i don't exactly know what i mean by that, but i mean it.

[precisely]

Congratulations.

[Near, unbelievably, doesn't grimace when he says it. He doesn't sigh or frown. He doesn't look like he's bitten into a very sour lemon that's covered in mud. He might not be willing to look up at Mello, yes, obviously, but he's busy looking down at his hands and the hair that he's winding around his fingers. These days, he can more or less play a game of cat's cradle with himself. He has to find new avenues of amusement when he's confined to a bed.]

Lidner said... [Now he hazards half of a glance at Mello. He regrets it, if only because Mello has the look of someone worth a million--no, a billion--no, it has to be a trillion dollars, right? That's the approximate amount of money Mello just prevented in damages to the European Union.] She told me you made quick work of it. [Near was coughing up blood when Mello first sunk his teeth into this case. He's doing better now, even though everything still hurts and he still isn't interested in climbing out from under the covers. That's why Mello had to come down to his sickroom, presumably to let him know about the good news. It's definitely good news. For L, it's downright fantastic news. For Near, it's the first case he's ever fucked up to such a catastrophic degree. If Mello hadn't turned up when he did, no worse for wear, then Near wouldn't have been able to close out this case on his own. L's impeccable record would have amounted to a bucket of piss.

Near's eyes are feeling all gross and sticky. He rubs at one, blurring away his glimpse of Mello.]

A full day before the deadline I had imposed, even.

Comments

[996b]

[A full day. Feels like a nick above the wire, to be frank. Mello is no stranger to the wire, no stranger to the nicks, and he's heard remarks before--not least from his own cringing ego--about pressure and its courtship with his very best. This isn't weird for him. This kind of timeline, his own success drawn out under threat... This is how he functions.

But it feels like shit today. Sub-par, lukewarm, stopping short of greatness. Mello is known for working miracles like some black market prophet. L is known for having his shit together. A full day. Coming from Near, it isn't wry, and Mello tells himself it isn't wry, but he tells himself, too, that it is. The ugliest parts of him, the stuff inside that suits his scar tissue, tells him that it's wry and disappointed.

He shuts the door to Near's room with the flat of his foot. It's a sweep and a click, not a slam, too solemn for a temper or for celebration. He says,] I did what I could with what I had. [Yeah, there it is at last, now founded: wry and disappointed. From Mello to Mello. He's a prophet all over again, in self-fulfilling foresight. When he came back to Near, he did it because he thought he was past all this crap by now. Then again, he didn't intend to struggle so bad with working in Near's limelight. He intended for...

Well, to be better.

The glass dish barely clinks when Mello sets it at Near's bedside table. He does it that softly.]

Roger was a daft old bat and only ever said one good thing to me. He said, "Be mindful of what you're given before you lament what you don't have." Well, at the time, it made me angry, but...

[The glass dish is a deep sweep of a bowl held up by a thick stem. It might serve as an ice cream dish, most days. Right now it's full of chocolate pudding, plus chocolate shavings, and chocolate squares, too, just for good measure.]

Even I can be humbled, [he concedes.] I went in set on emulating all your sailor's knots; ended up forgetting how to tie my own shoelaces.

[But then he shrugs. He's dropping himself into the chair just beside Near's bed. He sticks a spoon, no ceremony, into the pudding, and its silver gleams. So does his fresh black nail polish. So does his little bracelet, its charm dangling like it always does. He's a gleam overall, isn't he, even if he's sullen. If he made Near wait an hour before coming to see him, that hour was spent making himself gleam.

He turns the dish in a half circle, and the spoon sticks out toward Near.] Eat that, [Mello tells him.] You're looking better today, and we're supposed to be pleased with ourselves.

[precisely]

[Near drops his hand back down, and then he makes more of an effort to sit up in bed. His lower back protests against that, and so do his elbows, and pretty much every single inflamed joint in his body--but it's worth it to better greet the man who's bothering to visit him. No matter how many times he goes over the facts, he still doesn't understand why Mello decided to come back to him. He sighs, giving up on it for now. His head lolls against the big pillow behind him (Mello fluffed it for him), and he doesn't look away from Mello now that he's had himself a look. He stares intently. It's natural for him to stare. It's natural for him to observe, to catalog, to analyze what he's seeing in front of him. His eyes are still that dark blue-grey, still bloodshot; he still isn't sleeping enough. He stares that much harder as he listens to what Mello is saying...

A sore winner, then. That's all right. Near is something of a sore winner, too.]

Mello, you went above and beyond anything I could have asked of you.

[He can do whatever he wants. That's what Near said when both Rester and Lidner opposed this idea of Mello having free rein of the control room. If Mello wanted to work his magic on the case, then he was allowed to work his magic. He was allowed to peruse any and all records. He was allowed to familiarize himself with L's resources, contacts, directives. And, according to Lidner, Mello did just that. He compressed a lifetime's worth of effort, including trial and error, into a surprising few days, perfectly emulating the L that came before him. Near can understand that much about Mello's efforts, of course. This keen desire to carry on with and honor the memory of their fallen mentor. Near wants L to be seamless, without flaws--more of a concept than an actual person--justice personified, in other words. But Mello went the extra mile all on his own. That's how it always is with him.

Case in point: this bowl of chocolate pudding, with its chocolate shavings and chocolate squares. Near is accustomed to one-dollar Snack Packs from Target, the cheapest of the cheap, nothing special. The pudding he's looking at now probably came from a five-star patisserie on the upper east side of New York that charges an arm and a leg for a dollop of the stuff. It does look good, though. Sumptuous and satisfying. It looks like victory even when neither of them is feeling the rhythm of celebration.

Near licks at the corner of his lips, and then he reaches for the silver spoon. He scoops up some pudding, plus one of those chocolate squares... and he holds it up higher, peering into it. He holds it out. He's holding out the whole spoon to Mello with the insistence of a toddler wanting to feed their favorite teddy at teatime.]

So, if that's how it is... then all of this belongs to you. You're the hero of the hour, after all. Come here.

[He wouldn't be smiling like this--softly, even peacefully--if he didn't mean every word of it.]

[996b]

[Near's compliments weren't a rarity, when they were little children. Mello is the one who robbed himself of them. Near paid him many things, and often: attention, affection, and respect. He paid like his pockets were deep. Then he was better than everyone--or maybe he had been all along, and Mello only realized it too late--and what he paid Mello felt like charity. His praise was the dole. And Mello chose his pride over a full belly.

This isn't the soup kitchen. Mello isn't scavenging for coal on the side of the road. When Near calls him above and beyond, it's a shared hearth, a laden spoon. It's the spoon held out toward him... And the instinct, grown over time, is to cringe away from it and from the words. From the stare, its sleepless predawn color, and the ache of winning. Fifteen years ago, Mello would have told Near to fuck off with his frilly taunts, dressed up as applause. Mello would have told Near to fuck off with his spoon and peaceful beauty. Fifteen years ago--then ten--five years ago, he would have done the same. He couldn't come back here until he was ready to stop robbing himself.

So he's here. So he's ready for a fortune. He isn't cringing. In fact, he's reaching out. His eyes are as outspoken as cornflower blue, and he doesn't lower them from Near's. He cups Near's hand with his own. He isn't pushing, or pulling, or taking the spoon. Near holds the spoon, and Mello holds Near's hand, and together they feed him, the hero of the hour.

Mello's hand is warm. He's not immune to a victory flush, even when he's sore about it. His teeth touch the bowl of the spoon. It's just as gentle and present as Near's smile.

That all only lasts a second. It's just a mouthful, nothing broader. Mello leans back into the chair, then. His knees are far apart. His body language is quite insistent, no less than Near, before his words have a chance to be.] We're sharing it. [He's taking up space. He's not leaving any room.] You're beating back the fever. Let's not cheapen my victory by neglecting the one matching its stride.

[precisely]

[It's been a long time since they last held hands. It must have been in autumn. The weather was neither too nor too cold, and there was a nice, neutral breeze, thankfully. Pollen counts were low. The sky was kind of overcast, indecisive about rain. Near was getting ready for one of his rare excursions into the orphanage's backyard, and Mello held his hand to make sure he wouldn't lose his footing. Back then, Mello's hand was ludicrously huge compared to his own. It was an engulfment. Hot, broad, a little too tight, a little too intense. Tanned, tough, roughened by calluses, totally unlike Near's unfired ceramic. It's obvious that Mello is trying to be more careful with him today. Their hands aren't so mismatched, at least when it comes to the size. They're fitting together. Sharing, like Mello said. Near doesn't know what's going on with his mouth, with his face, but it can't be anything good between the heat and the prickle. It's almost too much to watch Mello lean in and accept the mouthful of pudding, his victory made complete. It's definitely too much to have Mello's blue eyes on him the entire time, the furthest thing from muddy and overcast. If Mello would just start gloating about his victory, like a lion over a fresh kill, that would be so much easier to deal with. That would be well-deserved. Near wouldn't have to learn all these new contours and colors.

Their hands move apart, and Mello sits back, breaking the spell woven between them. He claims the seat without saying he's intending to claim it. Near's hand, meanwhile, stays hovering in the air, hesitant, uncertain, an embarrassment he doesn't want to deal with. It takes him a second or two to remember what he's doing and to bring it back down. He gathers some pudding for himself. He takes it into his mouth. It's good, very good, even though it's unexpectedly heavy on his tongue. It tastes very good. Better than one of those one-dollar Snack Packs from Target. Rich chocolate coats the back of his throat, making him swallow a few times, making him notice his throat is tighter than it was a minute ago. God damn it. He wishes it could blame it on anaphylactic shock.]

Mm, but credit where credit is due. I'm not the only one who's responsible for my miraculous recovery.

[Doctors. Medicine. Mello himself. He's out of practice when it comes to Mello's unmalicious attention. The more Mello looks upon him, appraising him, the more Near wants to hide behind the veil of his own hair. Mello doesn't have to be here, and he doesn't have to be doing this. He doesn't have to hold Near's hand to make sure he doesn't lose his footing.

Near scoops up more of the treat, but he doesn't offer it or eat it just yet.] Mello... [He has a voice like a pile of dry spices, all this potential here in one place.] I'm wondering... did you enjoy yourself? [he asks, at last. His gaze is tired and unsteady, but it never quite leaves Mello's face. The question is just vague enough that Mello, a clever man, should know an escape route when he's given one. He can talk about the fancy pudding. He can talk about where he's been for the past several years. Or he can answer the question that Near is actually asking him:

How did it feel to be L? And does he want to keep doing it?]