Chapter Text
November 5th is, first and foremost, the day Mello leaves the orphanage. Less than that, it’s the day the news of L’s defeat reaches them.
The minders move Matt up into second place in the ranks without batting an eye. He doesn’t seem to struggle with the position as much as his predecessor did. Not that Near can read Matt particularly well. He’s all calm smiles and playful laughter and, for a Wammy’s child, is quite normal. Not like Mello, who is fire and passion written all over him. Near is sure they understand Mello quite thoroughly.
It’s an act of respect for their apparent competitor, then, when Near sneaks into Mello’s empty room before the minders clean it out for the next child the House “takes in”, so to speak.
If they had expected it to be tidied at all, they would be surprised. And if they were a more sentimental person, they would liken the room to a frozen moment in Mello’s mind. The duvet has been stuffed underneath the bedframe and, judging by the bare mattress, it appears Mello had taken the sheets with him when he left. The desk is cluttered, unfinished projects and open books covering it and flowing haphazardly into the space around it. Ink has been spilled. The shelves have mostly been stripped bare, but a few things still remain; empty chocolate bar wrappers, a few old books and stolen objects, and, eliciting a soft gasp from Near, Mello’s image.
They’ve always known that Mello was impulsive, but what a mistake for him to have left his photo behind, where it would not be safe from Kira. The slightly younger Mello grins recklessly at Near as they slip him into their sleeve for safekeeping. This is a logical decision; Their toybox and bed could well be stolen from without their knowledge, but if ever they’re robbed, they will simply shred the photo into pieces or, if necessary, swallow it.
Near drags the discarded blanket out into a more spacious part of the floor and, that evening and the three after it, curls deep into the fabric with their toys. The first and second times, they inhale his scent with each breath, but by the third it begins to wear off, and by the fourth, it has been replaced with their own.
By the fifth, the place has been emptied out, turned into yet another blank slate. Near returns to their room without looking back (out of sight, out of mind, so they say), and spends the rest of the night constructing a match tower taller than them themself, fingers never faltering.
But they still sleep with Mello’s photo tucked away in their sleeve, and still check for it the moment they wake.