[Maybe not, but proving that he can take it to himself is more important than anything. That Greed is present only sweetens the victory: a witness to his pride and strength that while feigned at times, stands true when it matters most. Months of searing heat relentlessly itching at his skin far surpasses the significantly less drawn-out process of what they're doing here. The languid relaxation that rises slowly as the liquor seeps deeper into his blood makes it easier; that he thought he would possibly make it through without was a fool's game he'd intended to play — regardless of Greed's understanding, anything less than acute alertness has always been unacceptable in the company in any but one and he is long-dead, most likely never to arrive in this place where monsters masquerade as things with human hearts.]
Do what — [And even now, through the false comfort and ease, Mello will always, always have pride on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill lies if it suits the image he seeks to project in everything he does. Half-curious eyes watch the Sin's hand as it draws away, moves to the other's face for a sign of disapproval he knows won't surface in this situation. And Greed's reassurance confirms it; tells him that unlike other's he's operated under, this one doesn't hold judgment in menial demeanor. Above it, maybe: something as old as the demon has witnessed more than any crime-boss in a filthy city could ever hope to muster. It might be why the confession that comes doesn't hold the weight it should; he can only keep up a front for as long as it's believable.]
[And when it returns and soothes, his abused skin is grateful for the temporary alleviation — comes to light in a soft exhale and lashes brushing each other when hazy blue eyes fall nearly shut from the reprieve. Greed is terrible and merciful, more forgiving than anything the blonde's ever known. Paranoia remains on the back-burner; might not exist at all where their dynamic comes into play.]
Almost killed me, [a thousand times over. No amount of opiates were enough to quell the constant agony to where Mello felt anything less than the verge of death nipping at his heels until the skin began to heal over, deaden what was beneath in enough places to allow him to breathe long enough to go on with his then-mission without a stagger in his step.]
[Oh, but it didn't kill him, did it? No, something far worse than his own self-destruction took care of that well enough. And despite his hubris, despite the front he fights so hard to maintain, relief comes with the allowance of temporary rest; maybe the other can read him better than Mello had anticipated. He makes a note to never inebriate himself this way again, even as he uses the allotted time to hoist himself forward on an elbow, tip the bottle up and let the dark substance flow down his throat in too-large gulps that warm and burn his chest the moment it hits. He's bordering on dizzy, eyes unfocused when he regards the demon, and there's a trust here reserved for no one. Not even L would experience the pleasure of Mello letting go so easily in his presence, but he's not foolish enough to believe that Greed wouldn't have wiped him from the face of Ryslig a thousand times already if it suited him.]
[The withholding of power is what earns Mello's respect, in the end. Like Dante, who could level cities with a swing of his sword if he so chose, Greed keeps it beneath his skin, lets it show in small tufts of smoke and flame — heat he would cherish and actively seek if he were still a Manticore, but now? It's enough to torch his skin a second time if the other so desired. And no, the proximity doesn't go unnoticed, is something he would move away from out of sheer desire for the maintenance of personal space if the circumstances were more dire.]
[But here? Now? Mello's too lazy-headed and flushed to care at all.]
M'not a kid.
[And oh, there it is, rearing its head even though it doesn't mean a thing. By something so ancient's standards, maybe, but Mello hasn't been a kid since he went off on his own, even at the age of fourteen. Life hit him sharp and fast, and he's as hardened from it as any seasoned soldier poised to fight. If his stomach tenses when the Sin moves back to return to his work, it's a lingering memory of discomfort, nothing more. Mello prefers his games straightforward and brutal, smirks that turn to sneers and a determination that brings whatever he wants to his feet like an offering, a sacrifice unto his resilience. The thick swallow might be the only indication of anything resembling hesitance he might possess at this point, and if it's an indication of weakness, he doesn't notice. Doesn't notice much of anything at this point but the lack of space between something that could burn him alive and his too-human body that isn't truly resilient to a single thing.]
[He's silent, because words aren't going to do him any good slurred this way; he'll finish off the bottle when they're finished, erase any lingering sign of soreness that might yet arise.]
[The warning goes unheeded; even in this state, Mello is hyper-aware of a demon watching him like an insect, a thing to be analyzed and ascertained. It's when that pierce comes — sharp and invasive — that in a moment of clarity, he realizes he should have prepared as much as possible. It stings and throbs, inked wounds half-jerking him from his comfortable position, and when he grits his teeth and emits a hiss indicative of swift, agonizing affliction, the hand that instinctively grabs at the other's wrist is an unintended response to a heightened spasm through his nerves that he hadn't expected.]
Fuck — [Grit and downright shameful; teeth dig into his lip hard enough to draw blood, and a relaxed spine straightens to attention as he seeks to steady himself against it all. He'll deny it tomorrow, pretend he took this as calmly and nonchalant as ever, but now?]
[Oh, it hurts: a mark painting his skin as proof of ownership scrawled across the scars of failure, and if Greed takes this as an indication that Mello can't bear another moment, he'll insist, assure him that it was a fluke, nothing more.]
[Because even now, more than half-drunk and unbearably vulnerable, he'll claim his strength is infallible to the very end. What use is he if something so small causes such a blatant reaction?]
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Do what — [And even now, through the false comfort and ease, Mello will always, always have pride on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill lies if it suits the image he seeks to project in everything he does. Half-curious eyes watch the Sin's hand as it draws away, moves to the other's face for a sign of disapproval he knows won't surface in this situation. And Greed's reassurance confirms it; tells him that unlike other's he's operated under, this one doesn't hold judgment in menial demeanor. Above it, maybe: something as old as the demon has witnessed more than any crime-boss in a filthy city could ever hope to muster. It might be why the confession that comes doesn't hold the weight it should; he can only keep up a front for as long as it's believable.]
[And when it returns and soothes, his abused skin is grateful for the temporary alleviation — comes to light in a soft exhale and lashes brushing each other when hazy blue eyes fall nearly shut from the reprieve. Greed is terrible and merciful, more forgiving than anything the blonde's ever known. Paranoia remains on the back-burner; might not exist at all where their dynamic comes into play.]
Almost killed me, [a thousand times over. No amount of opiates were enough to quell the constant agony to where Mello felt anything less than the verge of death nipping at his heels until the skin began to heal over, deaden what was beneath in enough places to allow him to breathe long enough to go on with his then-mission without a stagger in his step.]
[Oh, but it didn't kill him, did it? No, something far worse than his own self-destruction took care of that well enough. And despite his hubris, despite the front he fights so hard to maintain, relief comes with the allowance of temporary rest; maybe the other can read him better than Mello had anticipated. He makes a note to never inebriate himself this way again, even as he uses the allotted time to hoist himself forward on an elbow, tip the bottle up and let the dark substance flow down his throat in too-large gulps that warm and burn his chest the moment it hits. He's bordering on dizzy, eyes unfocused when he regards the demon, and there's a trust here reserved for no one. Not even L would experience the pleasure of Mello letting go so easily in his presence, but he's not foolish enough to believe that Greed wouldn't have wiped him from the face of Ryslig a thousand times already if it suited him.]
[The withholding of power is what earns Mello's respect, in the end. Like Dante, who could level cities with a swing of his sword if he so chose, Greed keeps it beneath his skin, lets it show in small tufts of smoke and flame — heat he would cherish and actively seek if he were still a Manticore, but now? It's enough to torch his skin a second time if the other so desired. And no, the proximity doesn't go unnoticed, is something he would move away from out of sheer desire for the maintenance of personal space if the circumstances were more dire.]
[But here? Now? Mello's too lazy-headed and flushed to care at all.]
M'not a kid.
[And oh, there it is, rearing its head even though it doesn't mean a thing. By something so ancient's standards, maybe, but Mello hasn't been a kid since he went off on his own, even at the age of fourteen. Life hit him sharp and fast, and he's as hardened from it as any seasoned soldier poised to fight. If his stomach tenses when the Sin moves back to return to his work, it's a lingering memory of discomfort, nothing more. Mello prefers his games straightforward and brutal, smirks that turn to sneers and a determination that brings whatever he wants to his feet like an offering, a sacrifice unto his resilience. The thick swallow might be the only indication of anything resembling hesitance he might possess at this point, and if it's an indication of weakness, he doesn't notice. Doesn't notice much of anything at this point but the lack of space between something that could burn him alive and his too-human body that isn't truly resilient to a single thing.]
[He's silent, because words aren't going to do him any good slurred this way; he'll finish off the bottle when they're finished, erase any lingering sign of soreness that might yet arise.]
[The warning goes unheeded; even in this state, Mello is hyper-aware of a demon watching him like an insect, a thing to be analyzed and ascertained. It's when that pierce comes — sharp and invasive — that in a moment of clarity, he realizes he should have prepared as much as possible. It stings and throbs, inked wounds half-jerking him from his comfortable position, and when he grits his teeth and emits a hiss indicative of swift, agonizing affliction, the hand that instinctively grabs at the other's wrist is an unintended response to a heightened spasm through his nerves that he hadn't expected.]
Fuck — [Grit and downright shameful; teeth dig into his lip hard enough to draw blood, and a relaxed spine straightens to attention as he seeks to steady himself against it all. He'll deny it tomorrow, pretend he took this as calmly and nonchalant as ever, but now?]
[Oh, it hurts: a mark painting his skin as proof of ownership scrawled across the scars of failure, and if Greed takes this as an indication that Mello can't bear another moment, he'll insist, assure him that it was a fluke, nothing more.]
[Because even now, more than half-drunk and unbearably vulnerable, he'll claim his strength is infallible to the very end. What use is he if something so small causes such a blatant reaction?]