Log [Complete] // Stains and Hatred

[nicotine-sky.livejournal.com]

Who: Matt [nicotine_sky] and Near [white_puzzles]
Where Near's room
When: A few hours after Near posts
Rating: PG-13 for language
Summary: One white. One red. Both stained with black. Together.
the Story:

Hell, Hell, Hell. A four-lettered word that meant everything and anything, and repeated endlessly, again and again and again, an obscenity on a broken record – Hell, Hell, Hell. Leather boots hit carpet with muffled thuds like a broken heartbeat, and ash drifted to the floor, but Matt cared about none of this. –what did he care about, anyway? Confusion, confusion, what to trust? – no matter how he phrased the question, he kept drawing blanks. ERROR, ERROR, PLEASE RE ENTER DATA. An internal loop that kept repeating, Mail Jeevas, what are you going to do? (My name is Mihael, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.) “Fuck you, too.” Words spat out quietly, bitterly around a burning stick of cancer, leaving a sick aftertaste; Matt let them drift apart in the air before the door to room 314. The golden number plate on the door glittered dully (like his hair) and in sharp contrast with the darkened wood (his eyes). (You’ve failed him and there’s nothing you can do.) A hand reached up hesitantly, fist clenched tight, fingernails digging into his palms even through the layer of thick leather (--like back then), before knocking once, twice, after a pause, a third time, then silence while he waited. Hollow words seen on a monitor meant nothing to him, and he hadn’t been able to keep the question down once he’d seen those words, once he’d realized that there was another person who might have fallen victim (he hated that word, and he knew how much Mello hated it too) to that monster. (Did he get to you, too?) “Near, it’s me.” Hoarse words that sounded dirty, dirty, dirty. He swallowed, once, tried to get the taste of tar and toxins to keep the uneasiness out of his voice. “Open up.” Life passed in front of Near’s eyes like a movie he was merely watching. An uninteresting, empty movie, as the wall in front of the bed he was resting upon had very little to offer. The sharp pain on his back didn’t want to leave, even if the only movements he did were to breathe -which sometimes he wished he could stop doing- and it was making it difficult to arrange his thoughts properly. What was there to think about, anyway? Mello. Only Mello. The damn blond had been haunting his mind too much lately, and Near had started to seriously fear for his own sanity. Mello was a cancer, he knew this, and he couldn’t help but wonder why in the death’s god name he had allowed such an illness to take over him. Mello was still necessary. Of course. Mello was still important. Undeniable. Just... not under Near’s skin. The knock on the door had been both ignored and feared, but Near’s brain didn’t take long to register that whoever was on the other side, it wasn’t the one named Mihael. He wouldn’t have knocked, he never did; his style was more invading and violating at his free will without asking permission. The familiar voice that followed the knocks was somehow reassuring, but not really what Near needed right now. L was away, and the effort it took Near to stand up from the bed was just too much. He managed, though, if only because he had wished to speak to Matt from a while before. “Matt,” was his greeting to the boy once the door was open. His usually vacant eyes looked slightly pained, although they didn’t reflect how much everything –even the air- actually hurt. Not to say that it was missed. That twinge of fear. That slight spark of pain and almost animal, almost instinctual trace of a hunted animal. Something that’s been damaged, been hurt. He came here, didn’t he? “Hey, Near.” Lies, lies, smooth everything over with honeyed words. Matt tried to keep the tension out of his voice, and succeeded. (Maybe if we avoid the problem it’ll lessen, because we’re all cowards like that.) “Can I come in?” Without really waiting for an answer, he leaned against the door, subtly hinting without words, I need to talk to you. It seemed to be happening more and more often these days – N, please, I have a question, help me, help me – and he thought it pathetic, but what else was there to do? Because white always had black, and Near and Mello were a tangled knot that could never be undone. (I’m just along for the ride.) Near, you’re the one he needs, craves, is addicted to. I want to know the answers, and you’re the one who’d know them. Near turned to walk back into the room, dragging along the pain on his back as little as possible by taking tiny steps. "Please come in. I also wanted to speak with you." Of course, they already knew what this was all about. It was blatantly obvious what they both had in common, and probably it was the only significant detail that they acknowledged in one another, the engine that seemed to make everything move around them. They were to address the very same issue; a very cruel and blond issue that had Midas' touch of destruction. Near had wondered if Matt had also fallen victim to him; it was most likely he had, but he was still what Near deemed his last hope. Near had always been aware of the bond Matt and Mello shared, the only bond of such that has ever existed in Mello's life. Perhaps Matt was the one who made Mello human, and therefore, the only being capable of stopping this madness. Near carefully planted himself on the bed, raising his eyes slightly to observe the other boy and waiting for the first shot to be fired. The door shut with a heavy click behind him as Matt stepped into the room, eyes trained on Near's frail shape. Smaller steps than usual, slightly hunched shoulders, those traces of fear hidden amid black eyes. Yes, Near had been visited by the blond hellion they were both entranced by (enchained, prisoned, in its clutches, forever and ever). It was only a question of how bad the damage had been. (He won't kill you. He won't. But he would do worse.) As Near sat down on the bed, he pulled over the chair from the desk, seating himself uneasily on it, legs crossed. The bruises that littered his hips and arms stung with every move, but he ignored them (they're not there, not there) as he slung an arm over the back of the chair, trying to look casual. Bluff your way through the problem, like an animal bristles and tries to look strong. Tries, being the key words. Who was he kidding, they were both at the mercy of good old M. "What did he do to you?" No more beating around the bush. Matt forced his words into a flat, gray monotone, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette as he spoke. And of course, he didn't need to elaborate who 'he' was. (I know he's been here, I know he did something to you. If he'd hurt you, I don't know what he'd do to others. I don't know how far he'd go.) "I'm guessing it's pretty bad." The question didn't take long to resound in the silent room, just like it only took Near a few seconds to visualize the whole scene in his head. As an investigator, he'd been faced with countless atrocities, murders that oddly reflected the experience he had just lived. It'd always been easy to simply study the cases from the view of a third party, unaffected, intact. This time, however, the situation had ironically been reversed; he had stopped being a mere observer and was thrust into the role of the protagonist. "He marked me as his possession." Near's tone was devoid of anything but coldness. His hands were resting on his lap as he spoke, oddly quiet, not performing his characteristic hair twirl. Every single movement was deadly, so Near had resolved to remain static like the lifeless doll he had always been mistaken for. Mello's doll, with his name properly carved in his body; red and white mixed together, beautiful, perfect. “What did he do to you?” he echoed, aware that the force which drove Matt to visit him couldn’t be mere concern. 'Marked.' Such an ambiguous word, and yet, seeing as it was Mihael they were talking about, the possibilities of what that word meant were pretty much limited. No doubt something that was twisted, dark (not something Mello would do), something painful and scarring and bloody and wrong. Matt knew better than to ask further, but mulled over the words for a moment. How very like of him. Mihael. No doubt he wanted to establish himself as a power, to claim things. Make them his own. (Was that what he was doing for me, too?) When the same question he'd asked was thrown back in his face, he nearly flinched. Nearly. He'd been expecting it, but now that he had to answer it, he couldn't help but ask himself, Mihael, what was it that you wanted to do? "I guess he did the same for me." Words thrown out carelessly, like trash, garbage, filth and dirt, because they meant nothing, nothing. And, for a moment, Matt looked truly troubled, because what Mihael had done wasn't what Mello would have done. Mihael =/= Mello. The logic didn't work, and Matt hated it. A pause, then he spoke again, quietly. (Near, you'd find out sooner or later, and you should know what he's done. Maybe you can help bring him back if you realize just how wrong this incarnation is.) The words were hollow, tinged with a bitter, bitter laugh, a crooked smile on his face. (You know what I mean, don't you?) "I had sex with him." Had Near been twirling his hair, his hand would have frozen for a moment. Instead, it was his breathing which stopped for a second – just like the whole world. His eyes remained as vacant as ever when they were turned away from Matt, focusing on any random spot on the floor. Focus, just focus. "......" Matt had referred to the situation as Mihael marking him as his property, meaning that Mello had never dared to go that far with him. It was Mihael, not Mello, who was the person who took him; but perhaps Matt was more upset about the possibility that Mello would never do such a thing to him (self-torture? Typical of you, Mello...). "You thought it was Mello at first," Near finally stated, calmly, carefully. The urge to twirl his hair was strong, but he fought it by gripping his white trousers. Near was sure that, at a certain point, Matt had realized who the person in front of him was. There was no way that Mihael, the boy who struggled to be noticed instead of Mello, wouldn’t have wanted to claim authorship of the work until the very end. Matt’s sentence implied that he’d been willing, or had at least simply allowed it. Hadn’t he struggled at all? “...Why did you let him do it?” A pause, and Matt laughed softly. "I didn't." He cleared his throat, pulled out a cigarette and twirled it in his fingers for a moment, staring at it blankly. It took him a moment to find his lighter - his fingers felt clumsy, movements jerky and disconnected - and he didn't rest easy until he tasted the bitter tang of cigarette smoke. (Felt it start to kill him slowly again.) "He's stronger than he looks." (You know now. You should know.) The topic was making him uneasy, and he got up, pacing the floor in a large circle as he smoked, scanning the room in search of something he could look at - he didn't want to look at the other boy, now that they were laid bare to each other, now that they had told each other how they'd been defiled. (Or at least me. How pathetic.) "Mihael." He managed to say the name without too much emotion, managed to keep down the poison in his voice as he said those three syllables, spat them out with a lungful of smoke. "According to what he said, I'm guessing he's the one keeping Mello down. Multiple personality disorder. I guess I should have listened to you sooner." His words were tinted with bitter amusement, and his steps were off-beat, dragging across the carpet. "I'm guessing he was --created when Mello left the orphanage, it would make sense." A pause, and he turned to face the other, leaning against a set of drawers, barely managing to stare the other boy in the eye, his voice quiet. "...you know something about him, don't you?" 'I didn't.' It was amazing how two simple -very simple- and casual words were able to hold such a horrid meaning. Behind them, a whole wicked story proved how fairy tales didn’t happen, not even in Wonderland. Especially in Wonderland. Near didn't flinch, and his eyes didn't leave that uninteresting spot on the floor, not once. Instead, his mind was processing the information, fitting all the pieces together and visualizing the nightmare as it might have happened. Matt wasn’t going to forget this, and it was likely he would be unconsciously wary of Mello from now on. Good job. Stronger than he looked? Perhaps it was so... or perhaps Matt would simply never dare to lift a finger against him, Near mused. He already had an idea of how the boy reacted around Mello, and somehow, he wouldn’t be surprised if things had happened that way. Pushing other interfering and more personal thoughts (as well as the pain from his body) aside, Near managed to focus once more on the matter at hand: “Mihael was created to deal with unpleasant events that Mello lacked the courage to face. You could say he was Mello’s savior, as stupid as that might sound.” Stupid, because Mihael was clearly destroying everything Mello cared about; Matt was the living proof. “It’s my fault that he is here now,” he explained. “Mello couldn’t take the fact that I had to move on without him. Perhaps he just wanted to punish me for wanting to, let’s say, get rid of him by disappearing for real.” Because Mello was too selfish to have done this for Near’s sake. Matt had been honest with him about a very delicate matter; it was only fair that Near would share his experience in return. Although, truth be told, the main reason Near was sharing it was because he still considered Matt to be Mello’s last hope. The puzzle pieces click together. Matt breathed out slowly, and looked up, watched the smoke drift up to the ceiling, break apart into a thin, thin cloud before dissipating into nothing. (Like us, like us.) So, Mello, this is what you've been hiding? This is the monster that you've been growing inside of you? Sure, they'd all studied Multiple Personality Disorder before. They all had, back at the House, just in case they ever ran into a case which involved a crazy person spouting multiple identities. But who would have imagined one of them would fall victim to the very thing they were prepared to capture in others? Oh, Mello, nobody would have expected it of you, but I guess you're still just human in the end. Matt remained silent for a long moment, trying to digest this information. It say heavy in his stomach, like lead, like vomit, and he felt sick, almost. Near had wanted to escape here. Mello had wanted to escape the truth. Enter Mihael, the twisted guardian angel. It sounded like something out of the Bible (Father, rain down thy wrath on thy pathetic children) and Matt laughed dryly, almost choked on a lungful of smoke. "I see." The words were said more for the sake of filling the uncomfortable silence, because they meant nothing. Both of them knew it. Matt sat back down heavily on the chair, taking a long drag at his cigarette, before speaking again. "Do you have any--" A brief pause. (You don't sound remorseful about this at all, Near. Tell me, tell me, do you like this monster, Near? Do you like this thing you've brought out? I can't help but hate you, just a little, because look what you've brought out into the light here.) "--ideas on what to do now?" (Will you tell me?) "Yes" Near's tone kept monotone, flat and vacant. Never revealing; always hiding. Becoming affected by any kind of situation like others would be was far from helpful - Mello was perfect proof. The blond had always let his emotions consume him, to the point where he, himself, instinctively stopped being himself to protect his cowardly self. But... Who wasn't a coward? Near was no exception, neither Matt... The boy would forever follow Mello like a loyal dog, keeping the vast majority of his feelings locked inside. Unspoken secrets filling every corner of his gestures and his voice... just like Near. “I was the person who made Mello want to disappear.” Near had many secrets, many. Never revealing, always hiding. “You are the person who might give him a reason to stay.” ...Like the fact hatred had always been reciprocal. re was a moment of heavy silence (stop your breath, clutch your throat, let's all wait till our least breaths sound) before Matt gave a breathy laugh, his eyes narrowed behind his goggles. "A reason to stay?" That's what I'd like to believe. He shook his head. (Near, you know the truth. He lives for himself, for you. I'm the bystander, the unrelated third, number three has no place between one and two.) "Maybe. Maybe, Near. But I'm not sure." Rummaging through the pocket in his vest, he withdrew a bottle of painkillers, tossing it onto the bed beside Near. A roll of bandages followed closely, and Matt forced his words into a casual monotone. "Use those. I'd expected something to have happened. Don't know if you're the pill-popping type, but they'll help if whatever he did to you is real bad." He'd purchased them earlier on that morning, while out on an errand - to buy a weapon to help him chase the monster away - and bought them on an impulse. (Maybe they'll help, maybe they won't. See if I care. I do, I don't, I don't know.) And now that he'd dropped them off - a poor exchange for the information he'd been given, but he had nothing else to give - he didn't want to stay any longer. Not with the person who'd drawn out that beast. (No, no, it's not your fault. I'm sorry I feel like this. But understand, I can't help it.) Pushing off the closet, he turned towards the door. "I'll be going, then. You should rest." Words that were empty, meaningless. Static and noise. Lit with an apathetic smile. Near's head turned slightly to look at the object Matt had thrown onto his bed, responding to it with a short and neutral "thank you". He actually appreciated it, because the usefulness of painkillers in a situation like his was undeniable. Or at least, he hoped for that usefulness to be true, as he'd never had the chance to use them before. Then Matt was leaving the room. That was a good sign, Near mused. Leaving right after hearing the information meant that Matt was decided to finally do something about the matter -- or try to, in that regard. "Do your best," were Near's last words for the boy, before this one disappeared behind a door that had hardly separated Near from the world that he wanted to hide from.