Archive of Our Own

Summer had not quite surrendered yet.

Summer had begun packing its bags, certainly; the evenings arrived earlier now, shadows stretched farther across the brick walkways, and here and there the first impatient leaves had started paling toward yellow at their edges, but the warmth remained stubbornly lodged in the air, soft and forgiving, one of those late-season evenings that felt precious precisely because everybody knew there could not be many of them left. 

October waited just beyond the turn of the calendar with brisk little winds and cold fingers, ready to tug at collars and remind students on their way out the door, Don’t forget your sweater, but tonight nobody needed reminding. Tonight sleeves remained rolled up, jackets stayed draped over backpacks instead of shoulders, and the September breeze moved through the university courtyard with the languid gentleness of something in no hurry whatsoever to leave. It was a lovely night, after all. The sky was so clear that the moon had arrived early and hung pale above the campus like a coin forgotten in dark blue silk.

Mello and Near sat side by side on the broad stone steps outside the main academic building, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed whenever one shifted, neither acknowledging the contact because they had known each other too long for every incidental touch to require ceremony. 

Near sat with one knee drawn loosely toward his chest, phone balanced in one pale hand, white curls stirring faintly whenever the breeze reached them; Mello sprawled more openly beside him, one boot planted on the step below, blond hair catching warm gold from the lamps beginning to illuminate along the walkway. 

Around them, college life continued in loose, noisy little constellations. A group of freshmen drifted past discussing some philosophy course with the feverish enthusiasm of people who had not yet received their first midterm. Two women near the fountain were dissecting somebody named Sarah and whether Sarah was actually going to call one of them back. Somewhere behind them a boy groaned loudly about statistics homework. A pair of freshmen passed carrying iced coffees too large for any human hand.

The sounds crossed and braided through the evening, cheerful, ordinary, alive.

Mello and Near had absolutely no interest in joining any of it.

They had been sitting there for nearly twenty minutes without saying much at all, each scrolling through his phone in the comfortable silence peculiar to people who had already spent so many years together that companionship no longer required proof. Near did not ask whether Mello was bored. Mello did not ask why Near had chosen an article about municipal infrastructure for casual reading. They simply existed beside one another, breathing the same warm air while the campus moved around them. Mello found, to his annoyance, that he liked these stretches of silence best. Near did not demand anything from them. He did not fill the air merely because the air existed. He simply stayed.

Mello liked this more than he would ever voluntarily admit.

His phone buzzed.

He glanced down.

Matt.

Mello opened the message.

His eyebrows rose.

Then he immediately angled the screen toward his thigh.

Of fucking course.

Mello checked the time in the corner.

8:07 p.m.

“Christ,” he muttered.

Near’s grey eyes shifted sideways.

Mello pretended not to notice.

Matt had apparently decided eight in the evening was an entirely reasonable time to begin sending increasingly suggestive messages, and the one currently glowing on Mello’s screen contained an observation about Mello’s mouth that was neither subtle nor remotely suitable for public consumption.

The man was insatiable.

Did he not have homework?

A hobby?

A single wholesome impulse rattling around inside his skull?

Mello closed the conversation.

Matt could wait.

He entertained that ridiculous little situationship because it was easy, because Matt was attractive, because sex was sex, because sometimes uncomplicated physical attention was considerably preferable to sitting around thinking about the person Mello actually wanted and all the reasons that particular want was useless.

Mello’s eyes shifted toward Near before he could stop them.

Near remained absorbed in his phone.

Of course.

Near, who could spend twenty minutes sitting close enough for their knees to touch and apparently experience nothing whatsoever except the pleasant satisfaction of reading an article about water treatment.

Mello looked away.

Exactly.

Why bother?

There was nothing wrong with Matt. Matt knew what their arrangement was and Mello knew what it was, and neither had ever attempted to dress it in prettier clothing. It meant next to nothing.

Which was, in some ways, precisely why Mello allowed it to continue.

The things that meant something were infinitely more dangerous.

His phone buzzed again.

Boop.

Mello closed his eyes.

Near looked over.

Mello checked the notification.

Matt
Attachment: 1

He did not need to open it.  There were mysteries worthy of investigation. This was not one of them.

Mello immediately turned his phone farther toward himself.

Near’s gaze followed the movement.

Mello felt it without looking.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was not a ‘nothing’ look.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Near. I did not realize there were standardized facial expressions for ‘nothing’.”

Mello turned his head.

Near’s face was perfectly serene.

Too serene.

“You were looking at my phone.”

“I was looking in your direction.”

“Your eyes were looking at my phone.”

“My phone was no longer interesting.”

“That sounds like a personal problem.”

Near leaned slightly closer.

Mello angled the screen away.

Near leaned farther.

Mello’s eyebrows rose.

“Near.”

“Yes?”

“Back the fuck up.”

“I have not moved very far.”

“Your head is practically on my shoulder.”

Near looked down toward the concealed screen. “What are you looking at?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

That tiny curve appeared at the corner of Near’s mouth.

Mello immediately disliked it.

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

Near looked at the way Mello was shielding the phone with both his hand and half his thigh.

“Your behavior suggests otherwise.”

“My behavior suggests I want you to mind your business.”

“If there is nothing to hide,” Near said, in the measured voice of someone presenting the obvious solution to a very simple problem, “then there should be no difficulty showing me.”

Mello stared at him.

Near stared back.

“You’re such an unbearable little shit.”

“That still does not answer the question.”

“You know what? Maybe I’m looking at tax documents.”

“You do not conceal tax documents by blushing.”

“I’m not blushing.”

“You are.”

“Fuck off.”

Near moved.

Fast.

His hand shot across Mello’s lap and plucked the phone directly from his grip.

“Near!”

Near twisted away immediately, laughing as Mello lunged after him, and for several absurd seconds both of them became a tangle of elbows, knees, curses, and expensive electronics on the university steps. Near held Mello’s phone away at full extension, pale curls shaking as he tried to open Matt’s message while Mello hooked an arm around his waist and nearly dragged him sideways.

“You nosy bastard!”

“I am simply collecting the evidence.”

“You’re about to be collecting a fucking concussion in a minute!”

Near got the message open. Mello’s entire face caught fire.

“Give me that!”

Near managed perhaps half a second of reading before Mello snatched the phone back and clutched it against his chest.

Near’s expression had become dangerously amused.

“Interesting.”

“Finish that sentence.”

Near smiled.

“I did not say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You cannot punish hypothetical speech.”

“I absolutely can. And will.”

Near’s smile widened. Mello glared at him.

Then his gaze dropped.

Near’s own phone was still sitting loosely in one hand.

A thought appeared. A beautiful thought. An absolutely, positively awful thought appeared. 

Mello smiled.

Near saw it.

His smile disappeared.

“No.”

Mello grabbed Near’s phone.

“Mello.”

“Oh?”

“Give it back.”

Mello stood, holding the device safely beyond Near’s immediate reach.

Near stood too.

“Mello.”

“What happened to having nothing to hide?”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“It was your phone.”

Mello’s grin turned feral. “Oh, I see.”

Near took one cautious step toward him.

Mello stepped backward.

“Please return it.” Near said, holding out his hand. 

Mello lifted the phone higher.

Then, reproducing Near’s own maddening cadence with insulting precision, he said, “‘If you have nothing to hide, then there should be no difficulty showing me.’”

Near narrowed his eyes.

Mello bolted away.

“Hey! Mello!”

His laughter escaped before he had even reached the bottom of the steps.

He launched himself across the courtyard with Near’s phone clutched securely in one hand, slipping between two startled students and narrowly skirting a bicycle rack, blond hair thrown backward by the sudden rush of air. Behind him came the slap of Near’s shoes against pavement and another furious shout of his name, already farther away than it should have been.

His laughter broke loose before he had even reached the bottom of the steps.

He shot across the courtyard with Near’s phone clenched tightly in one hand, dodging around two students and narrowly avoiding a skateboard abandoned beside a bench.

Behind him came the sound of Near pursuing.

That alone nearly made Mello laugh harder.

Near was brilliant.

Near could dismantle almost any argument Mello made if given enough time.

Near had spent most of their lives beating him by infuriating microscopic margins on examinations.

But Near could not fucking run.

Mello could.

God, Mello could.

He tore across campus, boots striking concrete in a fast, exhilarating rhythm, the September air streaming through his blond hair and rushing cold over his cheeks. His lungs opened beautifully. His pulse rose. Every muscle seemed to remember itself at once.

There.

That feeling.

Mello loved it.

Movement had always done something to him that thinking could not. The world became simple when he ran. His body knew where to go before doubt could get involved. A bench became an obstacle to vault, a crowd became a pattern to thread, a stairway became something to take three steps at a time.

“Mello!”

Near sounded considerably farther away now.

Mello looked over his shoulder.

A mistake.

Near was running after him with all the determination of a man whose physical fitness routine appeared to consist primarily of walking between buildings. His white curls were flying wildly around his face, his cheeks had already gone pink, and his expression was caught somewhere between fury and desperation.

Mello’s heart did something stupid.

Cute.

Fuck.

Near looked cute running.

Ridiculous, but cute.

Especially with those curls blown back and that little determined crease between his brows.

Mello faced forward immediately.

No.

Absolutely not.

He had spent years trying to bury that particular category of thought, and he was not excavating it tonight.

Near did not see him that way.

Near had never seen him that way.

Near saw grades.

Competition.

An irritating lifelong rival who occasionally sat beside him on pleasant September evenings because habit had become friendship somewhere along the way.

That was all. Right?

Mello had learned not to ask the world for things it had never offered.

Mello ran harder.

The wind rushed at his heels, and Mello allowed himself to disappear into the physical joy of it, fast and capable and alive, racing across the campus like a dart thrown into the September night. For a little while, nothing existed except his breathing, his pulse, the darkening sky, the sound of his own laughter, and Near somewhere behind him refusing to stop. 

For several bright seconds he felt seventeen again, or twelve, or any age at which Near had still been someone to chase rather than someone Mello had quietly decided was impossible to reach.

Mello cut sharply around the science building, took the last three stairs in a single leap, nearly collided with a pair of students coming down the opposite way, shouted an unapologetic “Sorry!” over one shoulder and kept going, without slowing, then swung hard around the building’s corner.

Near disappeared behind him.

Mello ducked into the blind space beside a stone column and pressed his back against the cool wall and waited.

Near ran past.

Mello clamped a hand over his mouth.

Several seconds later, somewhere beyond the corner, Near’s exhausted voice said:

“Goddammit. He must have gone the other way.” 

Then, Near turned and ran the complete other direction. 

Mello nearly folded over laughing.

Victory.

Pure, exquisite victory.

Finally.

He looked down at Near’s phone. The screen remained unlocked.

Mello’s smile returned.

“All right, genius,” he whispered. “Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

Messages first.

Mello gleefully clicked into it. 

A professor.

A group project for an AP Science Class Near barely responded to. 

Matt.

Mello himself.

Some automated university message.

A pharmacy reminder.

Nothing remotely scandalous.

Mello opened them, then frowned at the lackluster messages. That was it? “Wow,” Mello whispered. “Someone’s popular.” He snickered.

Near was probably circling the building by now.

Mello had limited time.

“Come on. Give me something.”

The apps were equally disappointing.

Weather.

Calendar.

Banking.

Notes.

Several puzzle games.

A second page containing even more puzzle games.

An app that identified plants from photographs.

Mello stared. “Of course. Nerd.”

He kept looking.

No dating apps.

No strange porn.

Not even an embarrassing OnlyFans subscription Mello could weaponize for the next five years.

Nothing.

“Seriously?”

Ugh. Near was probably doubling back by now, and Mello’s basically stole his phone for nothing. Ever the determined type, Mello pressed on, clicking through Near’s phone.  Then he spotted Photos.

His grin returned.

“Oh, here we fucking go.”

He opened the gallery.

Homework.

Mello rolled his eyes.

Another piece of homework.

A photograph of a whiteboard.

A photograph of the sunset taken through what looked like Near’s apartment window.

Another sunset. Another sunset. Another sunset. 

Oh, a sunrise this time.  How diverse of him.

A detergent bottle.

Mello paused. “You buy that every week.”

Swipe.

A particular brand of soap.

“You buy this every week too. Even I know this.”

Swipe.

A grocery shelf.

Apparently Near had photographed the exact box of tea he liked.

“You would think muscle memory would eventually become involved.” Mello rolled his eyes. 

Swipe.

A puzzle half assembled.

Swipe.

A rather chubby bunny.

Mello paused. “Okay. That one’s kind of cute.”

Swipe.

Homework.

Homework.

Sunset.

Swipe.

Then Mello stopped.

His own face stared back at him. 

“No way.”

He brought the phone closer.

It was one of his Snapchats.

An old one.

Mello remembered sending it without even remembering when. He had chocolate wedged obnoxiously between his teeth and his middle finger held toward the camera, captioned:

what are u doing 2nite dumbass

Mello stared.

Then laughed softly.

“He saved that one?”

Swipe.

Another.

Mello squinting into brutal sunlight, hair blown everywhere, expression furious, an obvious sunburn dashing across his face. 

gotta love summer. however. wont stop me from sneaking into the neighbors pool 2mrw

Swipe.

Mello standing in front of a mirror wearing a new leather jacket.

tell me this dosen’t fuck

Swipe.

A terrible close-up of his mouth after getting his lip pierced.

hurts like a motherfucker 10/10

Mello snorted.

“Oh, come on, Near. I look like shit.”

Swipe.

Matt asleep in the passenger seat of his own car, mouth open, Mello’s amused face occupying half the frame.

look at this fucking idiot

Swipe.

Mello in dark, uneven eyeliner, flashing a proud smirk as he showed off his complicated sideshave.

u could never look this good near xx. Do cry.

Swipe.

Mello holding up an exam.

A large red 97 at the top.

Near had gotten a 95.

Mello was smiling so widely in the photograph that the expression almost looked foreign on him.

I FUCKING WON

Mello’s thumb stopped.

He remembered that day.

He remembered sending it specifically to Near.

He remembered Near replying:

Congratulations. Enjoy the statistical anomaly.

Mello had responded with seven middle-finger emojis and one gun emoji.

Still, Near had saved the photograph.

Mello’s smile faltered.

Swipe.

A winter photograph.

Mello half buried inside a scarf, cheeks pink with cold, snow collecting in his hair.

next time i see you, im gonna shove snow down ur shirt near. youve been warned. better run while you still can

Saved.

Swipe.

Mello drunk at 1:14 in the morning, shirtless, apparently upside down on Matt’s sofa, hair absolutely wild. 

nier u sukkkk

Mello groaned. “No.”

Saved.

Swipe.

Another.

Swipe.

Another.

Swipe.

Another.

His smile slowly disappeared.

There were too many.

Not hundreds.

Not some bizarre obsessive catalogue.

Something worse.

Something gentler.

Enough to mean something.

Mello had sent these photographs without thought because that was what Snapchat was for. Disposable nonsense. Little sparks tossed casually into somebody else’s evening and expected to vanish almost as quickly as they appeared. 

A face.

A joke.

A middle finger.

A bad hair day.

A victory.

A complaint.

A moment.

Gone.

Except Near had pressed save.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Mello stood very still.

The night breeze moved around the corner and lifted the ends of his hair.

He swiped farther back.

Months.

A year.

Two.

More.

The older Mello became younger beneath his thumb.

Different jackets.

Different hairstyles.

Same bright blue eyes.

Same irreverent mouth.

Same absurd habit of sending Near a photograph whenever something irritated, entertained, or pleased him. 

Same Near quietly deciding:

I’ll keep this.

Mello swallowed. “What the fuck?”

There was no accusation in it anymore, no mockery. 

His chest had begun to hurt in a peculiar, expanding way.

He looked at one photograph of himself holding a melted chocolate bar beneath a hotel air conditioner during some summer trip years ago, laughing so hard that the photo had blurred slightly.

A terrible blurry picture sent during a late-night walk, Mello’s face barely visible beneath a streetlamp. 

Mello with Near in sixth grade, taking a selfie with him, sticking out his tongue and holding up two fingers behind Near’s head, while Near smiled softly, looking at something off in the distance, not even looking at the camera. 

Why save that?

Why that one?

Why any of them?

Mello had spent years assuming his messages irritated Near.

Had he been wrong?

He had spent years thinking his messages were tolerated.

Sometimes enjoyed, perhaps.

Mostly endured.

He had never imagined Near sitting alone afterward and choosing that some tiny ridiculous fragments of Mello should not be allowed to disappear.

Mello’s fingers began trembling.

Was it possible?

No.

Was it?

Was the thing Mello had spent years forcing downward, burying beneath rivalry and sarcasm and Matt and every other useful distraction, not actually his alone?

He thought of all the times he had thrown these scraps of himself toward Near without considering where they landed.

Apparently they had landed somewhere, all these little moments that Mello himself had not thought important enough to remember.

Apparently Near had kept them. Near had thought them to be important. 

Mello’s thumb trembled slightly.

Could this…

No.

Could Near possibly…

Mello accidentally swiped upward.

The app switcher appeared.

Photos.

Notes.

Browser.

Voice Memos.

Mello stared. He should stop. That thought arrived with unusual clarity. He had already looked farther than he should have. Near was coming. He had won the joke.

Enough.

Mello tapped Voice Memos.

“Just one,” he whispered.

The list opened.

Most recordings were ordinary.

History lecture

Reminder

Book thoughts

Grocery list

Then:

Mello attempt

Mello’s heart seemed to stumble.

Below it:

Mello attempt 2

Try again

Try again

Sigh

Mello

Winter Formal

Mello stopped breathing.

“No fucking way.”

Mello stared at the little waveform on the screen for perhaps half a second longer than he should have.

He knew he was running out of time. Near had not vanished into another dimension merely because Mello had managed to outrun him; eventually those furious little footsteps would circle back around the building, and when they did, Mello was going to have to surrender the phone or prepare himself for whatever inventive form of retaliation Near considered proportionate to felony-level snooping. He should have stopped. He had already found more than enough ammunition in the camera roll, although, inconveniently, none of it felt much like ammunition anymore. Those saved photographs had left something strange and tender moving beneath his ribs, some uncertain awareness that Near had been quietly preserving pieces of him for years, and perhaps that should have been enough.

Instead, Mello tapped the newest recording.

Curiosity won.

It usually did.

He turned the volume down until the sound was scarcely more than a whisper and lifted the phone against his ear, shoulders instinctively hunching as though secrecy could somehow be increased by making himself smaller. For several seconds there was no voice at all, only the delicate static of an open microphone and a sequence of tiny domestic sounds so ordinary that they became strangely intimate: fabric shifting, something bumping softly against wood, the faint scrape of the phone apparently being repositioned, perhaps propped against a book or leaned against the wall. Mello found himself imagining the scene without meaning to. Near alone in his bedroom. Cross-legged on the bed, probably. White curls falling into his eyes. Phone balanced upright against some textbook because Near would absolutely require both hands free in order to conduct an emotional crisis properly.

Then Near cleared his throat.

Mello’s attention sharpened instantly.

A breath.

Another.

“Mello.”

Just his name.

Nothing else.

Yet hearing Near say it there, inside a recording never meant for him, did something peculiar to Mello’s chest.

Near paused for several seconds, apparently staring down whatever impossible sentence came next.

Then, very quietly:

“I’m in love with you.”

Mello stopped breathing.

Near hesitated.

“I…”

Another tiny breath.

“I always have been.”

Mello’s heart struck once, violently, against his ribs.

For one suspended instant there seemed to be no campus anymore, no stone wall against his back, no students laughing somewhere beyond the corner, no warm September wind touching his skin. There was only Near’s voice pressed directly into his ear and those impossible words slipping through him faster than his mind could organize them.

Then Near clicked his tongue.

“No.”

Mello blinked.

“What?” he mouthed soundlessly.

“That is too direct.”

Mello stared into the middle distance.

TOO DIRECT?

His heartbeat went from stunned silence into some frantic, uneven staccato, every beat seemingly arriving half a second before the previous one had finished.

WHAT THE FUCK ELSE DO YOU NEED TO SAY?

Near sighed into the recording, apparently dissatisfied with himself.

“Yes. No. That is much too direct. Too much at once.”

Mello’s mouth remained slightly open.

Near had just detonated Mello’s entire understanding of their relationship in nine words and was apparently sitting somewhere critiquing the delivery.

“Maybe…”

A thoughtful pause.

“Yes. Let me try this differently.”

Mello could see him now with ridiculous clarity.

Near sitting alone, spine slightly curved, one hand probably tangled absently in his own hair while the other rested on his knee, grey eyes narrowed with the same solemn concentration he brought to examinations, as though love were merely another subject he could revise thoroughly enough to master. Perhaps there were notes nearby. God, Mello would not even have been surprised. A bullet-point list titled Reasons I Am In Love With Mello, alphabetized and cross-referenced.

Near inhaled.

“Mello. I’ve been thinking about things a lot.”

Silence.

Near immediately sighed.

“That sounds ominous.”

Despite everything happening to his nervous system, the corner of Mello’s mouth twitched.

“Again.”

Another breath.

“Mello. I’ve been thinking about you a lot.”

Near stopped.

“That is better.”

Mello closed his eyes.

Near continued, quieter now, the words coming slowly enough that Mello could hear every hesitation between them.

“And I suppose I have been thinking about you for…”

A pause.

Not an ordinary conversational pause. A searching one. Near wandering around inside himself for the correct measurement.

“For a very long time.”

Something in Mello softened.

Near’s voice did too.

“The way you smile.”

Mello swallowed.

“And the way you laugh makes my heart…”

Near stopped.

Mello could hear him breathe.

“Stutter.”

Mello’s fingers tightened around the phone.

The word struck more deeply than it had any right to.

Near could have said race. Could have said beat faster. Could have said any of the familiar things people were supposed to say in romantic confessions.

Stutter.

Something briefly losing its rhythm because Mello had laughed.

God.

“Your eyes…”

Near hesitated again.

“They become very focused when you care about something. You look at things as though you have already decided you are going to conquer them.”

Near gave a tiny nervous laugh.

“Sometimes I think you look at the entire world that way.”

Mello stared down at the pavement.

“You are so determined. And bold.”

Near’s voice grew softer.

“And brave.”

A pause.

Then, almost helplessly:

“God, Mello. You are so brave.”

Mello’s throat tightened.

“I wish I could be half as brave as you are sometimes.”

Near’s voice broke at the end.

Barely.

A little fracture that Near might have edited out of any polished version, but this was not the polished version. This was the hidden workshop, every tool left where it had fallen, every imperfect thing still visible.

“And…”

Near tried.

“Everything about you, really. I…”

Nothing followed.

“Um.”

Mello could hear him shifting again, perhaps rubbing his palms against his trousers, perhaps staring accusingly at the phone as though it had failed to provide adequate assistance.

Then Near asked, in a small and painfully earnest voice:

“Did that sound good?”

Mello’s eyes widened.

He had asked the recording.

He had actually asked the fucking phone.

As though the device might blink awake and tell him, Yes, Near, very moving. Perhaps tighten the second paragraph.

The phone offered nothing.

Only static.

Near sighed.

“Maybe I should keep it shorter.”

Mello pressed his lips together.

“I can’t lose my nerve.”

That sentence changed something.

The humor fell away almost instantly.

Mello’s brows drew together.

Lose his nerve?

Near?

Near, who walked into examinations looking mildly inconvenienced by the necessity of proving what he already knew?

Near, who had spent years raising his hand in class with such relentless confidence that entire rows of students had visibly considered murder?

Near, who could disagree with a professor in front of seventy people without his pulse apparently changing at all?

Near, who had made ragebaiting Mello into a recreational sport and never once seemed afraid that Mello might actually throttle him?

That Near?

Losing his nerve?

Mello stared at the phone as though some completely different person had begun speaking through it.

“Come on, Near.”

The whisper came through so quietly that Mello nearly missed it.

Near was speaking to himself now.

“You can do this.”

Mello heard the small dry crack of a knuckle being popped.

Then another.

A nervous habit.

“If you don’t get this right…”

Near stopped.

The silence stretched long enough for Mello’s stomach to tighten.

“He’s going to laugh at you.”

Mello’s expression changed.

Near inhaled shakily.

“He’ll think it’s a joke.”

Mello did not move.

“He’ll think you are trying to provoke him again, or that this is some sort of elaborate way of annoying him, and he won’t take it seriously, and I…”

Near trailed off.

The recording seemed suddenly very quiet.

Somewhere beyond the stone corner, somebody shouted a goodbye across the courtyard, the distant sound absurdly normal against what Mello was hearing.

Near spoke again.

His voice had become smaller.

“I really don’t know if I could handle that.”

Mello’s eyes began to sting.

“All these years…”

Near swallowed audibly.

“And if I finally tell him and he thinks I’m joking…”

Another silence.

“I…”

Near stopped.

Nothing came after.

Mello stood perfectly still, phone pressed hard against his ear, and felt something inside him turn painfully over.

Near.

Near nearly crying.

Near alone in his room, rehearsing love to an empty piece of glass because apparently the empty piece of glass was the only audience safe enough to witness him failing at it.

Mello had always imagined Near’s confidence as something structural, built into him as naturally as bone. He had never once considered that there might be places inside Near where certainty simply ended, where all that magnificent intelligence could offer no useful answer at all.

And this was one of them.

Mello.

The thought was almost unbearable.

Near was frightened of Mello.

Not physically.

Not really.

He was frightened of being ridiculous in front of him. Frightened of handing Mello something soft and sincere and watching Mello mistake it for another round of their lifelong game.

Near had spent years learning precisely how to make Mello angry.

He had apparently spent just as long failing to learn how to tell him that he loved him.

“I can do this.”

Near’s voice returned with forced determination.

A deep inhale.

Then another.

“Right?”

Mello closed his eyes.

Near sounded as though he genuinely wanted somebody to answer.

Nobody did.

“I just…”

Near exhaled.

“I just have to try again.”

A rustle.

“Let me start over.”

Near breathed in.

“Mello…”

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Near sighed.

And the recording ended.

Mello pulled the phone slowly away from his ear.

“What?”

He stared at the waveform.

Finished.

That was all.

Near had really lost his nerve.

The realization sat heavily in Mello’s chest.

He looked down at the list of recordings again, suddenly seeing it differently. What had first looked like a handful of random voice notes now arranged itself into something else entirely.

Mello attempt.

Try again.

Mello 2.

Practice.

More.

Mello scrolled.

His brows drew together.

The dates went backward.

Months.

Years.

Years.

“How long…”

His voice barely escaped.

“How fucking long have you been doing this?”

His thumb moved farther down.

Then stopped.

Winter Formal.

Mello’s heart gave a painful little jump.

He knew exactly which Winter Formal.

No.

Surely not.

He tapped it.

There was a wash of faint background static, poorer microphone quality than the recent recordings, and then a voice came through.

“I’ll try this one more time.”

Mello’s entire body went cold.

He knew that voice.

Not merely Near’s voice.

Near’s voice from before.

Thirteen years old.

Younger, lighter, with that little lisp still wrapped around certain sounds.

Mello’s hand flew over his mouth.

“Oh, fuck.”

That lisp.

That damn lisp Mello had mocked without mercy, because fourteen-year-old Mello had possessed exactly zero healthy methods for dealing with the fact that he secretly found it adorable.

And now Near’s younger voice was whispering through the speaker, apparently practicing how to confess something to Mello even then.

Mello’s vision blurred.

“Maybe I’ll ask him to the dance.” Young Near sounded extraordinarily serious. “I can do this.”

A breath.

“The Winter Formal.” Near repeated the words carefully, almost ceremonially. “Yes.”

Another little pause.

“That is…” He seemed uncertain. “That is romantic, right?”

Mello closed his eyes.

The word romantic sounded awkward in Near’s young mouth, as though he were trying on some elaborate coat several sizes too large and standing very still while deciding whether anybody would notice the sleeves swallowed his hands.

“He’ll understand I like him then.” Near’s voice grew quieter. “That I…” A tiny nervous swallow. “That I like-like him.”

Mello’s eyes watered slightly. 

There was something almost devastating about the childish phrase. No eloquence. No perfected language. No grand declaration. Just a thirteen-year-old boy alone with a recording device trying desperately to figure out how one human being was supposed to tell another:

You matter differently.

Near inhaled. “All right.”

Mello held the phone tighter.

“Just say it.” A pause. Then, softly: “Mello…”

And somewhere far beyond the recording, in another year entirely, the sound of running footsteps began racing toward him.

Fast.

Mello’s eyes snapped open.

Someone rounded the corner.

Then Near appeared.

He rounded the stone corner at a run and almost overshot Mello entirely before stopping himself, one sneaker skidding slightly against the pavement as momentum carried him forward another half step. His hands immediately fell to his thighs, fingers spreading against the fabric as he bent at the waist and dragged air into his lungs in short, desperate breaths, white curls completely disordered from the chase and damp at the temples, his face flushed a lovely, exhausted pink beneath the soft gold of the university lamps.

For one brief second, Near did not look up.

He was too busy trying not to die.

Mello might have laughed under any other circumstances.

Normally, this would have been the perfect conclusion to an immaculate victory. Near, the great prodigy, brought physically to ruin because Mello had finally found a contest that could not be conquered by intellect alone. Mello should have been insufferable. He should have leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and asked whether Near wanted him to call an ambulance. He should have photographed the moment for preservation. He should have enjoyed this.

Instead he stood absolutely motionless, Near’s phone still pressed against his ear, the final ghost of a thirteen-year-old voice lingering inside him.

Mello…

Near lifted his head.

His breathing did not stop.

Everything else did.

His eyes found Mello’s face first, and some faint spark of exhausted irritation appeared there, the expression of somebody preparing to demand the immediate return of stolen property.

Then his gaze moved.

Down.

Barely.

To the phone.

To where Mello still held it against his ear.

Near’s face changed.

The transformation was so complete that Mello almost felt it happen inside his own body.

The flush from running remained across Near’s cheeks, sweat still glittered faintly along his hairline, his chest still rose and fell with the pursuit he had only just finished, but something deeper went perfectly, terribly still. The indignation vanished. The annoyance vanished. Even the exhaustion seemed to become irrelevant.

Horror took their place.

Not theatrical horror.

Not the loud kind.

Something far worse.

Recognition.

Near knew exactly what the position of that phone meant.

Mello had not merely gone through his contacts.

He had not found an embarrassing search history or a stupid photograph or some secret app Near could have endured being mocked for until graduation.

He had listened.

Near knew what lived inside those recordings.

He knew which words had been hidden there.

Which pauses.

Which failed beginnings.

Which versions of himself had spoken into the dark believing nobody but an indifferent microphone would ever hear them.

And Mello, who had spent most of his life responding to danger with teeth first, discovered in that same instant that his body apparently possessed another setting after all.

Freeze.

He did not lower the phone.

He did not run.

He did not defend himself.

For once, Mello simply stood there, caught completely and undeniably red-handed, while Near stared at him as though Mello had somehow opened a door neither of them had ever acknowledged existed.

Several yards away, the university continued without them.

Students crossed the square beneath lamplight. Somebody laughed near the fountain. A bicycle rolled along the path, its wheels making that soft shushing sound against concrete. Somewhere inside one of the buildings a door opened and released a rectangle of fluorescent light before closing again.

The ordinary world kept moving.

Here, nothing did.

The September wind slipped around the corner and passed between them, warm enough to remember summer, cool enough to carry the first distant promise of October. It lifted the pale curls away from Near’s forehead and sent a few blond strands across Mello’s cheek, then moved onward through the courtyard as though even the night understood that it should not interrupt.

For several long seconds they could only look at one another.

They had spent years doing that, really.

Across classrooms.

Across exam results.

Across cafeterias.

Across arguments.

Across the narrow space between two chairs pulled deliberately too close together.

But never like this.

Never without some contest between them.

Never without a joke, a score, a challenge, an insult, some little shield they could hold up between one another and call rivalry.

Now there was nothing left to hide behind.

The pursuit had ended.

Mello had run.

Near had followed.

And somehow, in the process, both of them had stumbled into the one place neither had ever been brave enough to reach.

Near’s mouth opened.

No sound came.

He closed it.

Tried again.

“Mello.”

That was all.

His name came out thin and breathless, the final remnant of the run trembling inside it.

Mello swallowed.

“Near.”

His own voice surprised him.

It sounded almost as fragile.

Near straightened slowly, although his hands remained against his thighs for another second as though he did not quite trust his legs. His lungs were finally beginning to recover; his dignity was not.

“What…”

He stopped.

His eyes flicked once toward the phone.

“What did you find?”

The attempt at casualness was almost painful.

Near swallowed.

“On my phone.”

Mello looked at him.

Near already knew.

There was no possibility he did not.

Mello could see that knowledge spreading through his face, could see Near reading the answer in every part of him the way he had always read everything else. In Mello’s uncharacteristic stillness. In the absence of laughter. In the softness that had somehow entered his blue eyes without permission.

Mello lowered the phone slowly to his side.

“Everything.”

One word.

Near went pale.

“Ah.”

His eyes dropped.

Then rose again.

“Could you…”

His voice thinned.

“Could you perhaps define everything?”

Mello almost smiled.

Not because it was funny.

Because it was so desperately Near. Even now. Clarify the variable. Narrow the dataset. Perhaps one small technicality might rescue him. Even now. Even standing in the ruins of his secrecy.

Mello’s heart twisted with such sudden fondness that it hurt.

“The pictures.”

Near winced.

“The recordings.”

Near’s shoulders seemed to draw inward.

“The newest one.”

A pause.

Mello almost spared him.

Almost.

“And the Winter Formal.”

Near closed his eyes.

“Oh.”

It was such a tiny sound.

Mello had never heard so much defeat contained inside a single syllable.

Near’s body finally seemed to forget the run entirely.

His breathing had slowed, but his hands had begun trembling.

This was not how it was supposed to happen.

The thought arrived first as panic.

Then repeated.

This is not how it was supposed to happen.

No.

No, no, no.

Near had imagined this moment too many times for it to look like this.

He had imagined somewhere quiet.

Somewhere controlled.

A place chosen deliberately.

Perhaps a table by a window.

Perhaps one of the benches beneath the trees.

Perhaps on a birthday, holiday, or some special event.

Near would know beforehand exactly what he intended to say.

He would rehearse until the sentences stopped trembling.

He would remove every unnecessary word and replace every clumsy one.

He would make the confession elegant enough to survive Mello’s scrutiny, precise enough that there could be no misunderstanding, beautiful enough to somehow justify how long it had taken.

He would hand Mello something finished.

Something polished.

Instead, Mello had found the drafts. The half-built thing. The scaffolding still standing around it. The unfinished, awkward phrases. Worse, far worse, he had heard thirteen-year-old Near trying to understand what romance was while quietly hoping Mello might dance with him.

Near had spent years hiding the process because the final version was supposed to be the only one that mattered.

Now Mello had seen everything Near had thrown away.

Damn it.

He wanted more time. More language. A better way to say it. A beautiful way. Something worthy of all the years he had carried it.

The thought should have humiliated him beyond recovery.

Instead, somewhere beneath the panic, another realization began to take shape.

Near had been searching for perfect words for years.

They had never come. Poetry did not arrive simply because he waited patiently enough. Courage had not accumulated with age. He could not seem to make love fit elegantly inside a sentence.

There had always been another revision to make, another possibility to consider, another imagined reaction from Mello terrifying enough to justify postponement. Perhaps perfection had never been preparation at all. Perhaps it had simply been fear wearing academic clothing. 

Near looked at Mello.

Mello was not laughing.

That mattered more than everything else.

“Please don’t.”

Near barely recognized his own voice.

Mello’s brows drew together.

Near’s throat tightened.

“Please don’t laugh.”

The words escaped before he could reconsider them.

There.

The stupidest, smallest confession hidden beneath all the others.

Please don’t hurt this.

Mello’s expression changed at once. Something tender opened across his face, so immediate and sincere that Near almost had to look away. “I would never.”

Near stared.

Mello’s voice sounded strangely far away and impossibly close at the same time, gentle enough that Near felt he might shatter against it, yet firm enough that there was no room inside the words for doubt.

“Not for something like this.”

Near squeezed his eyes shut. The relief hurt. He stood there for several seconds simply trying to breathe around it, inhaling September air until his lungs finally stopped behaving as though he were still running, until his pulse became something he could survive.

Then Near opened his eyes and looked upward.

The moon hung over the campus.

Bright.

Round.

Serene.

Entirely unhelpful.

Near swallowed and silently appealed to it anyway.

Anything?

Surely the universe could provide one sentence.

One.

The moon offered him nothing except sympathetic silver light.

Near almost laughed.

Of course.

Near lowered his gaze.

Mello was still there.

Waiting.

That, somehow, made courage possible.

Mello put Near’s phone into his jacket pocket. He made no move to interrupt. No teasing smile curved his mouth. No impatience entered his posture. His entire attention rested on Near with a stillness Near had rarely experienced from him.

Mello was giving him the floor.

Not an examination.

Not an argument.

Not a competition.

Space.

Near drew one breath.

Then another.

Do not lose your nerve.

His fingers trembled.

Please.

He slowly straightened his shoulders.

“You’ve…”

The word caught.

Near stopped.

Mello waited.

Near began again. “You have always been on my mind.” His voice trembled, but this time he continued through it. “For as long as I can remember, really. Before I understood what any of this meant, before I knew there was a difference between noticing somebody and…”

He swallowed.

“…noticing them first.”

Near took one step toward him. His shoe touched the pavement.

Tap.

Mello did not move.

Near’s eyes stayed fixed on his. “You were always the first person I looked for.”

Another breath.

“In classrooms. At lunch. When everybody was being dismissed at the end of the day. Even when I was angry with you, I still wanted to know where you were.”

Another step.

Tap.

“And I think somewhere along the way…” Near’s hand tightened unconsciously against his own shirt. “You stopped simply being on my mind and became…” He smiled nervously. “…part of my heart.”

The words sounded embarrassingly sentimental. Near let them remain. He was done correcting himself.

He came another step closer. “I think I have loved you through every season.” The sentence surprised him.

Mello’s eyes softened.

Near felt something loosen inside his chest.

“In summer…”

Another step.

Tap.

Near’s mouth curved faintly.

“Your eyes look like the sky.”

Mello blinked.

Near continued before embarrassment could seize the sentence and kill it. “They become almost exactly the same blue when the weather is clear, except yours are brighter. Somehow.”

His smile grew.

“You are happiest in summer, although you complain about the heat constantly and behave as though the sun has personally offended you.” Near’s voice warmed as memory began carrying him instead of fear. “You stay outside all day. To the point that you sunburn. I always bring extra aloe. Because you always forget.”

Near took another step.

Tap.

“Autumn…”

His eyes brightened.

“You make Matt and me go to corn mazes.”

Near laughed softly.

“I have complained about them every year since we were old enough to go without adults.” His cheeks pinkened. “I lied.”

Mello stared.

“I do not hate them.” Near’s voice turned almost wistful. “I like watching you lead.”

The words came easier now.

“You always walk several steps ahead of us and announce which direction we should take with absolute confidence, despite having no evidence whatsoever that you are correct.” Near smiled at the memory. “And when we reach a dead end, you never once say you were wrong. You turn around and tell us you simply wanted to eliminate that possibility.”

Another step.

Tap.

“You make being lost look intentional. I love that about you.” 

The confession grew steadier.

“You never seem to believe a dead end is really the end of anything. You just stand there for a second, get angry at it, and find some other way.” Near continued, “You have always been good at finding another way.”

Another step.

“In winter…” Near’s voice quieted. “You become tired.”

Mello’s expression shifted.

Near saw it but continued gently.

“Exams exhaust you more than you admit. You stay awake too late. You drink coffee when you should sleep, and then you become irritable because admitting you are angry is easier for you than admitting you are worn out.” Near’s eyes softened. “The wind leaves your sails. Everything seems to weigh heavier for you.” He paused. “Like something inside you becomes quieter.”

Another step.

Tap.

“But then it snows.” Near smiled. “And you change.” A little laugh escaped him. “You become a little ridiculous.”

Mello’s mouth curves slightly, curious.

“You throw snowballs at me when I am not looking. You kick snow into Matt’s boots. You love looking at Christmas lights. You've gotten your tongue stuck to more iced surfaces than anyone I've ever known.”

A small laugh escaped Mello.

Near smiled too. 

 The old fear loosened another notch. Then stepped closer.

Tap.

“In spring…”

His voice wavered. The season hurt.

“You disappear more. You leave unexpectedly often. Gone. I never know where you go.” Near looked down for only a moment, then he lifted his eyes again. “There are days when I realize I have been looking for you without admitting to myself that I am looking.”

Near’s throat tightened. “I never asked where you went.” The next words emerged softer. “I wish I had. I… I would have followed you.”

Another step.

Tap.

“But when you are there, when you do come back…Spring suits you.” His eyes became distant with memory. “Life returns to your eyes. You take us into the woods. You climb trees much higher than you should.”

He laughed faintly. “You always look down and tell me to come up.” Near swallowed. “I am afraid of heights.”

The confession slowed.

“But…” He looked at Mello. “With you…”

Another step.

Only a few remained between them now.

“I feel less afraid.” Near’s smile trembled. “Not fearless.” He almost laughed. “I do not think I will ever be fearless.”

One hand lifted slowly and settled over his own heart.

“But I certainly feel less afraid.”

The moonlight caught him there.

Silver traced the edges of his curls and rested along the pale angle of his cheek, while beneath his palm his heart beat hard enough that Near felt certain Mello must somehow hear it from several feet away.

Mello stared.

The image seemed to engrave itself into him while it happened.

Near beneath the September moon.

One hand over his heart.

Walking toward Mello one frightened step at a time.

No cleverness.

No competition.

No winning.

Just… Near.

“Mello.” His blush deepened, but he resisted every instinct telling him to look away.

The strangest thing happened then. The closer he came, the quieter his fear became. Mello’s eyes did not frighten him. They steadied him.

“I have been in love with you for a very, very long time.” Near finally said it.

Simply.

Without restarting.

Without correcting himself.

The sentence moved into the world and remained there.

For several seconds Near could only listen to the aftermath of it inside his own body.

His heart hammered.

His fingers trembled.

But nothing collapsed.

The sky remained overhead.

Mello remained before him.

And something enormous that Near had been carrying for years was suddenly no longer entirely so terrifying to carry.

Near breathed out. A smile appeared. Slowly at first. Almost disbelievingly. Then brighter.

“I…” He laughed softly. “I actually said it.”

Mello’s expression softened further.

Near looked almost amazed by himself. “After all those years.” He shook his head. “I have been such an idiot.”

Another breath.

“I should have told you sooner.” His smile became wistful. “Years sooner.”

Then Near looked upward at the moon again.

If he was already standing naked in every metaphorical sense that mattered, perhaps he might as well commit fully to humiliation.

“And…” Near’s face turned brighter pink. “There is one more thing.”

His eyes returned to Mello.

“I have tried to phrase this before.” Near laughed nervously. “It usually sounded terrible. But I’ll try anyway.”

He drew in a careful breath.

“You are the sun, Mello.” Near blushes brighter, "And I've always felt like the moon... endlessly chasing after you. Hoping we can, one day... be under the same sky." 

Mello's lips ghost into a small smile.

"If, um..." Near laughs nervously, "If you'd like to be under the same sky." 

Silence.

A few seconds.

Only that.

To Near, an eternity.

Immediately his brain came back online.

The sun metaphor had been a mistake.

Of course it had.

Too much.

Ridiculous.

Overwritten.

I should have stopped after I love you. That sentence had been perfectly serviceable.

Clear.

Efficient.

Mello would remember the moon thing forever. It’s fine. I can transfer universities. Perhaps countries. Maybe I can simply walk backward until I reach the Atlantic. Maybe I should never have said any of that. Maybe I should have…

Mello moved.

Near’s thoughts vanished.

Mello crossed the remaining distance between them and wrapped both arms around him.

Near gasped.

There was nothing cautious about the embrace.

No testing touch.

No uncertain half-hug.

Mello simply gathered him in as though the decision had already been made somewhere deeper than language.

His larger frame folded warmly around Near, leather jacket brushing cool against Near’s cheek for the briefest instant before body heat softened it, one arm winding securely around his back while the other lifted into Near’s curls and cradled the back of his head.

Near stopped existing properly.

Mello was hugging him.

Not accidentally.

Not because Near had stumbled.

Not as part of some joke.

Mello had heard everything and then chosen to come closer. Near’s hands hovered uselessly beside Mello’s waist.

One heartbeat.

Two.

Then they seized the back of Mello’s jacket. Near clung. A broken breath escaped him as he pulled Mello against himself with sudden, desperate force, burying his face against the familiar leather as though years of restraint had finally broken all at once.

Mello tightened his embrace. “Oh, Near.”

Two words. No poetry.

Near almost cried harder over those than everything else.

Mello rested his chin gently against the top of his head and stroked his fingers through Near’s white curls, ruining them further with such quiet tenderness that Near could not bring himself to care.

For one fragile moment, Near wondered whether this was a dream.

It felt like one.

Too clean.

Too perfect.

A thing he had wanted too long suddenly given weight and warmth.

But dreams did not smell like leather and faint chocolate.

Dreams did not have Mello’s heartbeat thudding steadily beneath his ear.

Dreams did not wrap themselves around Near and hold tighter when he trembled.

Dreams did not ruffle his hair badly enough that he could already imagine complaining about it later.

This was real.

Mello was real.

The arms around him were real.

The choice was real.

The wind moved around them again, warmer now somehow, lifting scattered leaves into little circles across the pavement before carrying them toward the university square. Near could almost imagine that even the September night had become relieved, as though the entire season had been waiting impatiently for these two idiots to finally stop running.

Mello rocked them gently.

Once.

Again.

“Look at us.” Mello’s voice vibrated softly through his chest. “Under the same sky.”

Near’s fingers tightened in his jacket.

Mello smiled against his hair. “Just like you said.”

Near’s throat closed.

Mello held him closer. “Dream come true, huh?”

A helpless, breathless laugh escaped Near.

He might have cried if his body could decide whether joy belonged in tears or laughter.

“For the record…” Mello laughed softly. “Your poetry wasn’t half bad.”

Near reluctantly lifted his face.

Mello looked down at him. “I liked it.”

Near stared. The vulnerability in his expression was almost childlike. “Really?”

“Really.” Mello loosened their embrace only enough to look at him properly, then brought both hands upward and cupped Near’s face, thumbs settling gently against his cheeks.

Near became very still.

“And more than that…” Mello’s expression softened. “I like you.”

Near’s eyes widened.

Mello repeated it because he knew Near, because he knew one statement would later be dissected until it became uncertain, and Mello was suddenly unwilling to leave even a millimeter of ambiguity for Near to crawl inside. “I like you, Near.”

His thumb moved softly across Near’s cheek. “A lot.”

Near’s lips parted.

Mello smiled. “So…” For once, even Mello looked nervous. “Us.”

Near scarcely breathed. The word landed differently.

Not this.

Not this thing.

Us. Near loved the sound of that. 

Mello’s smile turned almost shy. “Let’s give us a shot.”

Near grinned, this smile seemed to ignite somewhere deep inside Near and travel upward until his entire face shone with it, eyes brightening, cheeks lifting, all that careful reserve suddenly unable to contain the happiness moving through him.

“Really?”

Mello laughed softly. “Really.” His thumb passed over Near’s cheek again. “I don’t know where any of this goes. I don’t know where we’ll live someday, what we’ll do after college, whether we’ll drive each other fucking insane.”

Near’s smile widened. “We will. In a good way.”

“Probably.” Mello chuckled. “But…” His gaze softened. “I think it’ll be an adventure.”

Near’s eyes glistened.

“An adventure I’m willing to try.”  Mello lowered one hand between them, then extended his pinkie. 

Near looked down.

The gesture was absurdly small. A child’s vow. Ancient law between playground kingdoms, yet somehow more sacred than anything formal Mello could have offered.

Near looked back at him.

“I promise I’m willing to give us a shot.” Mello winked. “And honestly, it would be pretty fucking stupid not to.” Mello’s expression changed again, something regretful slipping beneath the happiness. “Especially because…”

He looked away.

Near waited.

Mello drew in a breath. “I’ve felt the same way.”

Near froze.

Mello looked back.

“For years.”

Near’s eyes widened.

Mello gave a small, embarrassed laugh. “I just buried it.” He gestured vaguely downward with his free hand. “Deep.”

Near stared.

“Very, very fucking deep.”

“Mello…”

“I thought you’d never want me that way.” The admission came softer. Mello glanced toward the path he had run only minutes ago. “You were always ahead.”

Near frowned faintly.

“One test score higher. One answer faster. One step somewhere I was still trying to reach.” Mello smiled with faint bitterness. “And somewhere along the way, I guess I convinced myself you’d be ahead of me here too. Interested in… whatever it would be that caught your eye. I figured if it had been me, it would have happened earlier. Since it never did… I just assumed it never would.”

Near’s expression broke open with tenderness.

Mello stared out across the campus. “Funny.” The university stretched before them, all those paths Mello and Near had just raced across. “All that chasing.”

Near followed his gaze.

“All those years of trying to catch each other.” Mello looked back at him. “And neither of us apparently stopped long enough to ask what the fuck we actually wanted once we did.”

Near smiled.

Mello’s voice dropped. “For someone who thinks he’s so brave…” He laughed softly. “I wish I’d been braver about you.” Regret moved quietly through the sentence. “We might’ve…” Mello stopped. “Maybe we could’ve been happier sooner.” Mello sighed. 

Near’s hand found his. “But we’re here now.”

Mello looked down.

Near extended his own pinkie and hooked it carefully around Mello’s. “And I promise,” Near said, eyes bright, “I will give this everything I have.”

Mello smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Mello tightened his pinkie around Near’s.

For several seconds they simply stood beneath the September moon, then Mello laughed. Near did too. Something inside both of them loosened as their hands remained joined together for a few beats too long before releasing each other.

“By the way…” Mello chuckled, lifted Near’s stolen phone and slid it neatly back into the front pocket of his trousers.

Near blushed at the brief brush of fingers.

Mello’s grin sharpened. “Your lisp was adorable.”

Near’s eyes widened in horror.

“Mello!”

“It was!”

“You mocked me relentlessly!”

“I was fourteen!”

“That is not a defense!”

“I thought it was cute! But like hell I was going to say that. ‘Idiot’ fit better, oddly, at the time. ”

“Mello!” Near shoved his shoulder, but Mello caught his wrist, grinning. 

Near laughed.

Loudly.

Too loudly by his usual standards.

Bright enough that the sound carried across the college square and made a few distant students glance toward them.

Near did not care.

For perhaps the first time in his life, he did not care who looked.

Let them.

Let the entire campus hear.

Let the windows light one by one and the whole world lean out to listen.

Mello was laughing with him.

Mello liked him. 

And they were going to give ‘us’ a chance. 

For all the years they had spent chasing each other, that was the strangest and loveliest victory of all.