[There are those, including himself, who would tell Mello that exposing himself this way in front of a thing who is bound to have known humanity long before Mello, before L, those who preceded them — generations upon lifetimes, and without his power that he cursed with every breath, the figure that stretches himself before something that could be old enough to pre-date Christianity, asking him to mark one of his own up with something that might just offend him in every possible way.]
[A half-chuckle before he swigs the bottle; nerve damage or no, Mello knows that no part of this is going to be pleasant. Might need another when this one is through.]
Mm? [He doesn't bother capping it. Another sip will come soon enough. Now, liquor his him like it did before his first bout of changes — eons ago — hard and fast; the too-ambitious boy with on a blazing warpath never did have time for such things.] Never asked, [he murmurs, stretching his neck in some idle gesture that denotes nothing at all. Because this? Is far too personal for his liking. Even with intent, Mello has always been the type to keep his distance.]
[And, well. He's also always been the type to jab.]
Does it offend you?
[He watches the other with sharp, unguarded eyes; the yellow has long-since dissipated from his irises, leaving his natural blue in its wake. Whether or not his humanity is temporary, Mello is going to operate as though it has always been this way. There was never any slaughter, no mindless feeding resulting in messes that took more precision than he cared to exact.]
[No, he won't move, because this is something that will mark him eternally and unlike the scars that will remain in raised patterns beneath: Mello has a choice this time. He doesn't offer over the bottle, has no intention of doing so. He'll need every drop.]
Wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure — [But ah when the smooth-sharp prick of claws draws against his sensitive skin, the hiss is barely concealed with a sudden, acute clench of his stomach, ribs clear and exposed along his thin frame. Somewhere beneath his eternal, glaring pride, Mello knows he's a weak thing beneath the demon's hand, something devoured and tossed away under any other circumstances.]
[And if he never regains any power from the Gods? What use will he be then? He's tipping the bottle up again before the shock of pain can truly set in, this time barely taking the opportunity to breathe before he's swigged more than he should.]
Tell me what you get. [Anything to distract him from the sting.] Marking us this way. [Because he doesn't believe for a second that it's all about an incurable need to possess. There's some dark magic in it; he's almost positive. Yet here he is, handing himself over to something that has nothing but impure intentions, staining him with something that has been a glaring symbol of purity for thousands and thousands of years.]
no subject
[A half-chuckle before he swigs the bottle; nerve damage or no, Mello knows that no part of this is going to be pleasant. Might need another when this one is through.]
Mm? [He doesn't bother capping it. Another sip will come soon enough. Now, liquor his him like it did before his first bout of changes — eons ago — hard and fast; the too-ambitious boy with on a blazing warpath never did have time for such things.] Never asked, [he murmurs, stretching his neck in some idle gesture that denotes nothing at all. Because this? Is far too personal for his liking. Even with intent, Mello has always been the type to keep his distance.]
[And, well. He's also always been the type to jab.]
Does it offend you?
[He watches the other with sharp, unguarded eyes; the yellow has long-since dissipated from his irises, leaving his natural blue in its wake. Whether or not his humanity is temporary, Mello is going to operate as though it has always been this way. There was never any slaughter, no mindless feeding resulting in messes that took more precision than he cared to exact.]
[No, he won't move, because this is something that will mark him eternally and unlike the scars that will remain in raised patterns beneath: Mello has a choice this time. He doesn't offer over the bottle, has no intention of doing so. He'll need every drop.]
Wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure — [But ah when the smooth-sharp prick of claws draws against his sensitive skin, the hiss is barely concealed with a sudden, acute clench of his stomach, ribs clear and exposed along his thin frame. Somewhere beneath his eternal, glaring pride, Mello knows he's a weak thing beneath the demon's hand, something devoured and tossed away under any other circumstances.]
[And if he never regains any power from the Gods? What use will he be then? He's tipping the bottle up again before the shock of pain can truly set in, this time barely taking the opportunity to breathe before he's swigged more than he should.]
Tell me what you get. [Anything to distract him from the sting.] Marking us this way. [Because he doesn't believe for a second that it's all about an incurable need to possess. There's some dark magic in it; he's almost positive. Yet here he is, handing himself over to something that has nothing but impure intentions, staining him with something that has been a glaring symbol of purity for thousands and thousands of years.]