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Description
It was two o' clock when Mello woke up again, a thin sheen of sweat sticking him to his sheets. Eyes adjusting to the dark, cursing at the new ache in his stomach, he rolled into a sitting position and glared at the listless clock, flashing its bright red numbers across the room at him. Two sixteen, to be precise.

What the fuck.

His mouth was dry. Terribly dry, and his stomach and the back of his throat felt queasy.
Mello thought of going back to sleep, just falling down again, fucking everything and attempting to sleep again, but his head was starting to hurt and his mouth was so dry.

So thirsty.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to get something to drink. The kitchens were just downstairs, after all. Mello looked over at Matt. Still sound asleep; still snoring like a lazy giant slug. After sitting for a moment longer, Mello slipped from the bed, taking in the feel of the cold wooden floor against his bare feet. Possibly, chocolate and vodka before bed was not a good combination. He would have to remember that. Right now his brain felt cloudy in a way he did not appreciate; cloudy and very, very tired. Not good for concentration. And there was a test in a week. Mello hadn’t even begun to study; he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. He would need a clear mind and an extra all-nighter tacked on to his usual prep routine if he was going to come out on top.

If you ever are, his internal thoughts chimed in deviously, unkindly, and Mello swallowed a lump rising suddenly in his throat. Alcohol was unnerving. Never again. I can’t afford it. Any of it.

The hallway was, weirdly enough, warmer than the room Matt and Mello shared. The lump completely vanished from his throat, Mello snorted. That was just like Roger. Fuck the rooms, that was just for the children anyway, and they were young. They could stand the cold. In a way it was true, because if you could stand Wammy’s, sleeping in an ice-cold room in the winter was small fucking beans.

Mello walked quickly past the four doors between his own room and the stairs—the last one of these was Near’s. Of course, they put they white runt in the most convenient place. Not only was he closest to the kitchen, god forbid Near ever really had to walk too far, but he was the only student at Wammy’s who seemed to be exempt from the roommate rule. And he had his own bathroom. Not that Mello had ever had occasion to be in Near’s room, but he’d seen it on occasion when the brat had kept the door open. It was big enough to be a fucking quad. And it was dead silent now, being that it was two o’ clock and Near religiously went to bed at midnight (that tidbit of information had been extremely useful for pranks when Mello and Matt had been younger).

Mello started down the stairs, mouth and tongue thirsting for water, and fumbled for the light switch on the wall which would illuminate Wammy’s surprisingly quaint kitchen. His eyes cast around in the dark, adjusting to the piles of clean dishes laid out on the granite countertop spanning one whole side of the room, the discreetly humming refrigerator, decorated sparsely with drawings done by some of the younger children, to the table where...

Mello’s hand stopped, having found the light switch after many fruitless efforts, but he did not flick it up. Instead, he only stared at the one inhabitant of Wammy House’s kitchen at two-twenty a.m..

“Near?”

“Hello, Mello.” Near’s voice was flat like an automated reply. Robot, Mello thought, but he didn’t say it. He was too thirsty and Matt wasn’t there to appreciate it anyway.

“Where is Matt?” Near said, like he’d read Mello’s mind. The question mark was barely perceptible in his tone.

“Asleep,” Mello shrugged, walking to the sink and grabbing a clean glass. He began to fill it, ignoring Near’s eyes on his back. Only when he was finished did he turn around and stare in what he thought was a bored fashion, in Near’s general direction as he slowly drank his water. His mouth and aching head were screaming at him to drink faster, but damned if he was going to look desperate. Damned if he was going to drink and run.
Near had ceased looking at Mello, really, and was now staring somewhere slightly behind and to the left of him, pulling a strand of hair slowly through his pale fingers. In thought, he guessed. Or catatonic. Mello smirked.

“What the hell are you doing up right now?” he asked. Not that he particularly cared to have a conversation with Near of all people, but he was curious.

“I could not sleep,” Near responded expressionlessly and too quickly, like he’d been waiting for the question and he was reading the answer from a script.

Mello stared at him. Near, having trouble sleeping? What, because he’d gone to bed at 12:15 on account of the new year and fucked up his special schedule? What was happening to the world? He smirked again.

“Worried about what the new year will bring?” Mello asked, mockingly, and Near deigned to actually look at him for a fleeting second. “Maybe you should be. When I’m L, years from now, you’ll look back on this day as the one where you finally became afraid of your competition. Well, I’ve been here all along, Near. Glad you’ve finally realized it.”

Something told Mello that now would be the perfect time to turn on his heel and walk out, except he still felt thirsty, so he turned and filled his glass again, trying to keep one eye on Near. He hoped the bastard wouldn’t speak. Near was no longer looking at him. He had begun to twirl his hair slowly again, and Mello watched despite himself, glass halfway to his mouth.

“What does Mello think it will be like to be L?” Near asked.

It was not what Mello expected. He paused, frowning. What the fuck.

“Five times better than being Mello, that’s for sure,” he said savagely, bringing the glass up and draining it fast this time. He set it on the counter behind him and made to leave.

“Who is Mello?” Near asked. What the... Only Near would ask such obtuse questions, like he was some mysterious know-it-all instead of an undersized loser in pyjamas.

“I’m Mello, you creepy little fuck. Five times better than Near, and don’t you forget it.”

“Who is Near?” Near asked, the ghost of a barren grin pulling at the side of his mouth.

Mello purposefully strode around Near’s chair, pushing roughly up against the back of it as he exited the kitchen. Near did not turn to watch him leave, but once Mello reached the hall again, he heard the little twit speak again, softer as if he was speaking to himself.

“That is why you will not succeed.”

The words sawed their way into that hot, angry space in Mello’s chest, the one he’d tried to shut off year after year, and he stifled himself on their arrival. He would not respond. He would not give Near the satisfaction of even knowing he had heard.

Instead, he would show him.

He would defeat Near, and his stupid words that meant nothing—he thinks he’s intimidating me somehow, no doubt. As if. This year would be his year. There would be no more time to play. It was all work from here on out. Mello lay back on his bed and stared up at the dark ceiling, thinking, planning. When all this was over, they would look at him like he’d been looking at himself for the past three months. Like they’d never laid eyes on him before. They would notice him. By the end, they’d have no choice.

Because, come hell or high water, he’d make them.

Description
It was two o' clock when Mello woke up again, a thin sheen of sweat sticking him to his sheets. Eyes adjusting to the dark, cursing at the new ache in his stomach, he rolled into a sitting position and glared at the listless clock, flashing its bright red numbers across the room at him. Two sixteen, to be precise.

What the fuck.

His mouth was dry. Terribly dry, and his stomach and the back of his throat felt queasy.
Mello thought of going back to sleep, just falling down again, fucking everything and attempting to sleep again, but his head was starting to hurt and his mouth was so dry.

So thirsty.

Well, it wouldn’t hurt to get something to drink. The kitchens were just downstairs, after all. Mello looked over at Matt. Still sound asleep; still snoring like a lazy giant slug. After sitting for a moment longer, Mello slipped from the bed, taking in the feel of the cold wooden floor against his bare feet. Possibly, chocolate and vodka before bed was not a good combination. He would have to remember that. Right now his brain felt cloudy in a way he did not appreciate; cloudy and very, very tired. Not good for concentration. And there was a test in a week. Mello hadn’t even begun to study; he didn’t know what he’d been thinking. He would need a clear mind and an extra all-nighter tacked on to his usual prep routine if he was going to come out on top.

If you ever are, his internal thoughts chimed in deviously, unkindly, and Mello swallowed a lump rising suddenly in his throat. Alcohol was unnerving. Never again. I can’t afford it. Any of it.

The hallway was, weirdly enough, warmer than the room Matt and Mello shared. The lump completely vanished from his throat, Mello snorted. That was just like Roger. Fuck the rooms, that was just for the children anyway, and they were young. They could stand the cold. In a way it was true, because if you could stand Wammy’s, sleeping in an ice-cold room in the winter was small fucking beans.

Mello walked quickly past the four doors between his own room and the stairs—the last one of these was Near’s. Of course, they put they white runt in the most convenient place. Not only was he closest to the kitchen, god forbid Near ever really had to walk too far, but he was the only student at Wammy’s who seemed to be exempt from the roommate rule. And he had his own bathroom. Not that Mello had ever had occasion to be in Near’s room, but he’d seen it on occasion when the brat had kept the door open. It was big enough to be a fucking quad. And it was dead silent now, being that it was two o’ clock and Near religiously went to bed at midnight (that tidbit of information had been extremely useful for pranks when Mello and Matt had been younger).

Mello started down the stairs, mouth and tongue thirsting for water, and fumbled for the light switch on the wall which would illuminate Wammy’s surprisingly quaint kitchen. His eyes cast around in the dark, adjusting to the piles of clean dishes laid out on the granite countertop spanning one whole side of the room, the discreetly humming refrigerator, decorated sparsely with drawings done by some of the younger children, to the table where...

Mello’s hand stopped, having found the light switch after many fruitless efforts, but he did not flick it up. Instead, he only stared at the one inhabitant of Wammy House’s kitchen at two-twenty a.m..

“Near?”

“Hello, Mello.” Near’s voice was flat like an automated reply. Robot, Mello thought, but he didn’t say it. He was too thirsty and Matt wasn’t there to appreciate it anyway.

“Where is Matt?” Near said, like he’d read Mello’s mind. The question mark was barely perceptible in his tone.

“Asleep,” Mello shrugged, walking to the sink and grabbing a clean glass. He began to fill it, ignoring Near’s eyes on his back. Only when he was finished did he turn around and stare in what he thought was a bored fashion, in Near’s general direction as he slowly drank his water. His mouth and aching head were screaming at him to drink faster, but damned if he was going to look desperate. Damned if he was going to drink and run.
Near had ceased looking at Mello, really, and was now staring somewhere slightly behind and to the left of him, pulling a strand of hair slowly through his pale fingers. In thought, he guessed. Or catatonic. Mello smirked.

“What the hell are you doing up right now?” he asked. Not that he particularly cared to have a conversation with Near of all people, but he was curious.

“I could not sleep,” Near responded expressionlessly and too quickly, like he’d been waiting for the question and he was reading the answer from a script.

Mello stared at him. Near, having trouble sleeping? What, because he’d gone to bed at 12:15 on account of the new year and fucked up his special schedule? What was happening to the world? He smirked again.

“Worried about what the new year will bring?” Mello asked, mockingly, and Near deigned to actually look at him for a fleeting second. “Maybe you should be. When I’m L, years from now, you’ll look back on this day as the one where you finally became afraid of your competition. Well, I’ve been here all along, Near. Glad you’ve finally realized it.”

Something told Mello that now would be the perfect time to turn on his heel and walk out, except he still felt thirsty, so he turned and filled his glass again, trying to keep one eye on Near. He hoped the bastard wouldn’t speak. Near was no longer looking at him. He had begun to twirl his hair slowly again, and Mello watched despite himself, glass halfway to his mouth.

“What does Mello think it will be like to be L?” Near asked.

It was not what Mello expected. He paused, frowning. What the fuck.

“Five times better than being Mello, that’s for sure,” he said savagely, bringing the glass up and draining it fast this time. He set it on the counter behind him and made to leave.

“Who is Mello?” Near asked. What the... Only Near would ask such obtuse questions, like he was some mysterious know-it-all instead of an undersized loser in pyjamas.

“I’m Mello, you creepy little fuck. Five times better than Near, and don’t you forget it.”

“Who is Near?” Near asked, the ghost of a barren grin pulling at the side of his mouth.

Mello purposefully strode around Near’s chair, pushing roughly up against the back of it as he exited the kitchen. Near did not turn to watch him leave, but once Mello reached the hall again, he heard the little twit speak again, softer as if he was speaking to himself.

“That is why you will not succeed.”

The words sawed their way into that hot, angry space in Mello’s chest, the one he’d tried to shut off year after year, and he stifled himself on their arrival. He would not respond. He would not give Near the satisfaction of even knowing he had heard.

Instead, he would show him.

He would defeat Near, and his stupid words that meant nothing—he thinks he’s intimidating me somehow, no doubt. As if. This year would be his year. There would be no more time to play. It was all work from here on out. Mello lay back on his bed and stared up at the dark ceiling, thinking, planning. When all this was over, they would look at him like he’d been looking at himself for the past three months. Like they’d never laid eyes on him before. They would notice him. By the end, they’d have no choice.

Because, come hell or high water, he’d make them.