the world had taken a deep breath and was having doubts about continuing to revolve.

[facticity]

[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.]

Comments

[facticity]

[Near doesn't bother to hide the blinking and rolling of his eyes, or just how irritated the demand makes him feel. For all his promises to take Mello's pain away, Mello is determined to go right back to feeling it. There's no point in telling him that it will hurt like a son of a bitch as soon as this latest round of morphine wears off. Nearly 30% of Mello's body suffered grievous burns, not to mention the broken ribs, the concussion, the bruises, and the one badly sprained ankle. Near sighs to himself. With effort, he plants both of his feet on the ground and then pushes himself upright. He shuffles with an awkward gait over to the stand for the IV bag--specifically, the rectangular device the tubes are fed through, which regulates the amount of morphine in the mix. Mello is the strongest person he's ever known, the most strong-willed and startling, but even his diamantine mind is going to have trouble with the fresh agony of debridement.

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.

[996b]

[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.

At once, he realizes what's missing.]

Where are my beads?

[facticity]

[So stupid, Near thinks. So fucking stupid. Frankly, he isn't used to hearing Mello say so many stupid things in succession, without stopping, relentless about it. He doesn't know what to do with a Mello who's being an unrepentant dumbass. Everything Mello tries to say just reinforces the wisdom of Near's decision to haul him in. There was no better option available than dragging Mello out of the innards of his own butchered plans. If Near hadn't intervened, it's entirely likely that Mello would be dying of sepsis in some beat-up car he hijacked en route to New York. His blood would be on fire, he'd be delirious with fever... He could have died. He could have died and he could have left Near alone in doing so.

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.

[996b]

[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?

[facticity]

[Near doesn't know what to do with a Mello who's being an unrepentant dumbass. He also doesn't know what to do with a Mello who's touching his hand. It's the kind of thing he didn't think was possible any longer--and he doesn't know what the hell to do with it. He can't remember the last time they touched each other, whether purposeful or incidental. It must have been something mundane: tucked away in the library, offering a pencil sharpener to Mello, and their fingers brushing by accident. Something meaningless at the time. Something not worth a second thought. It isn't until their hands touch again that he understands how badly he wants Mello to touch him. And as they pull apart, he nearly--very nearly--they're so close to each other--no more than a twitch of his fingertips--reaches out to stop Mello from getting away. Like when they were kids, he's too much of a pussy to go for it. He's too afraid of what havoc that would unleash. He brings his empty hand back to himself, looking down at it, almost not recognizing it; somehow, it has been changed. He sniffles quietly, and that's all. He sighs to himself, and then he uses the cuff of his sleeve to wipe at his damp face.

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?