[Uncharitably, Mello clucks his tongue. Uncharitably, as if he's been at all charitable before now. Look; you must understand; you must take him as he is. And Mello is a thorn in the side of the world, and a lance in the side of those who would wrong him. And Mello isn't charitable. He has never been a generous man, never one to offer alms to the folks on the dole. In other words, he isn't a saint and hasn't tried to posture himself as one. He does not intend to take up the cloth or the habit now, even for--even for--the crackle and skip of Near's voice, like an old vinyl.
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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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?