Chapter Text
This was the first time Near could recall that he wished to be ignorant about something.
He did not believe in love at first sight, but why did his heart lurch out of his chest when he first saw you? After all, you were just another person in the crowd. Why had you stood out to him, and only him? There was obviously the place where you sat, the bright colours nearby, and his general nature to avoid the mainstream that could have contributed to him noticing you, but none of that accounted for how he felt at that moment. It was not the instinctive bad feeling that one gets when they meet someone sketchy. Nor was it a feeling of particular happiness? It was just… overwhelming, and he hated that he had absolutely no idea how to deal with it. There was never anything that happened that he didn’t know how to deal with. It haunted him, scared him even, that his own emotions now fell into that category. And he tried to ignore how much it piqued his curiosity.
It worked — many months went by without you crossing his mind, not a single time. He actually got more work done than usual, which was saying something.
But then you appeared again — in security camera footage, of all places — and that, of all things, sent him into a spiral of retreat.
He couldn’t articulate the situation quite yet, though. He wasn’t even about to bare his emotions to himself, anyone at Wammy’s, forget the SPK (when they were still around), or anyone else for that matter. When you spend your entire existence developing strategies to hide how you feel from everyone around you, no matter how observant they may be, then maybe that is what you get — a sudden bubble up of panic when everything comes crashing down, and that is the first crack in your façade.
There was no way he was going to open up to anyone about this. He did, however, at least want to be able to explain it to himself, outside of simple, obvious terms. He wanted to hold himself accountable. After this case wrapped up, he told himself, he would dive into this subject. He told himself (or tried to) that the pursuit of knowledge — curiosity — was the only reason he was digging into articles about psychology, hormones, attraction, personality types, attachment styles… at hours well into the night when sleep probably would have been a smarter option.
It was obviously not the only reason. And he didn’t need anyone to point that out to him, either.
He was not used to this. He did not want to be used to this. He hated not being able to know what exactly was going on with him. He hated not knowing what to do with the situation, with himself. His natural instinct was to hide from it, but eventually that instinct was cancelled out by the draw of wanting to know more, more, and even more still. And the obsession with knowledge was what finally did him in.
—
You set your 3rd book of the month down, having just finished it. The receipt you were using as your bookmark had the letters circled in all caps which read YOUR FEEDBACK MATTERS. You were glad this bookstore was democratic, at least. If not horribly overpriced.
You were sitting in the café that just so happened to be partnered with this bookstore, conveniently. At least they knew their market. And their market was you, almost painfully to a T. So much so, in fact, that this was your routine now — you’d come to the bookstore every week on Friday after work, pick up a new book from somewhere within, and then sit down with a coffee or tea and crack it open. Should you have gone to the library to save money? Yes. Did you? Of course not. And so, a routine was born.
It worked — without fail, every week you’d managed to finish the book and return with a thirst for more blocks of text, telling you stories or facts about the world. You’d developed an affinity for sinking into your own world while in a quiet corner of a bustling café. Yes, ok that sounds extremely cliché, but this was your comfort place now, like it or not. It was not perfect — the noise made it hard to concentrate, and the chairs were not ideal for sitting cross-legged on — but it was what you built a routine off of, none the less.
You came here so often, in fact, that the employee’s knew you by name. Some of the other regulars even knew you by name. You were pretty sure the druggies outside on the corner knew you by name, too.
Some people would call that a problem. You would also call it a problem. But, luckily, your ability to find excuses as to why reading is so good for you cancelled out most of the shame. It could be anything from “it helps me relax”, to “it helps me learn more”, or “it inspires me”, or even “it offers a retreat”. More often than not though, it was just your inability to put something away until you were finished with it.
This particular day came, though, when you peeked up from behind your pages and, for once, your eyes didn’t go straight back down. Instead, they made direct contact with someone else’s. The feeling made your cheeks warm, both from the flattery that someone was staring at you and from the fact that you hated eye contact.
You looked away. But the person stuck with you. He was definitely a figure that stood out. Definitely not one you’d expect at a local café. At least, not if he was getting coffee; what would happen if he spilled it on his pristine white clothes?
You found it hard to focus on your book with such an interesting character in real life, right in front of you. Although, it seemed as though he was actively trying to blend in and shrink away, and his movements were calculated, if not a bit slouchy. When you looked back up, he had moved forward in the line, and was fidgeting with his hair, which was also an astonishingly crisp white. You wondered if he was albino? You wondered if that was offensive to wonder.
He didn’t glance at you again.
You took a sip of your coffee, and since you didn’t want to draw too much attention to yourself with staring, you kept reading.