A/N: I am back with yet another one shot. This ones Death Note, something I'm not really experienced in. Anyway, this came to me when I was doing... something. I can't quite remember, but I have the memory of a goldfish, so yeah... Moving on, I always wondered who Near was paired with, besides Mello, since he's usually paired with Matt. So I wrote something about Near's thoughts on it all. Kind of.
Warnings: Shonen-ai, yaoi, slash take your pick; Drugs, alcohol, abuse, rape and all that.
The entire thing is in Near's POV

In books, love is glorified.

Life is different.

In reality, love hurts.

I think it's safe to say that I don't express myself well. Actually, I don't express myself at all. Sad, isn't it?

Wammy's found me when I was six, alone in a back alley where my parents left me with nothing but a rubiks cube and a lot of terrible memories. They never planned to have children. I was the product of a long forgotten one night stand, my mother never actually knew my father's name. Didn't matter, she'd married some bastard, conveniently forgot to mention that she was pregnant, and by the time he figured it out, it was too late.

My step father was always drunk or stoned, lazing around our dilapidated house. My mother had a job, of sorts. She was a stripper, and as a result, slept around. Fortunately, she didn't pass any STD's down to me, I made sure I was checked for that as soon as I got to Wammys.

Apparently, my mother believed that being a stripper included being completely wasted all the time. It's safe to say, my childhood isn't something I would relive anytime soon.

When I was a toddler, I would be 'punished' for any outburst. Laughing, crying, anything would result in punishment. I quickly learnt to just be a silent presence, watching my parents sink further into ruin. I was more aware than most toddler's are, seeking ways to entertain myself without noise. That's where I discovered my love of puzzles. I found a rubix cube underneath a bowl in one of the cupboards, and quickly solved it. I had no other puzzles at the time, so until I went to school, I simply used the rubiks cube, solving it, then starting over.

My first day of school was… interesting. I had never known anything outside the wreck I had been raised in, and had no clothes besides a large shirt, baggy pants and almost destroyed shoes. I was nervous about the outside world. My mother dropped me off on the way to work, not even staying to make sure I was alright. I watched enviously as several others had their parents walk them in, kiss them goodbye, make sure they weren't too upset. I simply sat at the classroom window, playing with my rubik's cube.

Needless to say, the other children in my class saw me as a pariah. They thought it was strange that I sat in the corner, just solving a rubik's cube over and over again. They thought it was weird how I was so pale and had white hair. They thought it was peculiar how I didn't talk, simply because I didn't really know how, only knowing a select choice of words. That quickly changed when I had access to a dictionary, which I read in spare time at home, over and over, even though I memorized it the first time.

School became a refuge. After the first day, I walked to school, not trusting my mother to remember to drive me. It was a bit of a walk, the school being in the ritzier neighborhood. Of course, anything is ritzy compared to where I lived.

I enjoyed most aspects of school, mainly the puzzles. The classroom had a stock of them, which I raided everyday and completed over and over. I also enjoyed the many toys they had there, and I quickly fell in love with robots. The teacher was nice enough, letting me sit by myself and complete the puzzles. Occasionally, she'd ask me a question, I'd utter an answer, and everyone would wonder why I never partook in any lessons, considering my intellect.

One part of school that I never enjoyed was lunch. I always had measly leftovers, and I never went outside, unless the teacher locked me out. Not that that stopped me. I'd learned from a very early age how to unlock doors and how to be invisible should the need arise.

No one ever approached me, but I heard their whispers, talking about the little boy in white who didn't talk, but was smarter than all of them combined. I didn't argue.

Time passed, as time often does (I swear, every moment that passes, I'm using more and more clichés) and life settled into a routine… of sorts. I was basically self-sufficient, I knew how to cook, I could clean up after myself and I made sure the bills were paid. The man running the corner shop was familiar with my parents and my… situation, so he didn't ask questions when I came in to do the shopping with a fifty dollar note in my pocket.

Every week, I would take whatever money was leftover from my mother's wage (usually only a couple of dollars) and put it in a jar hidden in my room, saving up for whatever puzzle or toy had caught my fancy at the small toy shop on the way home from school. Once every couple of months, I would go there on my way home and buy some small toy, hide it my backpack and try to smuggle it inside before my mother or step father discovered I was hiding something.

The teachers were astounded by my mental capabilities and they were thinking of putting me up a few years. Of course, they had to discuss this with my mother. So they called her up, invited her for an interview, and of course, she turned up in a mini skirt and tube top, completely wasted, bad mouthing the priniciple and saying something about them being wrong, that I was nothing but a good-for-nothing, shit faced little trouble maker. After that, they never bothered to think about moving me up a grade.

That's where all my troubles started. My mother was so drunk and angry, that when we got home, she decided to punish me for drawing attention to myself. I hadn't been beaten for a couple of years, but the feeling of vulnerability and unworthiness came back, rushing in full force. Maybe it's just the simple knowledge that my mother, the one person who should love you unconditionally, never will. So if my mother can't, then who can? See, the clichés keep coming…

I crawled back to my small hideaway, the tiny room that contained the only thing I held dear, my toys. I curled up into a ball, surrounded by my only friends, holding onto my rubik's cube, and fell into a fitful sleep.

My parents started arguing, I don't know what it was about, but my step father started to do more drugs, drink more alcohol and become more abusive. My mother, on the other hand, simply drank more, once again picked up her smoking habit and became more flirtatious with other men. This, of course, simply spurted more arguments about cheating and lack of a sex life. Really, my childhood was disturbing.

The next six months passed in a haze of beatings, arguments and alcohol. I became quite agile, due to dodging many flying bottles. However, it was one late Thursday afternoon when everything changed. I was walking home from school, contemplating my chances of having my mother home. She finished work at one, but there was a 47% chance she had gone drinking afterwards and would be drunk when I got home, a 21% chance that she had passed out, wasted, at the bar, a 29% chance that she has run off with some random she found at work and a 3% chance that she was actually home.

I figured all this out in a matter of seconds, and spent the rest of the walk thinking about various brainteasers I had memorized from a book at school. When I finally reached my run down house, I pushed the red door with its cracked paint job and many scratches open, knowing it to never be locked, considering it had no lock.

I deduced in a moment that my mother wasn't home, considering that no lights were on, something my mother always needed was light. My step father, however, loved the darkness, dwelling in it, sitting in the dark for days on end without moving. It was quite intimidating, knowing he was watching you from the dark where you couldn't see him.

I knew better than to alert him to my presence, closing the door quietly and treading carefully, hoping he was passed out or had just come off a high. I was wrong.

"Why, hello little munchkin…" The words rolled off his tongue, slightly slurred. He always called me 'munchkin' and, though I found the term annoying and degrading, I never once argued it. "I thought you'd never come back…" God, he reeked of alcohol and marijuana, a smell I was all too familiar with.

"Let's have some fun…"

Those exact words changed my life.

I can't remember most of it, for which I'm thankful. I must have passed out half way through, because all though I don't remember the aftermath, I definitely remember him inside me, violating me… Tainting me…

The next thing I know I'm in a cushy limousine with an elderly man gazing down at me. I was naturally cautious, so I got as far away as I could possibly get, simply staring at him.

"Hello, young man. My name is Quillish Wammy." I was astonished that he didn't even take my scrambling away from him in offense. Years later, I would learn that most of the children he finds try to escape as a first thought.

I looked over myself, my last memories coming back to me. I was covered in red marks and it hurt to move.

"Son, do you remember what-" He never finished that question, for he was cut off by one of my rare display of emotions. Everything was too much, and the thought that this kindly old man had taken me away from it all brought me to tears. I scrambled to his side, hugging him, something I was unfamiliar with, but had seen hundreds of times with the other students and their parents.

The next couple of hours are a blur, getting onto a plane, getting off the plane, countryside and solving my rubik's cube.

When the limousine finally pulls up in front of large iron gates, I can honestly say I was captivated. The place was huge and well kept. There were other children playing in the grass, most of them older than me.

Quillish Wammy had explained everything. I was going to a boarding school of sorts, where genius' from around the world lived, all in the hopes of either achieving their dreams, or succeeding L, the great detective.

One boy caught my eye. He was maybe two years older than me, with short blond hair that came just past his ear. He was playing with the others, and the amazing display of emotions he showed shocked me to my core. Despite it's cheesiness, I can honestly say it was love at first sight.

I almost fit in at Wammy's. I was quickly recognized as one of, if not the, most intelligent, to the horror of a certain blond who had been, until that point, number one. But I never fit quite in, could never open up to anyone. My past prevented me from showing any emotion, a habit I've been unable to break.

I fell in love with the limitless supply of toys and puzzles though. I also discovered that keeping my hands busy allowed my thinking to increase, so I started carrying around packs of dominoes, cards, anything that I could stack. When I had nothing with me, I resorted to twisting a lock of hair, simply to keep my hands busy.

To this day, I envy Mello's ability to wear his heart on his sleeve, but it's also the thing I love most about him. I would never approach him though, for the simple fact that I doubt I could never be fully comfortable in a relationship, and he found his own true love in Matt.

I'll always watch over him though, despite the pain it causes to see him so happy with Matt.

Because in reality, love hurts.

A/N: I was debating in the end whether Mello should actually have a role or not, and decided against it.
Well, I think that's the longest one shot I've ever written! It feels good!
I really like this one, I just hope I got Near right...
I apologise for the lack of dialogue, but I just couldn't find anywhere for it to fit in...
Cookie anyone?