[It used to be funny for Mello to hear this tone of voice. It's got to be contempt, right? Near, rolling his eyes; Near, annoyed with any bullshit in his presence. In the orphanage, a kid might say a thing and Near would pull this shitty little face that said everything it needed to. He'd tilt his head in Mello's direction, even if he didn't look at Mello's face, and make some thin remark. And it was so funny to listen to that soft slip of a boy be irritated with idiots.
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.
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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?