Work Text:
The bell jingled its constant tin melody as an endless cycle of weary customers made their way into the coffee shop. One after the other, they stood in line, staring mindlessly at the menu written in faded yellow chalk above the coffee bar. Only a small minority of two or three genuinely considered their choices; the rest stared at the menu but already knew they would resort to their standard menu. It was easy to pick out those few people who were still deciding, Mello thought, by their indifference to the rest of the line. That there were three or four people ahead of them in line didn’t matter - They didn’t know what they wanted yet, anyway. The restless remainder occupied their time with aimless scowls, wandering gazes, and busy hands.
Then there was Near. Although his name was unknown to Mello, the eccentricity of his character was far too familiar. He fit neither within the contemplative group of people who sat with absent anticipation of the drink they had not yet chosen, nor within the hasty group who considered the moments before they received their morning coffee to be a separate eternity. For five days now, Mello had watched the pale, short unnamed figure enter the shop and weave his way through the line of customers without so much as brushing shoulders. He then would seat himself at a small circular table in the corner of the shop. There, he became the audience of an unstaged show; his focus never wavered from the crowd of customers or from the noisy machinery utilized within the baristas’ dance around each other in the small confines of the coffee bar.
The attention that “the pale creep,” as Mello had dubbed Near to his co-workers, offered the bustle of the afternoon coffee rush was never initially returned. Mello could only make quick note of the other’s presence before irritable curiosity was waved away by the stifled scream and the stream of hot steam from the espresso machine. As long and tedious as the customers seemed to think their short wait was, Mello was confident in his conclusion that the time passed more slowly and dully for him. How the time passed for him and for his customers also differed in how, as they stood motionless, he found himself rushing from machine to machine or hissing in slight pain when he accidentally splashed boiling water on his hand. In these moments, Mello always found himself internally damning whatever ignorant soul had the stupidity to think that cafes were a calm and peaceful place. In these moments, he still found himself smiling pleasantly, nodding graciously, and laughing politely at the piss-poor joke made by the balding man who took three minutes to order a black coffee.
Mello was good at this part of the job; he was good at charming people, at engaging. He was better at this part of the job than he was at making the coffee, but he found both aspects of the job to be equally uninteresting. Customers expected the same thing from him, and consequently there was no variation; there was nothing to spark interest, and there was nothing to spark inspiration. Still, he found himself doing whatever it took to get the job done and to land the check in his bank account.
But then they hit the slow part of the day, when sunlight gleamed just a bit too brightly through the glass of the cafe’s windows and when the environment finally became warm. Although the idleness allowed by the thin trickle of customers would be broken by busy task, Mello found that his mind could wander at this time and plan.
It was always at this point in the day that Mello would remember the pale creep, still sitting alone in the corner and squinting against the glare of the sun. He held no mug or cup in hand, and he made no move to change that.
The first day Mello had ignored him. The second day only warranted an offhanded comment to his coworkers. The third day it became a joke that continued to run its race until now.. The fourth day, Mello had ventured to speak to him.
It had been nearing two o’clock, and Near still had not left. Perhaps Near’s presence would have been something less of an anomaly to Mello and his coworkers if the pale creep had only loitered for an hour or two. Instead, he lingered long enough for the chill of the outside air turn warm as the temperature peaked with the rising sun. While the air turned warm, Mello’s demeanor turned increasingly cold. He found that his tolerance for the nuances of the day deteriorated as time churned on.
Thus, as Mello wiped tables with arguably more force than necessary, his growing irritability commanded him to speak on day four. “Typically seats are reserved paying customers,” he had offered in a pointed tone, tucking a rebellious strand of blond hair behind his ear. Near’s gaze had flickered only briefly towards Mello before he returned his focus to what could abstractly be described as nothing.
“You say typically. In doing so and in allowing me this . . . courtesy for the past several days, you refer to me as an exception,” came the soft spoken correction that lacked the grating burn of willful contradiction despite its pointing out Mello’s err,. Mello straightened, abandoning the damp cleaning cloth on the table. He eyed Near with fresh, indefinite interest. “Regardless, your point is clear and practical. I’ll have a glass of water.”
“Water is free.” Mello’s eyes narrowed. The other man’s expression was blank, unblemished and untouched by expression. It betrayed no sign of arrogance, nor did it hint that he had purposefully chosen the one drink that would not qualify him as a paying customer. Mello briefly entertained the thought that this man was, perhaps, simply trying to save money; the notion was quickly dismissed. The man had entered the cafe four consecutive days wearing what seemed to be the same pair of white and lavish pajama-like clothing. They were always neatly pressed, and they were always bleached white. He looked immaculate; clearly, he had access to the resources to maintain himself. And, Mello decided, even if his assessment were untrue, it would not explain why Near would choose to make vigil in the cafe for several, slow hours.
“Then black coffee will be adequate.” Despite the faint note of dismissal in Near’s tone, Mello remained unmoved a moment longer. Blank though he found Near’s expression to be, he thought to himself that it was not empty. There seemed to be a foundation of steel construction lining and shaping the sharp lines of the man’s almost haggard face. It was intriguing. With this observation in mind, he had finished cleaning the table absently and had left to fulfill the order scowling.
And now it was day five. The afternoon crowd had finally dissipated, and the rotation of duties had turned in such a way that Mello was left with the soulless task of manning the register. It was hollow work especially when no one approached with an order on the tip of their tongue. And so he found himself chasing an unformed mental image with a black ballpoint pen, hoping to translate the image to the thin receipt paper before him. Periodically, he would glance up and stare with reluctant expectancy towards the closed door of the cafe. When do no one entered, his gaze wandered the entirety of the room. In the arm chairs against the left wall of the cafe, there was a hassled looking business woman typing a firm percussive beat against her laptop’s keyboard. Her daughter, who looked to be about seven or eight, squirmed restlessly in the arm chair opposite her mother. A few college students scattered themselves amongst separate tables and passed their time with pens, books, and laptops strewn without order across the table tops. Then there was Near, and although he again did not have any drink before him, his companion did.
He had company. This was new, Mello thought. The pen held between his fingers continued to tangle lines of intersecting black ink as he made study of the man sitting opposite Near. He saw that a cup of coffee sat before the man, but the limited view Mello had of the man only revealed a disheveled appearance with matted dark hair and stooped shoulders. Evidently, he was the one speaking, for Near’s focus seemed leveled on him. Still, the latter’s expression was blank, sheathed in indifference. Mello shook his head and turned his attention downwards; the sketch on the receipt paper no longer resembled the image he had previously captured in his mind. Truthfully, however, he could not really be bothered to recall what exactly his mental image had been. He balled up the paper and threw it the trash.
The bell above the door sang its single note tune, and two customers made their entrance. By the time Mello slid the first order into waiting hands, the man opposite Near had risen to his feet. The stoop of his shoulders was more pronounced when he was standing, and his hands rested within the pockets of faded jeans. The man turned to make his leave, and Mello nearly dropped the second order.
He knew that face. Although the man was notoriously inclined towards anonymity, the networking pipes of online media had leaked and cracked until the press had burst with pictures of his introducing his most recent and arguably his most popular exhibition. L Lawliet, the legendary artist and ghost of the modern age with whom Mello had been striving to get a job, stood in this cafe. Without discretion, Mello stared at the man’s retreating form. He moved without thought as he finally passed the second coffee to the customer. When the door of the cafe had closed behind him, Mello was only drawn out of his knotted thoughts as the customer offered muttered words of thanks. Curtly, he nodded and noted from peripheral vision that Near was still there. He sat with one leg propped on the seat of the chair on which he sat, twirling a lock of hair around his index finger. With the pretense of once again cleaning tables, Mello marched beyond the coffee bar and landed himself behind the table directly opposite Near. He scrubbed fiercely at the unsoiled wood and watched Near through a filter of undefined determination.
Near addressed him calmly,“I won’t be long. If you would like me to purchase something, I’ll have a black coffee, which you can pour down the sink - If you choose to waste your stock Otherwise, I am fine..” The scowl twisting at Mello’s lips only became more pronounced as he scrubbed with more vigor.
“How is it that you know L Lawliet?” escaped the abrupt demand. Mello continued his pointless cleaning endeavor, and met grey eyes with flaming blue. Admittedly, it was not his place to demand anything. He was an employee at a cafe, and Near was . . . Not exactly a paying customer, per say, but the principle was there; Mello chose to ignore it.
Near looked bored by the question. He opted to turn his head towards the window and watch the current of pedestrians flow by his window. He said nothing. Mello waited unmoving for a quiet minute before casting a furtive glance towards the rest of the cafe, towards his coworkers, and towards the front door. When he saw no indication of change from the still cafe, Mello thought to himself that his shift was almost over anyway. This would be his justification to himself why he abandoned the rag on the table and seated himself opposite Near. Arguably, the action was entirely out of line, but Mello had quickly gotten the impression that Near did not have the same need as most people to adhere strictly to the line.
“Perhaps I should be more specific and shed relevance on the question. How is that you have built yourself a strict enough schedule to come haunt my cafe for several hours a day - A strict enough schedule that you can’t postpone it for what? An hour? To go meet with L Lawliet, the acclaimed artist who is known for his preference to not leave his residence or work area for anything less than necessity. Conjecture, maybe, but I don’t think I’m wrong - You absolutely met him here on your grounds, as he wouldn’t just happen to be in the area. Assuming I’m right, then that boils the matter down to two questions: What are you doing here? And what’s your connection to L Lawliet?”
Leaning back in his seat, Mello finished with a kind of flourish in his voice. He was good at charming people, engaging them, and he was good at reading them. One needed the latter skill for the former, and practicing both was a source of pride for Mello. Thus, he flaunted it as a reminder to those in his company that he was worthwhile, that he was hard to beat.
Near’s eyes had wandered back towards Mello and had fastened upon him with acute attention. Though the foggy grey of his irises seemed to be veiled by a shadow of indifference, they were sharp. During the time Mello maintained firm eye contact with Near, he got the lasting impression that he was being assessed. The way that Near studied him was all-encompassing, like the way a strategician looked upon a chessboard and calculated all the possible outcomes of what came next. Finally, grey flickered down towards the name tag pinned onto his shirt.
“Mello,” he read. His tone was light, and something of a smirk hinted at his lips. “Applicant for the apprenticeship with L Lawliet. Real name, Mihael Keehl. Preferred name . . . Mello. A coincidence we should meet here - And nothing more. I will repeat, I won’t be long. If you require me to purchase a coffee . . . “ Although Near trailed off, he left no room for response. Mello narrowed his eyes, leaning forward once more in his seat. It was clever, undeniably, the redirecting of information. It was enough to offer remote answers to the questions he had asked, and it was enough to remind him with carefully crafted discretion that, without making a personal statement, Mello did not hold the cards of power. Near was simply a customer, and Mello was intruding.
Even so, Near had offered him half an answer.
“So you work with him? For him?” Mello pushed forward after a pause. If Near had seen his application and his profile, then that much was obvious. Near only blinked, unperturbed; Mello folded his hands atop the table. “The answer to that question is bound to be ‘sort of,’ I know.” His spoken conclusion could only be a fraction of the truth, and he knew it; although it answered a question, it provided no explanation. Near remained silent. Tense as the static silence made Mello, he still felt certain in his interpretation of the silence to not be a dismissal. Rather, he felt as though the other deemed his statement too obvious to dignify a response.
In Mello’s opinion, that was more annoying than blatant dismissal.
“I’m sure you’ll understand my meaning when I say that we don’t allow loitering,” Mello began, voice low with frustration. Whatever Near was here for, he had already been here five days; he had already brought Lawliet here, for whatever reason.
“And I’m sure you’ll understand my meaning when I say that you would not be wrong to assume that my influence over your job application is not insignificant,” Near answered without hesitation. His tone remained leveled and unchanged. A silver lock of hair looped itself around a pale index finger once more.
Thus, Near had met his check with a checkmate. A surge of unarticulated, indistinguishable emotion surged through Mello’s vens and quickened his pulse. It drove him to stand and to speak with burning eyes and through gritted teeth. “Can I get a name for your black coffee?”
Near paused in his actions, lock of hair falling loose from his finger. White clad arms folded over the top of his knee, as his leg was still tucked atop the chair.
Mello gestured to the still cafe. “As you can see, we’re very busy today. In order to ensure you get the best service possible, we ask your name to ensure you get the drink that you ordered.” The cafe’s activity was still clearly sluggish.
A prolonged pause bridged the gap between Mello’s formal demand and the given, simple response from him who had no reason to lie: “Near.”
It was a petty move, Mello had conceded to himself after dumping Near’s cold cup of coffee which had sat, untouched until Near’s departure. That it was a petty move was something he would continue to concede to himself when he found himself sitting before his aging laptop, browser open and cursor blinking mercilessly after his typed search term: “L Lawliet” and “Near.”
Mello didn’t regret his pettiness when results highlighted in blue appeared by the thousands. Most described L Lawliet: critiques of his art, upcoming exhibitions, pictures, museums, inspirations. Thus, most were useless to him. But there were a few - Three or four articles, scattered in later pages of the search - That described a few works by a student and colleague of Lawliet’s who signed his name Near. The article stated that Near’s real name was unknown and unspoken.
And so, again, Near had provided half an answer to Mello’s question. Mello had leaned back in his chair with dulled gaze and a tight jaw. No matter how much Mello chose to look at it, he bore the undeniable understanding that Near had knowingly and discreetly offered him this information. Near was entirely in control of a situation that was entirely circumstantial. It had been born of his own indignation, and it hadn’t been necessary.
But he was in the game now.
Day six, and it was his day off. Day six, and he was in the cafe regardless. The tin bell sang its unwanted fanfare as Mello entered the cafe and directed an absent wave towards his coworkers. He moved towards the table in the corner that he knew would be occupied.
“You set up a trail of breadcrumbs.” No response. “Near, you arrogant bastard -” He began again. This was enough to gain a subtle flicker of colorless attention; this was enough to warrant the smug interjection, “ Mello is loitering.”
Mello knew what Near was going to say before he said it, and his nostrils flared with frustration. Near had immediately picked up on his not wearing his work uniform, it seemed. Opening his mouth to protest, Mello found himself again interrupted as Near continued, “Perhaps he should order himself a black coffee?.”
A deep frown bittered his expression, and he began again “Near, you arrogant bastard.” Again, he was cut off.
“Mello also has an interesting way of trying to get a job,” Near commented. For six days, Near dawdled in the cafe. Only three of those days had they spoken, and every time they had spoken Near’s voice held that same unwavering note of apathy. There was nothing in his manner that hinted at amusement or childishness that Mello somehow knew to be there.
Mello pursed his lips into a tight line. “And you have a peculiar way of conducting an interview. I find it unlikely that you would penalize me for an eccentricity.”
“Is this an interview?” A sidelong glance hinted at something like disappointment that this was Mello’s conclusion.
That was reason enough for the defensive lilt in Mello’s voice as he snapped back justification for his conclusion, “I don’t believe in coincidence.”
When Near’s immediate answer was silence, Mello thought with some bitterness that the exchange seemed to be following a pattern disadvantageous to him. Yet, passing seconds would finally draw a slow, “I see,” from Near. There was more to be said, and Near had opted out. Even with a concrete answer, Near was giving Mello silence.
Frustration welled within him. A forced, deep breath brought calm to him once more, but his stance was still lined with the metal edge of competition, unfounded though it might be. “Fine, then. You’re not here for an interview, despite the unlikeliness of it all. Why has fucking fate brought you to my doorstep then?” Mello spoke with furrowed brow, and Near looked upon him with a disconnected intensity, as though he were trying to commit something to memory.
“Convenience of location, subconscious recognition of the cafe’s name from your resume - “ Near listed vaguely, looking now toward the crowd of customers bustling into the shop for what seemed to be a second morning rush. “You are eager to eliminate the simplest explanations. They arguably act as a synonym for coincidence.”
“You haven’t been coming to a cafe for the sake of buying a damn drink,” Mello threw back immediately. “You’ve just been - Shit.” His train of thought and his speech terminated simultaneously. Teeth ground against one another and into the soft inside of his cheek as the realization came to him too slow for his liking. He should have seen it earlier, faster. It wasn’t such a convoluted answer that it was hidden from obvious observation. “You’re here for your own art.”
Although Near merely blinked at him, the slight straightening of sloped shoulders spoke of heightened attention. Mello’s spoken conclusion was not one that Near had tried to divert or avoid, and yet hearing it spoken was enough to make the latter weary. Maintaining the control he wanted over his objectivity was best achieved when he restricted his association with his work to his studio. Consequently, it was with deceptive soft tones that Near answered with definity, “I do not discuss my work in public settings.”
Mello arched a skeptical brow towards him. “Why not?” was the obvious question running through his mind, but it stayed locked behind closed lips. He was determined to limit and dismiss any curiosity he might have about Near’s work, Near’s work ethic, or Near himself. He had initiated this conversation so that he wouldn’t be forced to leave his two questions unanswered, and so that he might push for a positive outcome for his job application.
That Near knew this was certain when he spoke again, “However, should Mello wish finish to this conversation and persuade me to encourage L to consider his application more seriously - Mello is welcome to visit my workplace.”
Regardless of how Mello had scoffed and had arched his brow even higher at the mere suggestion, he did visit Near’s workplace, which he gathered also acted as Near’s apartment. He resented the fact, but the fact remained so. Thus he stood with crossed arms in the middle of an open, undecorated room. Sunlight cascaded on white walls and coaxed them to brightness. Furniture, drawers and cabinets and tables lined the walls of the room; the center was left open and free of clutter. Yet, the impression that the room left was not one of cleanliness or order. Each piece of furniture matched another; they were parts of a set, and they seem preselected, as though the owner had waved a hand towards the furniture salesman and requested that the latter just pick something convenient. As a result, none of the furniture spoke of personality. It was simple, but it did not embody simplicity. On the contrary, Mello rather got the impression that the owner simultaneously was careless and had not spared any expenses.
It was unnerving, but indicative. Mello frowned at his surroundings with unearned displeasure until Near made his first appearance in the room. Despite Mello’s having been in the room for an odd fifteen minutes, he had not yet seen the other. When he had buzzed the room Near had directed him to, a broken and electronic version of Near’s voice had instructed him to enter and wait. This, too, Mello had resented - More so, when the wait came to be as long as it was.
Near entered without apology and with a cardboard box in hand. He looked, Mello noticed, much the same here as he did within the cafe: Uncombed hair, white clothes. The only differences were in the casualness of the fabric of his clothing and in the smears of black dust that coated his clothing.
“You do charcoal?” was the immediate blurted question. Mello shook his head chastised himself for it as soon as the question fell from his lips. The answer was, after all, obvious. He charged forward before Near could think much of it. “I have something to offer as an artist. You know I have something to offer, or else you wouldn’t have allowed me to visit your studio.”
Near hummed an empty response that stated clearly that Mello’s statement was pure conjecture. Frustration brought Mello a step closer, and he began again. “It’s true. You know it is. For a position like this one, there are hundreds of applicants. You remembered my name. My work or my resume must have stood out. They have good reason to do so.”
Here Near broke in. “I don’t suppose you’d like to make some coffee -” It was a mild joke administered to himself. Mello merely blinked; the joke was a poor one, and Near didn’t even drink the coffee at the cafe. “You make the same mistake. You are eager to eliminate the simple explanation: I have good memory. I recognized your name from your application. It is, after all, a rather uncommon name.” Two quick steps brought Mello forth again. Near inspected him for a minute before conceding, “But you are correct in assuming that you are not unqualified. However, you are not selling me on the idea of offering you the position.”
With fists clenched, Mello took pause to take a deep breath for the sake of steadying himself. Near sat upon the ground with crossed feet and looked up at him. “What I would like to know is your perspective on fate.” Despite the childish gesture, there was a sobriety about his features that again spoke of a character shielded with steel.
Mello’s eyebrow shot up. The question was unexpected, and it was ultimately bizarre. Without pausing to ponder the question further, he retorted: “What I would like to know is what you’re doing at the cafe. Specifically, that is. I already got the base.”
The box with which Near had entered, as it turned out, was a collection of blank puzzle pieces. Laying the lid of the box carefully aside, Near began methodically to put the pieces together. This was a process Mello watched with dim interest until it became apparent to him that Near was in no immediate rush. He gave an undirected roll of the eyes before repeating the question as a statement: “Do I believe in fate? I - “
He broke off almost as soon as he started. It was only now that he truly pondered the strangeness of the question. Why would Near possibly want to know his theological, existential perspective? His lip twisted in displeasure before he shook his head to himself. Nimble fingers fluttered regardless towards the rosary draped around his chest. “No. Although God has a will…” He trailed off. Blue eyes drifted towards a white corner of the room. Absently, he noted to himself that the corner appeared to lack dust entirely. “I can’t believe that people are stuck .”
“You did say that he did not believe in coincidences.”
“Is that what this is about? Believing in coincidence or not?”
“For the first time, you have noted the simplest explanation and utilized it as a possible answer. Unfortunately, you are incorrect,” observed Near. There was no distinguishable change in his expression, in his voice. Even so, Mello thought that he could detect some faint note of amusement about him.
“And you take things too literally, smartass,” Mello scoffed. Grating though he had found Near’s comment, he found that it was merely a nuance, a fly buzzing before his face as he trained his focus on something greater. “I only meant that whatever got your interest on my perspective of fate stemmed from that one comment - And obvious though you might think that to be, it’s still valid as fuck.”
Near tilted his head to the side: A clear concession to Mello’s statement. The action was enough to ease some of the tension from his shoulders, to bring a more relaxed curve to his spine. The shift was not one he could justify with ease, so he chose not to. Thus, he proceeded with a prompt tone, “Your turn. And don’t skimp out.”
First a concession, now complicency. Near returned to his puzzle as he spoke. “Perspective is, as you know, essential to a piece. I don’t speak about my work in public because refraining from doing so allows me to better remove my own perspective from my work. My days have been spent people-watching, gathering alternate perspectives; it will be the beginning of an upcoming collection.”
Mello’s stance relaxed further. Near’s response was enough; it was satisfactory. Mello had entered weary, and he was sure to leave weary. It was his nature, but the lack of combativeness from the other was, for now, relieving. The meaning of Near’s response, however, was less than satisfactory. With furrowed brow, Mello demanded, “You want my perspective on fate for a piece?”
Near shrugged. One knee kissed the ground as Mello bent, bringing himself level with the other, who seemed unphased by the matter entirely. “It was a coincidence that you proved to be an interesting character.”
He blinked once. He blinked twice and leaned back onto his heels, watching pale fingers click puzzle pieces into place. It was a strange thing for him to say. Not overly so, but it was strange. A new contemplative peacefulness settled about him even as he raised the pointed statement “Fuck objectivity. It doesn’t make art great.”
“With that mindset, how do you plan on learning from L?” Although Near’s head was tilted down towards the puzzle, one might see the slight of a smile curving at his lips. He paused and added mildly, almost teasingly, “If Mello should get the job.”
“L’s work is anything but objective. The colors in the works are thrilling, the sensation and talent of it all - He reveals humanity’s worst while pointing out things people had never felt the need to notice on their own.” Mello’s defense was heated, rooted in genuine belief. He had made careful study of L Lawliet’s work throughout the years. He thought himself qualified to make this argument, but Near interrupted.
“His approach is objectivity. He himself does not need to be color to paint color. Nor do I. Your approach is quite different from both mine and L’s.” The statement automatically released the common, self-questioning thoughts Mello so often kept at bay: Is that a good thing or a bad thing? “But you offered me your perspective of coincidence, and I will take your offered color to make my paint.”
“You sound far too much like a poet right now,” Mello threw back with a distracted dryness hinting at his tone. One more puzzle piece found its place before Near looked up and reached over to twist a lock of Mello’s golden hair around a finger. “The combination of gold and reds in your skin and hair and the contrasting blue - You have offered me a palette to form the ambiguous question of being trapped by God’s golden vision or striving towards it. You have offered me a perspective of such while embodying the daily reality of working commonplace work in the meantime.”
Mello froze and caught silence on his tongue. As much as he wanted to fruitlessly argue that “commonplace” was hardly a word applicable, he couldn’t. It was not a solid argument, and his focus was misplaced. Near was still turning a strand of Mello’s hair in a gentle loop around his finger, and his thoughts snagged upon the descriptions with which Near had endowed him. They were flattering, in their own way. His lips tightened into a narrow line before he asserted, “I’m not buying it. You can’t see other people’s perspectives with objectivity.”
“Can you articulate it fairly otherwise?”
“Can you make a piece powerful otherwise?”
Near looked up. His finger ceased its rotations for a moment but did not fall away. When his steady grey eyes met Mello’s gaze, the latter almost surprised by the clouded earnesty he saw within them. “It’s not about the power. It’s about the portrayal of a truth.”
And there was the difference, painted in colors whose difference lay in their contrasting saturations. Mello looked facts within sensation; Near looked different facets of reality, cut like a diamond by individual minds.
The bold clarity of the difference brewed undue frustration, abstract in shape and directed at nothing. It triggered impulse and commanded his action without thought and without hesitation.
There were those that dryly declared that impulse would be Mello’s downfall. Loss of rationality, those people would argue, was the reason he was not where he wanted to be. Yet, he felt And here impulse took him. He leaned forward, and with quick fingers he seized the thin white fabric and tugged just enough . He did not spare himself the time to note the slight furrow of Near’s brow before pressing his lips against the other’s. In no words was it an ideal kiss - Perhaps it was a bit too dry, a bit too sudden. There was no buildup. Even so, all the imperfections were overwhelmed by the ultimate notion that it had happened and it was irreversible. When he pulled away, Near opened his mouth to speak. And somehow he knew, he knew that Near was going to try to apply reason to it.
But there was something about Near’s eyes, stunned and half-lidded and agreeable, that caused raw emotion surge through him once more. Near’s hand tentatively, almost unconsciously, fell from Mello’s hair to rest against his cheek instead. Impulse took Mello a second time, and his lips again met the other’s once more before words could overtake him.
No tension gripped Near’s body. Mello could feel that - His hands were still clenched in Near’s shirt, and he could feel the looseness at his shoulders. And so he carried onwards, and he found himself taking advantage of the fact that Near had not yet closed his mouth. His tongue dipped into the cavern of Near’s mouth, stroked the other’s tongue - He ignored the slight clash of teeth, ignored the fact that he could tell that Near’s eyes were still open.
But then he saw salvation - the light that gave him justification for having kissed Near not once, but twice. Near had leaned in. Perhaps not consciously, but he had leaned in just as Mello had been about to pull away.
That Near had reacted was a small victory he saw through tunnelvision. It didn’t matter how Near had reacted before, but there was no justification to this beyond there being no reason against it. Except, of course, the possibility of botching the job application process.
But Mello didn’t mind. He had no qualms dirtying his hands just a bit, and truly - fuck objectivity.
It was all very unconventional. Thus, as he broke apart with lips unconsciously turned upwards in a slight smile, he commented as he had done once before: “You have a peculiar way of conducting an interview.”