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At Wammy’s house, lights out was a consistent factor that came about at precisely 2200 hours. By then, the children had eaten dinner, bathed, were given an hour in the common areas, and adequate time for homework.
Mello never went to sleep just because the lights went out. His room was always bright. The curtains stayed open and the moon hung heavy and vibrant outside his window, casting everything in a gloomy glow. He could tip his head back to look outside, picking out constellations based on the season and the weather.
All these years later, and his body still seems stuck on that schedule: awake at six a.m. Lying down at ten, but unable to fall asleep until well past midnight or sometimes two or three o’clock. He’ll blame it on memories that keep him awake, on regrets and failings and the fact that his brain does not want to shut off. He remembers the cold nights where his bedroom door would creak open, and he never had to lift his head to know that Near was padding barefoot to his bed, pushing aside the blankets and inching beneath. He remembers the warmth of the other’s small body, tucking itself up against him until only a few messy strands of pale hair peeked out from beneath the covers.
Near never said anything. Mello never asked.
In retrospect, perhaps they were more human in those moments than they’ve ever been, Mello thinks. One child plagued by insomnia, another with nightmares who craved the closeness of another. Mello would be a liar if he said those are moments he does not miss: moments wherein Near seemed just as human as he did.
The SPK headquarters is guarded well even this time of night. Mello parks his bike around back, jacket hood pulled up to cover his face from any prying security cameras. Inside, the front desk guard rises immediately to his feet, hand hovering over the gun at his belt. “Can I help you?” he asks in a tone that suggests he really doesn’t give a damn about helping at all. No one ought to be coming through this way.
Mello doesn’t grace him with an answer, just tips his head back to peer at a camera overhead. No matter the state of their rivalry, Near would never deny him an audience. He isn’t sure why he knows this, he just does.
Half a second later, the front desk phone rings. The guard glances at it once, twice, and slowly reaches out to answer it.
“Sir?” A pregnant pause, then he’s saying, “Yes, sir. I’ll let him in,” and placing the handset back in its cradle.
This time, he doesn’t need a hostage to be granted access into the building. He meanders through the halls he’s been only once before, remembering where to go, and when he arrives at Near’s control room, the only one there is Near himself. Whether this is because everyone is gone for the night or because Near sent them away in lieu of Mello showing up, he doesn’t know. Frankly, doesn’t care.
Near is surrounded by action figures of varying sizes and a small-scale of a city for them to play in. He doesn’t look up immediately, leaving Mello to stand in the doorway feeling oddly nostalgic for the moonlit nights back at Wammy’s, because in this dark room, the security monitors offer a similar depressing glow.
“Hello, Mello,” he greets without looking up.
Mello grunts once in reply. It occurs to him he has no honest idea why he’s here, other than that he couldn’t sleep, that Matt was out cold and his company wasn’t what Mello was itching for, anyway.
So he doesn’t try to explain. Rather, he pulls off his jacket and moves to the only clear spot on the floor beside Near. He sits with his back to the younger successor, balls his jacket up, and lies down, using it as a pillow. The quiet sounds of Near’s figurines clanking against one another and being scooted around the floor stop abruptly, and it’s with some satisfaction that Mello supposes he’s surprised Near, at least a little.
The silence reigns long enough that Mello begins to drift off. At least until he realizes Near is leaning over him, peering into his face, and tension slithers down his spine and makes him crack open an eye.
“What?”
“I was looking at your scars,” Near says mildly. Not condescending or mocking, merely a simple statement.
Still, Mello replies with a cursory, “Fuck off.”
“Do they hurt?”
“I’m about to hurt you.”
Near lifts a hand, and his fingers are cool and soft against Mello’s scarred cheek. He closes his eyes briefly, wishing the room was fully enshrouded in darkness so he doesn’t have to look at Near. So Near can’t look at him.
“You couldn’t sleep,” he murmurs. Mello doesn’t respond. Near adds, “Me, neither.”
Then Mello feels him shoving aside his toys like unimportant garbage in favor of curling himself up against Mello’s back, bigger than he used to be but still so much smaller in comparison. He twists his fingers into Mello’s shirt, presses his face against Mello’s shoulder, and goes still while Mello is aware of every point of contact between their bodies and does not know what to do with the overwhelming sense of melancholy weighing on his chest.
But Near will sleep, and the sound of his breathing—yes, Mello remembers now—is what lulls him to sleep eventually, too. In the morning, they’ll wake up together and they’ll part ways, still rivals, still not friends.
Mello won’t say anything, and Near will not ask.