[Mello's scars - they're not so different. To battlefield blemishes of a detonated grenade, to the quick-slap patch jobs done purposely sloppy so that the chance of survival was slim at best. He knows the story like the back of his hand. Not the other's specifically, but the bones of it - it's close enough. A fate so similar, it'd be hard for anyone to ignore. Them: the ones from before - Greed's mouth visibly tightens and as the last drops of ink belly-out from his claws, he presses his hand along Mello's skin. The run-off of both dye and blood smearing under his palm like a paint brush in water color.]
[Because, despite his efforts, this is what he'll always be. His swipe a touch, a trace, so close and yet still, so very far. The movement of a creature removed, trying it's best impression of humanity. In the end, the Gods might exhaust themselves. Ryslig could collapse. But when the time comes, if it ever does, most of them will return to the standard. A life mortal and brief in the years that pass.]
[Human.]
[Greed plucks his hand away, the left overs of his work stained to his skin. Not that it matters. Given time, his heat will wash it all away. Days from now, of course, but in the meantime, it barely makes a dent. The dark pitch of his scales appearing to swallow the color and reflect it back in a deep, pitch-black shine. The Sin pushes the bottle of ink away. He caps it with a twirl of his middle finger, the points of his eyes trained hard and still on Mello's lip.]
No, you're not. [A brief pause fumes behind his teeth. Orange, yellow, a streak of white: they begin to draw pattern in his jaws. Like the slits of a window shade, stroked and prodded by a playful hand. It takes him only a second before he boldly reaches upward; the flat-part of his thumb rising, rising, rising to clean off the blood in a single stroke.] Watch it. No need to hurt yourself anymore than you already are. [He says, his hand all but shifting away. Whispers of smoke tease his exit. They're rich with the smell. Sulfur, ash, the scent of cherry-wood burning on a bonfire - they mix together with an undertone. Of liquor, of cigarettes, and the tell-tail presence of other company long before Mello arrived.]
[The former homunculus sinks his heels into the floor and as they grind against the boards, he pushes back his chair.] That should do it. I couldn't tell you how long it'll take to heal, but I'm sure you can handle it. You're not exactly like the rest - [His age, he means. Of course, he doesn't say it - Mello's sin, if nothing else, is his pride. He's too proud of his status; too stubborn to let anyone see his underbelly, least of all him. No, there's a facade he has to parade. A shield of sorts, keeping his secrets, his vulnerabilities, as hidden as possible. Whether that's due to his history, the current affair, or a mixture of both, well - ]
[Greed reaches over to the side table and as his thumb spreads, he gently plucks up one of the earpieces of his sunglasses. They snap open immediately on a hang - their weight canted and pried like that of a door on a loosening hinge. Instead of putting them on though, he keeps the pair leveled in his hand. Admiring almost, despite how many years it's been.] Humans - you're still full of surprises, even now. [He starts. The phrase is distant somehow; as if two-centuries of a lifetime are passing in his lenses, repaying each moment. The former homunculus shrugs his shoulders and as the screws of his sunglasses clck into place, he dips his hand; forcing them back over his eyes as comfortable as a shawl over the skin of a more prude and exposed shoulder.]
[Decades could pass, but that fact: it doesn't change. Not then and certainly not here. Against all the odds they have, humans will always find a way. Biting back the pain and pressing forward, with the same, stubborn desperation that keeps them going. Mello - he's not different. And maybe, maybe, that's the reason - ]
[Greed turns his hands inward, pushing them to the tops of his thighs.] You can stay here, if you want. Figured it's only fair - [Already, he's standing to move; the streaks of soot falling from his back crawling to replace his position like a polite ghost, waiting its turn. The Sin ushers one of his heels over the other - his walk drawn out and tasteless.]
[Mello may have his stubbornness, but if he decides to stay? If needs a breather?]
[It'll be sin who waits for him. The minutes, the hours: they're meaningless. Because despite the name, avarice?]
[Avarice will always take care of what's rightfully his.]
no subject
[Because, despite his efforts, this is what he'll always be. His swipe a touch, a trace, so close and yet still, so very far. The movement of a creature removed, trying it's best impression of humanity. In the end, the Gods might exhaust themselves. Ryslig could collapse. But when the time comes, if it ever does, most of them will return to the standard. A life mortal and brief in the years that pass.]
[Human.]
[Greed plucks his hand away, the left overs of his work stained to his skin. Not that it matters. Given time, his heat will wash it all away. Days from now, of course, but in the meantime, it barely makes a dent. The dark pitch of his scales appearing to swallow the color and reflect it back in a deep, pitch-black shine. The Sin pushes the bottle of ink away. He caps it with a twirl of his middle finger, the points of his eyes trained hard and still on Mello's lip.]
No, you're not. [A brief pause fumes behind his teeth. Orange, yellow, a streak of white: they begin to draw pattern in his jaws. Like the slits of a window shade, stroked and prodded by a playful hand. It takes him only a second before he boldly reaches upward; the flat-part of his thumb rising, rising, rising to clean off the blood in a single stroke.] Watch it. No need to hurt yourself anymore than you already are. [He says, his hand all but shifting away. Whispers of smoke tease his exit. They're rich with the smell. Sulfur, ash, the scent of cherry-wood burning on a bonfire - they mix together with an undertone. Of liquor, of cigarettes, and the tell-tail presence of other company long before Mello arrived.]
[The former homunculus sinks his heels into the floor and as they grind against the boards, he pushes back his chair.] That should do it. I couldn't tell you how long it'll take to heal, but I'm sure you can handle it. You're not exactly like the rest - [His age, he means. Of course, he doesn't say it - Mello's sin, if nothing else, is his pride. He's too proud of his status; too stubborn to let anyone see his underbelly, least of all him. No, there's a facade he has to parade. A shield of sorts, keeping his secrets, his vulnerabilities, as hidden as possible. Whether that's due to his history, the current affair, or a mixture of both, well - ]
[Greed reaches over to the side table and as his thumb spreads, he gently plucks up one of the earpieces of his sunglasses. They snap open immediately on a hang - their weight canted and pried like that of a door on a loosening hinge. Instead of putting them on though, he keeps the pair leveled in his hand. Admiring almost, despite how many years it's been.] Humans - you're still full of surprises, even now. [He starts. The phrase is distant somehow; as if two-centuries of a lifetime are passing in his lenses, repaying each moment. The former homunculus shrugs his shoulders and as the screws of his sunglasses clck into place, he dips his hand; forcing them back over his eyes as comfortable as a shawl over the skin of a more prude and exposed shoulder.]
[Decades could pass, but that fact: it doesn't change. Not then and certainly not here. Against all the odds they have, humans will always find a way. Biting back the pain and pressing forward, with the same, stubborn desperation that keeps them going. Mello - he's not different. And maybe, maybe, that's the reason - ]
[Greed turns his hands inward, pushing them to the tops of his thighs.] You can stay here, if you want. Figured it's only fair - [Already, he's standing to move; the streaks of soot falling from his back crawling to replace his position like a polite ghost, waiting its turn. The Sin ushers one of his heels over the other - his walk drawn out and tasteless.]
[Mello may have his stubbornness, but if he decides to stay? If needs a breather?]
[It'll be sin who waits for him. The minutes, the hours: they're meaningless. Because despite the name, avarice?]
[Avarice will always take care of what's rightfully his.]