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At 10:58 PM on Near’s eighteenth birthday, the phone in the SPK’s main offices rings.

She is the only one left awake. The majority of her agents left hours ago, and Commander Rester, dedicated as she is, understandably retired to bed at a respectable 9:30 PM.

Near rises to answer it. It’s the first time she has moved in— three hours, she thinks. Maybe four. Her joints creak slightly, more crackly than she suspects they are supposed to be at this age.

She lifts the phone from its cradle toward the end of the sixth ring and raises it to her ear.

“Hello?”

On the other end of the line, someone’s soft breath ghosts over the microphone. Near holds hers.

“Happy birthday.”

It is a woman’s voice, low and smoky and utterly familiar.

“Mello,” she says. “I’m surprised to hear from you.”

“What,” Mello replies, a smile in her voice, “did you really think I would miss your birthday?”

“You did miss the last four.”

“I’ve been busy,” Mello sighs. “I’m sure you have been, too. Besides, who was I supposed to call? Roger?” She laughs. “I don’t think he would’ve put me through to you. Do you?”

Near twirls the phone cord around her index finger and leans against the wall, tilting her head to hold the phone in place. “Probably not,” she admits. “How did you get this number?”

“That’s a secret.”

“I see,” Near says. Objectively speaking, this is a concerning development; there may, she thinks, be a traitor within the SPK. However, it would be a lie if she claimed to regret Mello finding a way to contact her.

There’s the sound of Mello shifting, her hair or clothing brushing over the microphone, and then a very long silence before she speaks again, long enough that Near is about to say something when Mello suddenly asks—

“What are you wearing?”

Near’s brow furrows in confusion. “What I always have worn.”

“Mm. It’s summer, so— linen, right?”

“Correct.”

She wonders, then, if Mello asked the question to prompt Near to ask the same in return. Sometimes people do that. This is something she has learned since Mello left.

“What are you wearing?” Near asks politely.

“I am wearing,” Mello says, breathy, “black lace. It’s this— this fucking expensive set, you know— nice lingerie. I look good in it.”

The description is extremely vague. Near does not know what nice lingerie looks like— she wears the same kind of cotton boyshort underwear every single day and a soft, thin bra. She also does not, honestly, know what Mello’s aim is in telling her this. It seems unlikely that she would call for the first time in five years to gloat about her finery, so there must be some kind of purpose to it, she just—

“I’m touching myself,” Mello announces.

Near drops the phone.

Or, without the other SPK members, at least. She spots Mello across the space, lit by a hanging bulb, and relaxes slightly. Mello will know what to do; she’s much better at thinking on her feet than Near is, better at navigating frightening and unfamiliar situations.

Something in her throat catches as she tries to call out to Mello. A moment later, Near watches the older girl stumble. Something is wrong— Mello is hurt, or something. It is, for some reason, very hard for Near to move her feet. She tries to run for Mello, but can only move slowly, like she’s walking through molasses, but she needs to reach Mello, she has to—

The blonde’s legs buckle and she falls, first onto her knees and then forward onto her face. Near’s mouth drops open to let out a scream, but she can't make a sound. Abruptly, as if the distance between herself and Mello spontaneously shrank, the older girl is lying limp at her feet. Near sinks to the floor and, with some difficulty, turns Mello over. Her beautiful face is slack, once-bright eyes now dull and empty, her natural vibrancy drained. Mello’s body is still, unbreathing, and when Near tries to find a pulse, there is none.

Mello is dead, she thinks, and it’s her fault. Somehow it’s her fault. Near should’ve saved her, should’ve done something differently. Her heart twists in agony; it feels almost like she could tear in half from the inside from the despair of it all.

No, she thinks, this isn’t right— this can’t be real— wake up, wake up, wake up—

She comes to in the dark of the airplane with a small, shuddering gasp, incoherent with panic as she turns to stare hard at Mello’s sleeping face. Near distantly recognizes that her own cheeks are wet with tears, but she doesn’t wipe them away. It hardly seems important right now.

The older girl is breathing, but Near can’t stop herself from pressing two fingers to the pulse point on the side of her throat, indescribably soothed by the soft pulsation of blood moving through the blonde’s carotid beneath pale, warm skin. Mello’s heart still beats. Near lets her own eyes slide shut and sighs with pure, stark relief, a horrible weight lifting off her chest as she continues to count the cycles of Mello’s contracting and relaxing ventricles. Systole, diastole. Systole, diastole.

“Near, what the fuck?” Mello whispers, her words a bit slurred with sleep.

The white-haired girl startles, withdrawing her hand and opening her eyes again to meet the older girl’s gaze. Near’s breath catches as she does. Even in the dark, even half-lidded with drowsiness, Mello’s eyes seem to catch every small, sparse speck of light, sparkling with life. It’s a gorgeous bit of comfort after what Near saw in her wretched dream.

Still, she hadn’t actually intended for Mello to wake up.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice still a bit thick with emotion, uncharacteristically so. “I... had a nightmare.”

What Near expects is for Mello to scoff, or scold Near for waking her, but the blonde just makes a sleepy sound and drapes an arm over Near’s shoulders.

“C’mere,” she says.

Near’s eyes have never been wider. “M— Mello?”

Mello makes an irritated sound. “Limited-time offer, cottonball.”

No more prompting is necessary— Near pushes the arm rest between their reclining seats up to remove the barrier between them and scoots over. Mello draws her close, tucking Near’s face into the crook of her neck and resting her own cheek against the younger girl’s unkempt nest of snowy hair. Near is dampening Mello’s throat with traces of tears, but the older girl doesn’t protest. If she focuses, Near can still smell the red wine that the airline served a few hours ago on Mello’s breath.

“You’re safe,” Mello whispers.

Near feels like she might just be in another dream, now. Mello hasn’t held her since they were children— and even then, it was begrudgingly done, Mello gruffly allowing Near to cling close during thunderstorms from time to time. It only gets more surreal when Mello presses a gentle kiss to the top of Near’s head. Near’s heart flutters, wondering whether Mello’s strange tenderness is owed to the alcohol or the afterglow of ending the case that’s consumed them both for the last five years.

“I dreamed you died,” Near finally admits, shifting her head to place an ear against Mello’s chest, listening to her heart up-close.

Mello’s arm tightens around her.

“I’m here,” Mello says, sounding halfway asleep again.

Near allows herself to relax against the older girl’s body, melting into her embrace.

Mello, the girl Near has loved for half her life, is here. That alone is miracle enough, but it doesn't end there.

Light Yagami is dead.

Kira’s reign of terror is over.

Their predecessor is avenged.

And Mello— Mello is here, beside Near, holding Near.

She still doesn’t know yet if the blonde will be willing to work together again, regardless of how quickly the case came together when they finally joined efforts. She’s not sure how easy it will be to obtain pardons for Matt and Mello, either, though she’ll pull whatever strings she has to in order to ensure they're free.

The future is still uncertain, but lying in Mello’s arms in the middle of the night, somewhere over the Pacific ocean, Near thinks things look brighter than they have in a long, long time.