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Hurt
Current mood: artistic



I don't care if you're going to think that about me.

You know that it's not true. You know

…

…Profanity…so pointless. Fine. You can hate me.

You'll forgive me.

You can't help yourself, now.

It's just who you are. Right? Am I right?

Of course I am.

…

…What?

No, I'm not laughing at you.

…Stop crying. Oh, come now…I'm not laughing. I'm not. I could never laugh at you.

…

…M…

(You'll never see the courage I know,
Its colors, richness, won't appear within your view,
I'll never glow the way that you glow,
Your presence dominates the judgements made on you…)

But he was.

He was always laughing.

That was Near: his stupid games, his damned puzzles, his ******** tricks. He thought I wasn't…no, he knew. He knew that I wasn't good enough to take L's place, once he was gone for good. He knew that I wasn't, and that he was. Long before L left…Near knew, goddamnit, he knew. And he flaunted it, in his little irritating ways. In ways that no one else could see but me.

Because he liked to play with me.

The little b*****d.

Because I hated to play with him. I would never play with him when L was around. I always wanted to tag along with L, wanted to learn from him, wanted to observe him, to absorb him. But L wanted to play with Near, and Near wanted to play with me. So we would all end up playing together, and I would sit there as they smiled at me, at each other. I would stare blankly back at them, always envious of Near, and how much L favored him. So jealous of him that it made me sick.

…I wanted to be him.

I longed to be him.

I would push him away, try to ditch him whenever I found out that L was playing alone somewhere in the orphanage, so that I could be the first and only one to find L and play with him. But L would get distracted when he and I were alone together. He would leave me, even, and he wouldn't come back until he found Near. Sometimes he wouldn't come back at all, and I would have to go and find him again: find him playing with Near, find them laughing together on the floor of mine and Near's room, without a care in the world, not even seeming to remember that I existed.

And then Near would turn his head, so suavely, and ask me to join them with that frustrating little smile on his face. With his shoulder slightly hunched, with his bangs hanging, messy, in front of his pale gray eyes.

GodDAMN him.

And I would coldly and flatly turn him down, just to see the disappointment flash in his face for that one sweet second.

"…Very well, then," he would say, and then he would turn back to L and smile again, his eyes glistening, victorious, full of so much undeserved happiness. I would turn and leave them, fighting back angry tears, knowing that I had lost.

And I would hate him.

I would hate him so much that it hurt.

(But as the scenery grows I see in different lights,
The shades and shadows undulate in my perception,
My feelings swell and stretch, I see from greater heights,
I understand what I am still too proud to mention…to you…)

…After L left us at the orphanage, I thought things were going to be much, much simpler. Near and I began our training, and, I thought, he would certainly leave me alone, what with being provided with so many new and far more exciting and idiotic playmates that he could outwit.

I was wrong, though: he wanted to be close to me even more than before, he wanted to spend every waking moment with me. He followed me when we weren't studying, watched me when I sat down to read or tried to relax for a moment or two: was somehow always there when I wanted to be alone. I ignored him and tried to focus on my studies, loathing how idle-minded he was. He would lie there on the floor with his jigsaw puzzle or book of crosswords and slug away at that while I sat cross-legged on my bed and plowed through tomes of physics and law and calculus and syllogism, and I could feel him watching me. I could feel his despicable little smile, burning into the side of my skull.

And I hate to admit it, but eventually, I started returning those annoying little looks of his, curious about just what he was doing. Because it seemed, to me, that in his world, the crosswords, the Rubik's Cube, the jigsaw puzzle, the dice-stacking, the model-building…it was always so much more than just a foolish game.

(You say you understand, but you don't understand,
You say you'll never give up seeing eye to eye,
But never is a promise, and you can't afford to lie…)

…He could tell when I started to crack under the pressure of becoming the next L: when his easygoing view on the whole situation started to really get under my skin. That was when he started his new games: his torture games. He would say one thing to me, even though I knew that he meant entirely the opposite, and he would never laugh when I got flustered, never lose his poker face. Usually he would wait until I was ready to storm off, or until I had started screaming before he would grin at me and so softly, so coolly, tell me to calm down. Once I had, he would leave me alone, and I would never know when he was going to go at it again.

In some ways, it helped me: it let me blow off steam that had built up from all of those grueling lessons, for one. And I always felt better when I was yelling at him. But I still hated him for being able to manipulate me so easily. It was as if I was under his thumb, his eternal puppet. He drove me insane. I tried to close myself off from him, but I couldn't. I constantly had him on my mind, praying that he would ******** up even the tiniest bit so that I could laugh in his smartass face and screw with his mind, for once in our lives.

But he never did.

He was always so damn perfect.

He was always…just…like…L.

And I couldn't stand it.

Because I…wasn't.

(You'll never touch these things that I hold,
The skin of my emotions lies beneath my own, You'll never feel the heat of this soul,
My fever burns me deeper than I've ever shown…to you…)

I strove to be the best: strove to stand out, but he was always one, two, three steps ahead of me. I could solve this equation in ten seconds; he could do it in seven. I wrote a four hundred page thesis on Einstein's theory of relativity; he wrote one with five hundred pages and a font two sizes smaller than mine. I answered every question on the Jeopardy! board; he calculated how much money I would win if I got the daily doubles as the last questions in both rounds, bet it all in all three daily doubles and in final jeopardy, and came back to the show once…for a week…for a month…for a year…

I would draw a picture.

He would paint a masterpiece.

I would whistle a tune.

He would write a twelve-part symphony.

I would lose my temper.

He would remedy the situation with a smile on his face.

…I got so mad at him. So mad at him. Once, he tried me so badly, pushed me so far in, that I actually hit him. Hard, too, on the left side of his jaw, if I remember correctly. He stared at me after I had done it, startled, his eyes wide and his eyebrows high, buried in that nest of platinum hair. I stared back, my chest heaving with angry breaths, my face pink with adrenaline behind my mess of blonde bangs.

A moment of silence passed.

Then I hit him again.

And again.

And again.

I backed him into a corner, smacking him, punching him, gritting my teeth, staring at him and beating him furiously until I got him to let out a few soft cries of pain. Then I stopped and let him look up at me with those shining, genial eyes of his, and I glared down at him.

"…Do you feel better?" he asked me, reaching up and touching his bruising face with his thin little fingers. His voice was shaking, weakened, pained. I narrowed my eyes at him, couldn't bear to look away from the result of my anger, proud of what I had done. My fists were still clenched at my sides.

"…Yes, actually," I spat in reply, and his eyes glistened. Tears had welled there from the sting of my blows, and it felt good—it felt so ******** great—to know that I had made him cry. He blinked them back, but one fell loose, and I watched it slide down his face and drip off of his chin, my grin twisted behind my lips. He furrowed his eyebrows and wiped the tear's trail gingerly out from under his swelling eye.

"Well," he said softly, and his tone made my eyes widen again in sudden shock. Out of nowhere, it was strong again. So ******** strong and relaxed, even though I had just beaten him horribly and told him that I had enjoyed it. I stared. Guilt stabbed me viciously in the chest. How the ******** could he DO that? I shrieked at myself. WHY could he do that? My cheeks burned with unwanted shame. "…Well, I'm glad, then," he whispered, leaning forward a bit and gazing deeply into my face.

We stared at each other, and he smiled that maddening smile of his. My lungs ached. My vision blurred. I fell to the floor, shuddering, weeping, and I buried myself in his knees, begging for forgiveness.

After a brief moment, he knelt to be at my level…as I would never have done for him. And he embraced me like his brother, like L had always embraced him when he was upset. He held me as if I were his equal. And I knew, as I always did, that he was ******** lying to me.

But back then, I didn't care.

…

…I didn't care.

(You say don't fear your dreams, it's easier than it seems,
You say you'll never let me fall from heights so high,
But never is a promise, and you can't afford to lie…)

…There were times, apart from that, when we did get along. When we had breaks from lessons in the summer, we would laze about together: me on the floor with a book and a pillow, him leaning against my bent legs, twisting that Rubik's Cube. Or maybe I would doze off in the courtyard under a tree that L had always liked, and I would wake up to find Near sound asleep in the grass beside me. Or we would play chess, and he would let me win. And sometimes, I would sit still and let him fiddle with my hair while I watched the news, scanning for any word of L and his work on the Kira case.

I noticed that…when we weren't fighting with one another, we were rarely ever speaking to each other. It was almost like some unspoken agreement between us, where the silence…just seemed to allow us to enjoy each other's company. But…for some reason…I also remember a few rainy days in the summer, when we would lie together in our room, talking about completely pointless things to pass the time. I remember laughing, and I remember being happy, then.

…I guess…I don't really know what happened to those times.

…I just…stopped being happy. Because I suppose…I would forget about those days, and he would make me mad again.

…Or I would break down, and he would hold me.

(You'll never live this life that I live,
I'll never live the life that wakes me in the night,
You'll never hear the message I give,
You'll say it looks as though I might give up this fight…)

…I…

…I remember him…telling me that he was willing to save me from myself.

He did it about the sixth time that I cracked. He smoothed my hair and patted my back, and told me that he knew how much I hated to be so angry all the time. That he wanted to help me to be happy again, and to help me to begin to enjoy my life, because I deserved it.

I stared up at him, my eyes streaming. I screamed denial at him. I yearned to pull away, loathing how exposed I felt, huddled in his caring arms. But he held me closer, rested his face in my hair, buried me in the starch of his shirt. I sobbed, told him that I didn't deserve s**t. That I would never be as good as he was, that I would never even compare. And that because of that, the only thing that I deserved was to be miserable.

…He leaned down and whispered my real name into my ear, and I shuddered, couldn't stand it. He parted my bangs and pressed his lips into my forehead, ran his fingers down my jaw. I grabbed his shoulders, pushed him back, and kissed him as hard as I could. I snaked my arms around him, caught fistfuls of his shirt, pressed his chest into mine to feel his heart. We fell over onto the floor and ended, somehow, with him above me. He pulled away from me, looked down into my face as I panted for breath through my tears and lechery and shame. I waited for him to yell, or to stand up and walk away, or to punch me.

But he just…smiled at me.

Like he always did.

That dumbass smile. It broke my ******** heart.

And it was then, if I recall. It was on that day…that we finally accepted each other for what we were. It was on that day that we first shared something stronger than friendship: something deeper than hatred: something more passionate than the rivalry that had always bound us to each other in the past. I realized then that the friction of the past was all due to my unwillingness to cooperate…all due to my fear of him, of his abilities, and of myself. Our minds were opened, once he had helped me to conquer that fear: together, we saw and experienced the only things that had ever remained mysteries to either of us. I learned of him, and he of I.

We felt beyond the boundaries of our bones and our flesh, and we realized all of each other.

…It lasted for all of twenty-seven days. But the peace, in that time…the ease of my studies…the looks exchanged, the words shared…the softness of his touch, the sweetness of his smile…all of it would have brought L to his knees, in shock that we could be so civil to one another. I went out of my way to be kind to Near: to ask him how he was feeling, to alphabetize his books for him, to clean up after him, to embrace him when he seemed ill at ease. And he, in return, was gentle, always so gentle to me during those days…the way he would quietly point out a devastating flaw in my work…or the way he would unexpectedly wrap his arms around me from behind…

…The way he would whisper…that I was good enough.

…And I…

…I would love him.

I would love him so much that it hurt.

(But as the scenery grows I see in different lights,
The shades and shadows undulate in my perception,
My feelings swell and stretch, I see from greater heights,
I realize what I am now too smart to mention…to you…)

For some reason, I don't think that it ended on the same day for both of us. I think that, perhaps a week before he truly lost faith in it—in me—I came to the conclusion that Near had started his tricks again. I was certain that he was just playing along, trying to keep me upright for a little while longer, just enough for me to be stable again before he would urge me to argue with him again. I remember thinking that his eyes had lost that heat, that his body had abandoned the lust that still governed mine…and he would smile warmly at me, but I would have to fight to convince myself that there was still something there for me.

I remember when I told him that I thought he was playing me for a fool. That he was just using me, because he liked to see me weak.

I remember…

…I realized a moment after I said the words, dripping with venom, anger coating each syllable, that I had made the worst mistake of my life. His eyes lost warmth then, his hands tightened, his back tensed. He glared at me, stepped back, watched my face, watched the way I was breathing.

"…I don't care if you're going to think that about me," he said, quiet, collected, though I knew he was raging inside. "…You know that it's not true. You know."

I swallowed the aching lump in my throat, fought the spiteful tears back. I couldn't believe that I hadn't trusted him. I couldn't believe that I had been the one to ******** it up once again. After I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't screw myself over anymore.

I grabbed the front of his shirt and glowered down into his eyes, and I recalled his fingertips, his soft mouth, his hitching breath, his words. I hated it. I hated all of it.

Because I hadn't been able to make myself trust any of it.

"SHUT UP, N!," I screamed, shaking him. He was limp in my hands. "YOU THINK YOU'RE SO HIGH AND MIGHTY, THINK YOU'RE BETTER THAN ME, BUT YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME! YOU LITTLE ********! YOU PIECE OF s**t! ******** YOU!"

He watched me with those big, wide eyes of his, waiting for me to finish. Then he sighed, reaching up and casually unhooking my fingers from his shirtfront.

"…Profanity…" he murmured, shaking his head, "so pointless. Fine. You can hate me." He blinked, glanced me over. There was no affection within him anymore. At least…none that I could sense. "…You'll forgive me. You can't help yourself, now."

I stared at him, my face burning. Liquid traced my cheeks, unnoticed. He raised his eyebrows at me.

"…It's just who you are," he breathed. He hesitated. Then: "Right? Am I right?"

Another pause. I didn't answer. I couldn't. My heart was a hollow lump, useless in my chest, worthless without his love.

He smiled. "Of course I am."

I sniffed, coughed, choked on a sob. I felt so shitless, crying in front of him now. While he stared up at me, short, shorter than me. Below me. But I felt so small. "…St-stop…stop laughing at me…are y-you laughing?"

He blinked. "…What? No, I'm not laughing at you."

His poker face. I tried to meet his gaze, but I couldn't. I turned away. "…Stop crying," he demanded. I sobbed harder. He sighed again. "Oh, come now…I'm not laughing. I'm not. I could never laugh at you."

Sobbing.

Silence.

"…M…"

(You say you'll understand, you'll never understand,
I say I'll never wake up, knowing how or why,
I don't know what to believe in, you don't know who I am,
You say I need appeasing when I start to cry,
But never is a promise, and I never need a lie…)