This is not recommended for anyone who hasn't read page.77 because you won't have a clue what's going on. This takes place right after their meeting (zomg I love that scene o). So... if you don't know what I'm talking about, chances are that this fic will contain spoilers for you.

This is just something that came into my head and wouldn't get out 'til I wrote it. Mello's fun. I liked writing this. I love Mello and Near--they're so much fun together.

Warnings: cursing and underage drinking. Written by someone who doesn't do either... so if a daiquiri would actually taste disgusting with chocolate, I apologize for my idiocy.

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Death Note. In fact, I have yet to acquire the tenth volume, despite all my best efforts.

Mello made his way out of the SPK building, went a few blocks, and then sighed lightly. "Hmph," he muttered with a faint, sardonic smile gracing his lips. "Dammit."

And the worst part was that so little of it had been surprising.

Mello put up his hood and tugged it down over his eyes. The first thing to do, he decided, was to find some club—preferably a crowded, hot, loud one—and to get a table and just sit there. He was in the mood to be anonymous; there was something comforting to him about being with so many people and yet being completely unknown. Of course, anonymity was essential in the Kira case, but… it was more than that.

Mello just preferred not to be known.

He soon found a busy nightclub. Getting in was no problem; the security guards had obviously been sampling the bar's wares and were more for show, anyway. It was unlikely they would have cared that Mello was underage even if they were sober.

The music inside was perfect: just short of being unbearably loud, with a strong bass that pulsed upwards through the soles of Mello's feet. All around Mello, people moved against each other to the beat; he, on the other hand, squeezed through the crowd towards the bar, where he ordered the first drink that came to his mind. Then he chose a table near the wall and took a seat.

He pulled a bar of chocolate out of his coat and took a bite, his mind still on the meeting with Near. How is it that while I'm the one who showed up with a hostage at gunpoint, he's still the one who managed to calmly control the situation? It was frustrating, but predictable almost to the point of being funny. Had either of them really changed? Mello had always been the one to lose his cool and make hasty decisions, Near the one to give civil, serene commentary as he patiently waited for Mello to calm down.

That was what Mello hated most of all—the patronizing way Near would wait and keep speaking in that maddeningly level tone. "If you wish to shoot me, then please shoot"? Bull. Near had just been waiting for Mello to realize the consequences of such an action, like a teacher waits for a student to reach a solution on his own.

And Near had trusted that Mello would realize; that grated on Mello's nerves too. Near always seemed to trust Mello, but whether that was some weird form of affection or whether it was just because Near could predict him so easily, Mello couldn't tell. Either way, he didn't like it. He felt like shouting at Near sometimes—"Don't you realize that I hate you!" But then he'd just get an answer like, "I know that. But you're not a fool, Mello."

Near always talked as though he was so superior. Like when he gave Mello the photograph back. Near had quietly made it very clear how much effort he'd gone through to hide Mello's face—to protect Mello—as if Mello were a small child who couldn't look after himself. Mello hated it. He dug the photo out of his pocket and glared at the words on the back. Dear Mello, Near had written, as if starting a letter. But those two words already sent all the message they needed to send. Near had foreseen everything—again, and Mello had played right into Near's plans—again. Just like always.

Hmph. Mello finished the chocolate and chased it down with a sip of his drink, a daiquiri. Damn Near anyway.

But, Mello admitted to himself, it wasn't as though Near's attitude was the only factor in his foul mood. He was rather cross with himself as well, for losing his temper. No—not for that, exactly, but for being so irrational when he lost his temper. He'd made a fool of himself, almost killing Near on a whim, which in turn would have meant his own death… and then to be lectured by Halle like that… Mello unwrapped a new chocolate bar and bit off a piece with a particularly loud snap. "Humiliating" didn't even begin to describe it.

Dammit, why couldn't he think straight when he got worked up? Everything Halle had said—it made perfect sense to Mello. Of course killing Near would just make Kira happy and take away Mello's motivation. Mello knew that. He had always known that. But when he got angry, those things just didn't occur to him.

Mello was almost disgusted with himself. I really would have shot him, he thought with a mixture of scorn and guilt. Wouldn't have given it a second thought, not then—and they wouldn't give me a chance to, of course, they'd shoot me right away… Now that he wasn't angry, he could see just how ridiculously simple his options had been.

And yet he had almost chosen the wrong one.

Mello took another sip of his daiquiri and finished off the second chocolate bar. "Idiot," he muttered to himself. Neither of them could die; they couldn't allow that. They both had to keep living, to challenge Kira, to catch him—and to drive one another forward towards that goal. In that way, they needed each other. Mello understood that well. "If you kill Near now, catching Kira later would mean nothing to you." Halle's words were only too true; more than anything else, even more than Kira, Near was Mello's goal. Kira only served as the target they would both aim for.

In a way, though he'd been furious at Near for using him, Mello had always used Near—as a standard for comparison and as a goal. And by permitting Mello to do so, Near used Mello to bring both of them closer to catching Kira. It was a subtle, twisted mutualism, but Mello and Near existed for one another.

One wouldn't always be able to tell that, of course. The two certainly weren't working together, and probably never would work together without one trying to best the other. But they wouldn't really work against each other, either. They would hover somewhere middle, in a much more complicated state, playing a game of skill and brains and chance that they would both enjoy immensely. In the end, one of them would have the target—Kira would be the loser.

"And I'll win." Mello said out loud, forcefully. He stood and, leaving his drink, pushed his way back outside. Nothing would stop him. He was going to be number one.