You don't have to do that, y'know - [Greed tongues his teeth while he talks. Mello: he always has to put on airs. To put up a front, an armor, so that no one even has the opportunity. The Sin slides his fingers away from the other's skin and while his palm lifts, the last beads of ink drool of his hand; their drops drip-drip-dripping like the saliva of a carrier, born from disease. And it is a disease, isn't it? The infection of want, the sickness of need, terrible and incurable. Even so - the Sin brushes his leg, smearing the leftovers in one cool, clean swipe.] - must have hurt, getting this. [He remarks, absently. Whatever, whoever, gave Mello the scar: he won't ask, nor will he pry. There are assumptions, sure, however that's his secret. The mark is merely something for the Sin to keep in his back pocket: a trinket saved for the right moment when he can return the favor, inch for inch.]
[For no one, no one, touches what's his.]
[The former homunculus takes the ink well again and while his fingers dip, he idly snags a cigarette from an ashtray nearby. Already, the mark is beginning to take shape. It strikes along Mello's skin - a black cross blasphemously painted and smeared by the devil's own hand. Why Mello chose the design: it doesn't matter to him. The decision is his to make and with another healthy helping, the Sin lifts his nails out of the bottle; their shells soaked as heavily as a preacher cupping his holy water.] Though, you're right - what's good, what's not: it's never mattered to me. [Greed answers, thickly. The intimacy here; it's almost like a confession. A private booth reserved for him and his under a blanket of dim glow more suitable for a room rented out for one, particular purpose.]
[The irony isn't lost on him.]
[When he presses his hand back a second time, the burn's all but gone. What remains is lukewarm; like a massage in oil, rubbed to the right key. The former homunculus drags the backs of his knuckles upward, coaxing the dye to fill the shape. Mello isn't like the rest of them, not entirely. He comes and he goes: distances himself, then demands. It's as if he's committed to a point and whether or not that's his other "boss" talking or simply strategy, it's a moot point.]
[At the end of the day, he always comes back: one way or the other.]
[Greed eyes the tattoo. The ink's already thick in places; the touch of it soaking like water to a sponge. It won't take him long to finish the rest, but as he drags his nail closer to the thin of Mello's bones, he stops again; the top of his nail hanging along the dip of his shoulder like an appraiser testing a value.] Ehhh - take a second. Think you deserve it, right?
[The Sin plucks his fingers away and with a flick of his other hand, a shoo of fire erupts on his nail. He coaxes it low: benign. The flash of orange trickling down, down, down to a gas-fire's blue. Trauma is something he knows. Maybe not in the same sense, maybe not even close, but his? The ones before? They had had their share. Be it bullet holes from war, the misfires of an experiment gone awry. Something worse. Greed lifts his hand to his face and as the tip of his cigarette blisters, he quickly fists his thumb; forcing the fire out in one huff of wayfaring smoke. He doesn't ask where Mello got his scars because he doesn't have to: it's simply par-for-the-course. A history before him, written out in flesh and stained to memory as bitter as bile bubbling to the surface. He takes a drag, his one leg spread and stretched. And if it's too close, too near.]
[He simply doesn't notice.]
Still, I meant what I said. Taking it like that - it's pretty impressive. But if you think I'd hold it against you - [Greed exhales and while the smoke unwinds from his mouth, the turn of his eyes crawls into focus. They watch Mello like a beacon: a creature, a thing, reading for a pulse. Because, while Mello can certainly handle it, harming one of his own? Putting them through the wringer?]
[It just won't, won't do.]
[The former homunculus plucks his cigarette from his mouth, leaving it on the edge of the ashtray.] - kids like you should be energetic, don't get me wrong. [A hiss and the last of the smoke wheezes through his nostrils.] - but push yourself too hard. You don't need to prove anything to me, M. [A hum warms in his throat. No, he doesn't have to prove anything: he's already made his point by coming to him now with nothing more than naked flesh and mortal skin bared like teeth. Greed turns his eye back to the bottle again and as he positions his nails, the scoop of his shoulders rises around his neck.] Though, I guess it was always your choice, wasn't it.
This is the last part - get ready. [It's his last cue. One, final approach before his claws sink and as the dye seeps off the tips like an injection, the Sin keeps it steady; his glance watching and waiting for any skip or jump in Mello's throat.]
no subject
[For no one, no one, touches what's his.]
[The former homunculus takes the ink well again and while his fingers dip, he idly snags a cigarette from an ashtray nearby. Already, the mark is beginning to take shape. It strikes along Mello's skin - a black cross blasphemously painted and smeared by the devil's own hand. Why Mello chose the design: it doesn't matter to him. The decision is his to make and with another healthy helping, the Sin lifts his nails out of the bottle; their shells soaked as heavily as a preacher cupping his holy water.] Though, you're right - what's good, what's not: it's never mattered to me. [Greed answers, thickly. The intimacy here; it's almost like a confession. A private booth reserved for him and his under a blanket of dim glow more suitable for a room rented out for one, particular purpose.]
[The irony isn't lost on him.]
[When he presses his hand back a second time, the burn's all but gone. What remains is lukewarm; like a massage in oil, rubbed to the right key. The former homunculus drags the backs of his knuckles upward, coaxing the dye to fill the shape. Mello isn't like the rest of them, not entirely. He comes and he goes: distances himself, then demands. It's as if he's committed to a point and whether or not that's his other "boss" talking or simply strategy, it's a moot point.]
[At the end of the day, he always comes back: one way or the other.]
[Greed eyes the tattoo. The ink's already thick in places; the touch of it soaking like water to a sponge. It won't take him long to finish the rest, but as he drags his nail closer to the thin of Mello's bones, he stops again; the top of his nail hanging along the dip of his shoulder like an appraiser testing a value.] Ehhh - take a second. Think you deserve it, right?
[The Sin plucks his fingers away and with a flick of his other hand, a shoo of fire erupts on his nail. He coaxes it low: benign. The flash of orange trickling down, down, down to a gas-fire's blue. Trauma is something he knows. Maybe not in the same sense, maybe not even close, but his? The ones before? They had had their share. Be it bullet holes from war, the misfires of an experiment gone awry. Something worse. Greed lifts his hand to his face and as the tip of his cigarette blisters, he quickly fists his thumb; forcing the fire out in one huff of wayfaring smoke. He doesn't ask where Mello got his scars because he doesn't have to: it's simply par-for-the-course. A history before him, written out in flesh and stained to memory as bitter as bile bubbling to the surface. He takes a drag, his one leg spread and stretched. And if it's too close, too near.]
[He simply doesn't notice.]
Still, I meant what I said. Taking it like that - it's pretty impressive. But if you think I'd hold it against you - [Greed exhales and while the smoke unwinds from his mouth, the turn of his eyes crawls into focus. They watch Mello like a beacon: a creature, a thing, reading for a pulse. Because, while Mello can certainly handle it, harming one of his own? Putting them through the wringer?]
[It just won't, won't do.]
[The former homunculus plucks his cigarette from his mouth, leaving it on the edge of the ashtray.] - kids like you should be energetic, don't get me wrong. [A hiss and the last of the smoke wheezes through his nostrils.] - but push yourself too hard. You don't need to prove anything to me, M. [A hum warms in his throat. No, he doesn't have to prove anything: he's already made his point by coming to him now with nothing more than naked flesh and mortal skin bared like teeth. Greed turns his eye back to the bottle again and as he positions his nails, the scoop of his shoulders rises around his neck.] Though, I guess it was always your choice, wasn't it.
This is the last part - get ready. [It's his last cue. One, final approach before his claws sink and as the dye seeps off the tips like an injection, the Sin keeps it steady; his glance watching and waiting for any skip or jump in Mello's throat.]