Death Note Empathy

Empathy

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Mello.

He was always motivated, passionate, and ambitious. With that, of course, there was his infamous inferiority complex. He could never be good enough. Even if he managed to suprass me, which I doubt he could ever do so, it would have never been enough. He hated me—or at least he liked to tell himself that. I believe that he used me as a vessel to channel his own internal anger and frustration. Or he could've genuinely hated me. I don't know. What I do know is that I have never hated him. I'm actually rather fond of him. At times I found myself envious of how social and likeable he could be. He was very persuasive and cunning. However, I mostly envied his ambition and unprecedented drive. I've never seen him settle for anything he thought was subpar. I've also never seen him give up. With one exception, but it was only momentary.

I was 13 and he had just turned 14. Mello and I had just taken a test of some sort, a test Mello had spent the entire weekend studying for. As an administrator handed our tests back, she announced that I had the highest score in the class. Usually I wouldn't look back at Mello. He'd make a snide and hateful comment and possibly even just start screaming or aggressively grunting. Yet my eyes drifted to Mello and my ears concentrated on my teacher stating the second best in the class: Matt. What I saw surprised me, and changed the way I saw Mello.

He wasn't angry. For a second he looked extremely annoyed but then I saw his heart drop. His face went completely blank and he didn't even look to me. I could see his chest caving in and head gradually dropping. A subtle frown formed on his face and for the first time in my life I could feel another person's emotions. It was overwhelming. In songs and media it sounded like such an exaggeration but my heart literally felt as though it had been ripped out. I could see in Mello, how he felt like an empty shell. That feeling of worthlessness. It was the straw that broke the camel's back, and he was broken. The angry façade was gone and I saw what Mello truly felt.

It's an experience I'd prefer not to relive.

I left the classroom, throwing out my grade on the way out. Mello just sat in his seat for a couple more seconds, and I left before I could see what he did next. I didn't see him all throughout lunch either. I may have sat alone every day, but I wasn't oblivious to my surroundings. That whole classroom drama set me off so I couldn't think properly, which is why I tend to not let my emotions get to me. I acknowledge them and let them pass. Holding onto them has never seemed reasonable to me. I don't normally feel any form of empathy.

That night was especially sleepless. I wondered if Mello was feeling the same. I just kept thinking about it. Reliving it. Reliving those feelings over and over and over. Instead of tinkering with toys and puzzles I lied down in my bed. I felt sensations I hadn't felt in a while. Like the cool touch of my pillow, or the way the dark stood still at times and danced during others, or how good it felt to stretch my back. I felt as much as I could, because I've never been exempt from feeling. Most times, I just don't want to feel.

Then there was a sound. Slightly inaudible, nothing that would wake anyone up, but I was drawn to it. I stood to my feet and slowly approached the sound. It led me through the kitchen into the common room. I saw a figure on the ground propped up by a chair. A lamp next to him flickered, it illuminated some of the area but turned his body into a silhouette. His head was tilted back, looking up to the ceiling. His hand was loosely held around a short glass cup. He reached for a box of red wine, filled his cup half way. He then began choking down his whole glass, and filled it up half way again. I stood in the darkness observing him. His chest expanded slowly as he drew in breath. Holding in the air for a second, and the breath came out of his mouth with a quiet sound. I watched him and noticed my own breath becoming in sync with his.

Eventually, I sauntered to him. I knew it was Mello and the closer I got, the better I could see Mello's face. Even so, he still didn't look at me no matter how close I got. I was standing over him and just observing him as he took another swig of wine. His hair was in his face covering his eyes. I sat to get a better view of him. One of my knees was to my chest, the other to the floor. We sat together in silence.

"What are you doing?" I asked Mello.

He huffed, "Changing the oil in my car. What does it look like I'm doing?" He looked at me and then averted his eyes.

"Where'd you get the wine?" I looked over to it.

"Does it matter?" Mello poured himself more.

I sat awkwardly, unsure of what I wanted to say. To say my social skills were unpolished was an understatement. Perhaps the same could've been said for Mello.

"Whats wrong?"

More silence.

"Why do you care?" Mello pulled his knees close to himself and finally looked at me. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

"I don't know." I said with my usual tone.

He scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"But, I do care..." I'd caught his attention. So I asked a second time, "What's wrong?"

"You don't understand." He was right. I didn't understand.

"So make me."

"You don't know what it's like, Near. I give one-hundred and ten percent all the time and I'm never even close to your fifty percent." His voice choked, "I'm just done being a fool all the time and never being good enough..."

"You're done?"

"I'm sick of being a failure, Near. I'm gonna amount to nothing. I like to trick myself into believing that one day I'm gonna beat you. You and I know that's never gonna happen, just admit it. I'm weak." He was looking at the ground.

I didn't know what to say. I've never known how to console people. Mello was so vulnerable.

"So you're just a quitter then?" It came out so, so wrong.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I mean if you're just gonna quit after all this time I don't know why I'm here."

"Near!"

"That's the truth."

"Then why are you still here?"

I took a couple of seconds to collect myself. "Well, Mello... you've never really given me an opportunity to tell you that I admire some parts of you."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you have many positive traits and characteristics that I don't have and will likely never have. I know that you hate me and all but, I don't see us as rivals, but rather as two individuals working to a goal. If you wanna give up, Mello, that's fine. Be my guest. In all the years I've known you I've seen you knocked down more times than I can count. But one of the most admirable things about you is that every time you're knocked down—no matter how long it takes—you get back up."

We sat in silence, he looked at me with piercing blue eyes. Slowly he got closer to me, uncomfortably close. He lightly gripped my chin and led my lips to his. He kissed me gently, like I was a delicate doll. His hand migrated to my cheek as he pulled me closer, kissing me slowly. I froze, but didn't resist, as his lips traced my own. My eyes began to close and I started kissing back, pressing into him. My fingers touched the back of Mello's neck and I felt how sweaty he was. My mouth opened a little. Mello's tongue entered my mouth and his free hand slid down my back to hold my waist. We continued and he kept pulling me closer to him until our bodies were touching and I was sitting on his lap. My hands wrapped themselves in his soft and now messy hair. I was breathing into him and every sensation was surprisingly appealing. His hand was still on my cheek pulling me even closer to him. Our kisses became hungry, desperate. I could feel his heart beat in my chest.

We came to an abrupt stop as he pulled away. Our breathing was ragged and heavy. I got off of him, still catching my breath. I stood and went to my bedroom, not looking back to Mello. In my bedroom I tried to figure out what happened. I touched my lips with the same delicacy Mello did. In those moments when his lips touched mine, it was the first time I questioned if he truly hated me.

The next morning Mello woke up as if the previous day never happened. He was complaining about how hungover he felt. As it turns out, Mello had absolutely no memory of that night. Even if Mello never remembers it, that night changed both of us.


End file.

Death Note, Angst, Hurt-Comfort