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A little past midnight, Mello slips quietly from the confines of his own sleeping bag and into Near’s. The younger boy stirs, lashes fluttering in the cool moonlight that filters through a tear in the tent. When his eyes first open, his gaze is bleary, unfocused, but it doesn’t take long for him to blink himself better.
“Don’t be scared,” Mello whispers. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I didn’t think you were going to hurt me,” Near whispers back, apparently nonplussed. “Why are you in my sleeping bag? Did something happen to yours?”
Mello considers this excuse. It’s a good one, actually, and one he probably should have thought of himself. The reason he’d originally planned to supply for this proximity was related to the low temperature, and Near’s frail health. After a few seconds of lightning-quick thinking, he decides he ultimately prefers his original rationale, and stays the course.
“No. Your teeth were chattering,” he lies. “I came here to make sure you didn’t freeze and die in your sleep like an idiot.”
“Oh,” says Near. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Mello says nobly. “You know, it would probably be easier to keep you warm if you were a little closer.” He gestures to the twenty-centimeter space between them, a product of Near’s smallness and the preposterous size of the Wammy’s-issue sleeping bags. At Near’s hesitant expression, he adds: “Unless you want to catch hypothermia.”
“Using the word catch implies the presence of a contagion,” Near says, “which is not accurate to the mechanism for the occurrence of hypothermia.”
“Shut up,” Mello snaps. “I should’ve let you freeze.”
Near wordlessly wriggles closer and tucks himself gingerly against Mello’s side. When Mello wraps him in an embrace, Near’s nose presses to the skin of his neck. It’s chilly.
“Jesus,” Mello hisses. “You really are cold.”
“A little,” says Near, voice muffled by Mello’s shirt.
“I can’t sleep like this.” Mello pulls back. “Stay still.”
Without further warning or hesitation, he brings his lips to Near’s nose. He kisses the tip of it, then the bridge— then the tip again, three times in a row. Near makes a tiny squeaking sound but does not move.
Mello’s heart starts to beat harder, faster. He moves his mouth to Near’s cheek.
Twenty kisses are delivered to the right side of Near’s face; twenty-five are delivered to the left, which was colder to start with. After that, Mello moves to his forehead, which isn’t too bad, and his chin, which is worse. Finally, Mello kisses each of his eyelids, and then lingers very close to Near, their faces only inches apart.
Time stretches strangely in the space between them. Only a few feet away, countless of their classmates are tucked into their own tents, but Mello feels as if the two of them are alone on another planet.
“Is your mouth cold?” He finally asks, voice barely audible over the sound of the wind outside.
Near’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. He’s not meeting Mello’s gaze.
“Yes,” he says, “very.”
“That’s not good,” Mello says inanely. “We should fix that.”
The gap between them closes almost instantaneously. He can’t even tell who moved first.
Near’s mouth is not that cold, actually; it’s a pretty normal temperature. He clings close, rubbing his lips against Mello’s in a clumsy, inexpert way that feels kind of nice. They’re both breathing a little loud. The tent suddenly seems very small, but pleasantly so. It’s cozy.
This is Mello’s first time kissing on the lips. He knows for a fact that it’s Near’s, too. It feels right to him. It doesn’t make sense for either of them to bother with other people.
He cups Near’s face with both hands and tries to angle their heads differently. Their noses bump; then their teeth do. Mello’s brow furrows in concentration as he lines up their mouths very carefully, pursing his lips before pressing them to Near’s.
It’s better like that. He tries a few more times, varying the pressure and face position slightly with each iteration. Near trembles, not from the cold.
“Open your mouth,” Mello says. He knows from overheard, giggly gossip that some of the other kids kiss with tongue and like it. He’s seen it in movies a few times. It looked complicated, but he and Near are both very smart, and a lot of really stupid people seem to figure out kissing just fine. He has faith in them.
Near complies dutifully. Mello tries licking his teeth. They don’t taste very different from Mello’s own. He touches his tongue to Near’s, and finds it slippery and strange. Next, he puts their open mouths together and shoves his tongue against the roof of Near’s mouth. The sensation isn’t anything special, but Near makes a high, whiny sound at the back of his throat that Mello likes a lot. He lifts his lashes ever-so-slightly to peer through them and finds that Near’s eyes are fully open.
“What’s wrong with you?” Mello jerks back to demand.
Near, mouth still slack for a second, blinks, then frowns. “My mouth is cold. Remember?”
“No,” says Mello. “Your eyes. They were open.”
More blinking. “Yes?”
“That’s weird.”
“Ah.” Near’s hand, which at some point migrated to Mello’s hair instead of his own, toys with a blonde strand in the periphery of Mello’s vision. “My apologies. I like looking at you, and wished to continue to do so while you— um. Warmed up my mouth.”
Mello’s face goes hot. “Well, quit it.”
Near nods. “I will.” He leans closer, tilting his head, and very deliberately squeezes his eyes shut.
“Not like that,” Mello says. “Now you look stupid.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” says Near, a little whiny. His face is still scrunched-up. It looks ridiculous. Mello’s stomach flips with a warm, fond feeling. It’s similar to how he imagines being stabbed would feel.
Seized with a slight madness and a desperate desire to dispel the unpleasant sensation, Mello rolls onto Near and squashes him into the ground, crushing their mouths together violently. He clutches at Near’s hair, bites his bottom lip. The flippy feeling turns into something frantic and frenzied. It’s marginally more tolerable, this way.
Underneath him, Near hums happily. He weaves his fingers into Mello’s hair and opens his mouth.
With his chin resting on the crown of Near’s head, nose tickled by errant white hairs, Mello pets the skin of Near’s back, just underneath the hem of his shirt. Near’s breaths are deep and even; he might be asleep.
Mello should go back to his own sleeping bag. In the morning, he might pretend like none of this ever happened. Imagining that makes him feel nauseous, for some reason, but trying to imagine acknowledging it makes him feel even worse.
This was a bad idea. He should’ve known he’d get carried away. It’s going to be so much harder, now, to keep some distance from Near once they’re back at Wammy’s. Harder to go back to the world they actually live in, and not the tiny planet they briefly escaped to.
Overhead, the stars are turning; the minutes are ticking away, one by one. He’s powerless to stop it.
Without thinking, he tightens his grasp on the younger boy, burying his nose in Near’s hair.
He shifts in Mello’s arms, sighing. Mello stiffens.
“Are you awake?”
“Yes,” Near says drowsily.
“Go to sleep, then.”
Near hums. “I will.” He muffles a yawn in Mello’s shirt, breath warm and humid through the fabric. “You know… I get cold at night quite often. Even— even indoors, sometimes.”
An unease rises in Mello, briefly freezing his diaphragm. “Yeah? So?”
The fingers of Near’s hand, which have been clutching at the front of Mello’s shirt, smooth over the fabric. Near pushes his palm against Mello’s heart.
“Would you ever help me again? If I was cold?”
Quickly, Mello takes Near’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his chest. He pushes Near back, like a fraction of distance will somehow save him.
“No,” he says, sounding panicked even to his own ears. “Tell Roger to buy you a heater.”
Near looks up at him, forlorn. His eyes shine pitifully in the limited light. Mello’s heart clenches, but he bites the side of his tongue. Tries to maintain his resolve.
“I see,” says Near. “That’s… disappointing.”
He doesn’t sound disappointed. When Near is disappointed, it’s basically undetectable, and this is… not.
“Why?” Mello asks, sick-sad and hideously hopeful all at once. “It’s— come on, it’s not like you like me.”
Near frowns. “Don’t be obtuse, Mello. It doesn’t suit you.”
Mello’s breath catches in his throat. “What do you mean?”
“I think you’re perfectly aware that I like you,” Near says, a little bitter. Blood rushes in Mello’s ears. “Though I am perfectly aware the sentiment is—”
Mello kisses him, hard, to shut him up. His heart is beating like a fucking hammer. He feels reckless and wild and full of possibility, like he could eat the world raw. The shift from meek despair to this is dizzying, and leaves him feeling almost drunk. Near makes a sweet, broken noise and throws his arms around Mello’s neck.
Just as abruptly as he started kissing Near, Mello stops. His chest heaves as he stares down at the other boy. His rival— his equal, his better. Near is the only person in the world who matters at all besides L.
Mello’s got nothing to be scared of.
“Roger’s a cheap bastard,” he says, touching his forehead to Near’s. “You’ll probably have to rely on me.”
A small smile graces Near’s face, then grows into a grin. Despite himself, Mello laughs. They both do.
“Okay,” Near says, and kisses the corner of Mello’s mouth. “I’ll count on you.”
Outside their tent, the wind howls all night. They sleep well and stay warm.