Boys Don't Cry

Gods Above

It was an abnormally cool day for the season, a chill sprung in the air as the leaves were just yellowing.

Mihael [you notice me referring to him as such, because I have a headcanon that he didn't get "Mello" until later, unlike Matt, Near, and L.], as Roger was informed, had performed poorly on an algebra quiz (a 76%), and algebra was his favorite subject. He was scolded my Miss Tattler, as she is the type to scold less than stellar performance, in front of the class. Mihael reacts historically well or poorly to public scolding, depending on how you judge it. It affected him greatly, sometimes to the point of tears, but he had avoided that today.

On the recess grounds, Nathan, or Near, as he called himself, was quietly doing a puzzle beside L. This was an odd sight, given that L was old enough to the the smaller boy's father (albeit a shockingly young father given the age of Near). He was doing some sort of trigonometric equation by hand (which was merely a warm up). You see, math is patterns, psychology is patterns, and L finds the two to be similar except from the constant monotonic procedures of mathematics.

Mihael always sat silently nearby, but further away, doing nothing. He couldn't entertain himself with puzzles and patterns as the two other boys did, but was told he was like them. At the time, he didn't understand and attempted to fit in, even if it was painfully boring.

But today, he was directing his attention towards L. Just staring, watching every stroke of his pen. Every exponent drawn, every square root, every bracket and variable was exposed. His face began to contort with anger slowly. He thought about how L always liked Near better, for doing nothing. When compared, Near would always come out on top, in everything. Mihael thought with a pang of lead-heavy loneliness that Near even had more friends.

The only thing he had was one more year. He would turn eight in the winter, Near had just turned six in the summer, no one was sure how old L was, but he had to be in his senior residency. And, Mihael had his occasional, but abnormal, bed wetting problem. Neither of which were worthy of praise.

And why? Because L said so. Mihael slowly began to dehumanize and disassociate the young adult until he was nothing but a god and simultaneously a manifesto of an afterthought. Everything and nothing.

And he got up, L finally turning to face him. He watched intently as Mihael turned towards him and collected L's Math 55 example text from the aged macadam.

Using every ounce of strength in his small body, he brought the book back towards the side and slammed the spine into the space right below L's left eye. He kept still as Mihael brought it up in two more quick successions, one hitting him in his left temple, then right at his nose. The last one made him flinch, by then Wammy and Mrs. Harris (sitting in for Ruvie) had taken notice.

The instant Mihael knew what he had done, the playground silent and all boys staring wide-eyed, he was grabbed by Mrs. Harris and yanked into the building, her gripping his forearm and the back of his sweater, bringing painful memories to the forefront of his thoughts. Her mousy dark blonde hair was coming undone and making her appear all the more menacing. She taught calculus with the same strength she used to restrain Mihael, and was generally respected for this reason. Her eyes hid behind sidepinned bangs, her sharp, distinct lip line punctuating every syllable she said. She looked so much like her, it was enough to make him truly afraid.

Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Wammy looking over L's face hurriedly before escorting him inside another door, his color scheme interrupted by a sudden accent of crimson. Mihael let out a short breath of relief, but was nearly tripped up by the excitable teacher.

He was carted to a bench outside the administrative office, and kneeling to his level, she narrowed her barely hazel eyes.

"Stay here until someone tells you to move- LOOK AT ME."