Chapter Text
Mello’s eyes open blearily to white walls. It’s quiet the way that a padded room is quiet, and the silence is unbearable. He’s in an almost-empty cell, with a bed and hardly anything else. He can feel the cold dig of metal into his wrists- he’s been handcuffed. The familiar stiffness of leather is missing against his skin, replaced with soft cotton, with even his rosary gone, and for a brief moment he’s a little kid again, suffering another punishment within the Wammy’s house gates.
Something awful inside of him rears up and shudders against the walls of his head– to jerk hard against the restraints, to let hot tears stream down the sides of his face, and yell:
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it! It’s just– He– Near–
I swear I’ll do better, I’ll have better control.
I hate him, I HATE HIM!
Just let me try again, let me prove myself.
Rodger… Anyone….
I promise I’ll fix it. I can, I know I can.
I’ll do anything you want. I can be better!
Just let me out.
Fuck that. Mello’s not twelve anymore, and Wammy’s is far behind him now. He grits his teeth, feels the bitter dry state of his mouth, and forces himself to take a breath. He gently wraps that part of himself into a tiny ball, pictures holding it in the center of his palm, and crushes it into goddamn dust. He buries it into the deepest, darkest corner he can find in himself. Good fucking riddance.
He sits up, as casually as he can with his arms chained together, and wrenches his mind into focus by force, to assess where he is, and how he got there. At second glance, this looks nothing like Wammy’s– it’s more like a converted cubicle, someone’s windowless office converted into a specialized cell. The walls are a painted cinderblock. The lock on the door, the clothes, and the cuffs aren’t designed to hold him necessarily– it’s an easily picked, normal twist knob and police-issue restraints, department store black pajamas. It’s just meant to discourage him, to slow him down, so that his captor has enough time to outthink him if he tries to run. There’s a camera above the door, endlessly watching with a mechanical glare.
His memory comes back to him in flashes– Halle, Matt, and the plan to kidnap Takada.
The smoke, the motorcycle, the sirens. Driving into the delivery truck… and right into the police’s hands. Fucking Halle must have given Near something, unintentional or not. Mello is seething. It was his last chance, this plan.
He lets the rage burn through him before looking at the situation again. It’s obvious that he’s not in the Japanese police’s prison. First, he knows what those cells look like, and second, if the NPA had him, he’d be dead, not handcuffed. If Near is right, and the second L really is Kira, then a typical arrest is the perfect opportunity for Kira to kill him. Unfortunately for Mello, Near is rarely wrong.
Given Linder’s likely role in it, and the fact that he’s still actually breathing, it doesn't take a genius to realize that Mello must be in the headquarters of the SPK. Unable to flip it off, Mello sticks his tongue out at the camera, saying “Fuck you, Near,” nice and slow, so even his dumbest henchmen could record it.
Mello knows when the game is in check. He has to get Near to listen, if he still wants to win this shit.
The response is almost instant– somewhere, an overhead speaker crackles to life. Near’s voice, a clear monotone without the use of his typical audio scramblers, pours out of the intercom like cold liquor on a wound.
“That was a stupid thing you did, Mello.”
Mello doesn't catch the thing that surges up against his skin this time– his body acts on anger and adrenaline, and he throws himself bodily at the sound, snarling aloud. Of course, he’s still handcuffed on the bed, and the resulting stumble and flop fills him with red-hot humiliation, rather than sweet satisfaction.
Near is continuing on without giving the lackluster threat another thought, the bastard. His voice hasn’t changed, but Mello knows he’s laughing at him. “When I said I was going to see you at the finish line, I had no intention of doing so with your corpse. Or Matt’s, for that matter.”
With an icy stab in his chest, Mello realizes that he has no idea what happened to Matt– he’d been meaning to follow the news of the car chase from the truck, but of course, that was interrupted. Matt could easily handle himself, of course. Mello wouldn’t justify using him for this plan if he didn’t think Matt could get out of it, but– well, Mello had been caught, right? So what if he thought wrong, and…
“Where is he? What happened to Matt?”
Near hesitates before continuing on– the pause alone is devastating enough. Near is almost always sure of things, unless he’s lying, and Mello can tell when he’s lying. “He’s alive for now.”
Mello feels fucking 15 again, standing at the foot of Rodger’s desk as he announces the death of L. He can’t believe this, but at the same time, he easily can. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Another pause and Mello can picture how Near is taking the time to mess around with some stupid toy before he responds. “He’s in surgery at the moment, he’s been shot. Takada’s bodyguards were heavily armed– but Linder was able to interrupt the shootout. She brought him to a hospital, under a false name. The crude mortality rate of multiple gunshot wounds with critical trauma care is 18.84%.”
To someone else, those could sound like great odds. A 19% chance of loss. Mello knows that Near knows better. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry,” Near says quietly, into the microphone and Mello hates that it sounds completely genuine, that Near has never apologized for anything before, and probably never will again. The words are so wrong from Near’s pale mouth, and they echo around in Mellos’ skull.
“Let me out of here,” Mello demands, pressing this one point of sympathy that he’ll never have again. “Let me go to him.” He lets his voice quaver and crack. He’s desperate, alright? He’ll cry if Near wants to see it, if it gets him another shot.
Infuriatingly, Near ignores him. “After you pulled your little stunt, it was too late to go through with my original plan. I managed to convince those at the scene that you had been killed during the arrest and was on a call with the second L, but last night Kiyomi Takada spontaneously self-immolated in her cell.”
“Kira,” Mello says aloud what Near is implying. Another perfect lead, burned and dead. He ignores how the thought of burning alive makes him itch across all his scars.
“Yes. I was able to produce something interesting from having the X-Kira, Kira’s follower who has been killing in his stead, followed. So I thank you, for that, Mello.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” Mello growls.
“You’ll be monitored for now, so simply say if you need anything.” There’s a small rustling, presumably Near reaching over to turn off the intercom. “If you get yourself killed, I’ll never forgive you,” Near says, and then shuts the communications off.
Mello has never asked Near to forgive him, not honestly. When they were kids, teachers made him yet down on his knees in front of him to repair any physical damage he'd done, locked him in quiet corners to “for the safety of himself and other children” but no amount of saying ‘sorry’ through gritted teeth made Mello into number 1. He didn't regret it then. He's pretty sure he doesn't now.
Near had forgiven him, though. Not that Mello cared, but Near would always forgive him. For every insult and childish blow. For running away, for joining the mafia. Mello killed, in cold, glorious blood, almost all of Near's team. He put a gun to his head and ran away again. That's not even to scratch the worst things Mello has done.
I’ll never forgive you.
Mello doesn’t have his rosary, but he takes a minute to have words with God. Near is not the place Mello goes to seek forgiveness.