but still... [His fingers curl against his knees, forming impotent fists. The sound of Mello's hurt laughter is pretty terrible in and of itself, isn't it?]
It's no less than what has transpired, and there is nothing more you can do about it. You're going to learn to live with it. That's just what you'll have to do. So, you couldn't elude me forever, no matter your best efforts, and I'm going to savor my victory over you. [Yet the quality of his voice suggests maybe he's the one who lost after all. Despite this severing of the jugular, Near feels like he did it in the dirtiest, lousiest, least honorable way possible. There's nothing to be proud of here. It was the correct decision, but he isn't proud of himself for making it.
The beads, though. The rosary. Only now does Near tug up one of his sleeves, revealing the rosary wrapped around his wrist. The crucifix is being kept warm up against his uneasy pulse. Carefully, he unwinds the delicate-looking chain, one loop after another, until it's a small bundle at the center of his palm. With half a glance to spare, he offers the rosary to Mello by holding it behind himself. They aren't quite looking at each, not really, so it wouldn't come as a surprise if Mello failed to notice Near's wet, welling-over eyes. Mello is being so stupid right now, but that doesn't change the crucial facts of his survival. He's alive. Mello is alive. Mello is going to live through this, with the battle scars to prove it.]
...Ah, it's not like me to gloat over my winnings. For that, I'll apologize. I'm sorry for the vagaries of my pride and my ego. But I'll have you know that I'm savoring your present safety and security most of all.
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And he appreciates what Near is saying, because any fool should be dressed down in exactly a way like this. But he hates it, obviously. Mello feels a bitter burst behind his molars. It dies and putrefies before it can leave his mouth: Don't you try to trick me. He doesn't want Near to con him into livelihood by telling him to learn. But he does feel an appreciation toward it. Near is deliberate in his refusal to coddle Mello's feelings--and isn't that its own sort of special treatment? But it's not so humiliating. It's the greatest insult here, you know--Near has, before this, been mindful of Mello's pride. He has recognized that Mello needs it in order to survive. Snatching up Mello out of the fire by reaching his arm across the country has crossed a border hitherto unsullied. The sullying of it goes deeper than a chemical burn.
This interlude: when Near unravels Mello's holy chain from around that spindly wrist, the sight is so arresting that it goes deeper, deeper than the insult or the sullied pride. Mello averts his eyes quickly when he sees that, overcome by the red beads sliding over Near's skin. He parts his lips. He reaches out, damning himself and willing himself--don't tremble. His fingers press at Near's; they're almost linked in the way of the beads. And he settles his palm over Near's palm, and he drags his fingers through the spaces between Near's fingers. He takes the rosary.
Mello is uncharitable. He doesn't offer alms. But he commits to dues and bills.] A man is owed his spoils. [His voice is crouched low like a hunter's body.] Regardless of how I feel about being spoiled. [Is he speaking of being rotten, or of being pampered by Near's mercy? This isn't the time for teasing, but he could at least be casting light on it: Near nurses Mello's ego by bruising it. It serves as a reminder that Mello has any pride in the first place.
When he tries to explain this to Near, Mello's intentions are kinder than unkind.] You don't know how much it stings. There isn't a way you could. I'm not saying it to be a hardass, or to size up your cross compared to mine. You just don't... [His brow furrows and he shakes his head quickly--a little too quickly. He sees stars.] A bomb went off. [Now he tries to peer at Near's face. He thinks he sees a glisten there.] When L died, a bomb went off for me. I was writhing, you know? Off-kilter, rocking on my side, scrambling with my limbs 'cause I had to make sure they were still attached. Thought I lost the arm but it was just dislocated. Thought I lost it. The bomb went off. I had to bail. It was different for you, when L died. It was different for me. I thought I'd had a chance. [There's some disbelief bustling through his voice, something fat and anxious, a neurotic hen. Mello does feel chickenshit.] That I'd gained some ground. It stings, you know, to really recognize your place. [Then he bares his teeth. It's an awful expression and one that actually pains him to pull, for the creasing of his burned cheek. He turns his head on his pillow, taking Near out of his line of sight. That injured side of his face is turned up toward the ceiling.
His hand is clutching the rosary to his chest. His knuckles are white and the beads and the chain scrape together with a whine. Mello has to swallow to keep his throat from whining too. He manages.] I understand why you're angry. Do you understand why I'm angry?
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For better or worse, this sermon of Mello's is not something Near has much of an interest in. Mello never seems to listen to anything he says--he said Mello couldn't do anything to change what happened. Mello is trying to explain himself when it just doesn't matter anymore. They haven't set foot in the orphanage in five fucking years. They haven't had to write book reports or put together dioramas depicting current events. Their grades don't matter. Their grades never mattered. Near shifts uncomfortably, maybe thinking of getting up, leaving Mello to his stupid monologue...]
Your place...
[Near wouldn't say he's angry. It takes way too much energy to be angry. Irritated, yes. Frustrated, definitely. Of course he's tired, and he wishes he could simply lie down next to Mello and go to sleep. He's anxious, worried, and relieved. He's overwhelmed and nauseated and the surface of his eyes has a consistency more like gummy worms when he blinks. But he wouldn't say he's angry. He doesn't bother to correct Mello, but he's pretty sure he isn't angry at any of it. There's nothing to be gained from arguing with Mello, for that matter. He said he was going to savor his victory and that's just what he's going to do.
Even so:]
I understand why you're angry, [he says, still brittle, still bitter.] If you're angry with me, that's fine. If you're angry with the world--well, that's between you and the world at large. You can be angry with yourself if you want to be, and I can't say a single thing to change your mind. However... while you're still my captive audience, there is one thing I want to say to you, which I should have said a long time ago.
L never came to a decision. He wouldn't, or he couldn't--maybe he couldn't decide. Maybe he ran out of time. Maybe he thought of himself as invincible, no different from his admirers. But he didn't make a decision prior to his death, and he couldn't have made a decision after it. Therefore... [His knees have never ached as much as they did when he was sitting on the floor of Roger's office. Every so often, he'll wake up in the middle of the night and his knees will hurt like a bitch. A phantom pain.] Your place, you said. [His shoulders lift up, then come back down again, in some semblance of a sulky shrug.] In the eyes of our mentor, neither of us came out ahead. It doesn't matter why. It doesn't matter. L didn't choose me to replace him. The only person who did that... was you, Mello. You made that choice. I didn't make it. You didn't ask me what I wanted--you didn't stop to ask me what I thought. You decided you were unworthy without even asking me what I thought. You just didn't care. And...
You don't know how much that stings.
[Warily, he looks over his shoulder again. His eyes do have too much of a glisten. He's too tired to be angry, and he's too tired to have said all the things he said just now. The strength must have come from somewhere else.]
I'm willing to call us even, in light of that. Are you?