[There are very few times in Mello's short life during which he hasn't been completely on guard; as a child, he thrived on rivalry, made an enemy out of someone who was nothing less than indifferent. Later, a true enemy breathed down his neck with a dragon's heat, meeting him move for move, and the boy with too much to prove nearly burned the world to see the other sink into a grave that he so deserved. Now, human, he should be on guard more than ever — he's the thing that monsters eat — but this human's been granted sanctuary here, and the carefree back-and-forth doesn't hold the levity it would if the situation were any different. There's something else to Greed handing over the glass the way he does — Mello's sure of it as much as he's sure that everything is something in the Sin's intent — but the what of it will remain a mystery. Don't come off too insistent, too paranoid.]
[A soft grace in the way warm fingers slide just above the stem, attention falling momentarily to the small amount of liquid behind translucent glass. The Sin's words roll off of his shoulders — reminders and for someone always on-edge: veiled warnings — while something who does nothing aside from simply being is a near-entrancing spectacle; something a human could cast off the following day as a mirage — a trick of the light here and there; a glitch in his peripheral — but Mello knows better, doesn't he?]
[Ambitious? Him? What would give Greed that idea?]
[Tit-for-tat, but Mello was never one to divulge unnecessary details. That he never finished what he set out to do is a thing that nips at his back with every failure, every attempt unsatisfied. A living, breathing ghost trapped in an eternal loop to complete a series of events that have long-since unfolded: the stain of his end marks him so visibly, does it?]
[What's mine is mine — is mine — is mine; oh, but Mello's dignity is his to hold, but what's Greed's is Greed's — (one of his own) — so by extension, by logical order — ]
No.
[Low; confessions aren't for devils, but here they are. Mello drains off the glass in a single motion, fluidly places it nearby without a word of gratitude (never his strong suit, after all) and it's the alcohol alone that dulls the sting that comes with the memory of loss. But he'll cover it with a half-grin, a shrug that doesn't mean a thing. Appearances and all.] But that was a long time ago. [Just a few months; just a blip in the scheme of things — Mello never was one to let go of wins that were always his to take. Not when they were snatched away by a hand weaker than his own.]
[A tip of his head; copper charring and melting away, a breath of something intangible and near enough to give off a vapor — oh, the Sin's questions are always loaded. Succinct, convoluted; does it matter? What's his is his and it's enough when Mello says it's enough; the beat of silence is enough to fill nebulas and yet — ]
[A full flavor rests heavy on his tongue when he tests it against the backs of smooth teeth, mimics something like the sound of dissidence in his throat — brazen thing that he's always been. ]
You've always got somewhere to go, don't you — [Near-condescending; he glances at the bottle offered. He'll take that later, when sleep refuses to come as it always does. Mello should know; he was a busy person himself — king of nothing and no one important when it came down to the wire; someone who didn't have time for a thing that didn't suit his end-game, but this — now?]
[Call it impudence.]
[He's long-scarred from teetering too close to fire (lessons learned and filed away) and the first step takes thought, balance, determination — the next? A matter of leisure and poise, uneven as it might be. Twenty going on what might as well be a hundred with wisdom and experience and Greed will see him because that's what he's chosen as his 'something else,' misguided as his intentions tend to be where matters of dynamics are concerned.]
[The sting of the tattoo still bites into his skin; it bypasses the numbing effects he's consumed so much to put into place. Just enough to take the edge off; just enough to dull the throb.]
Do you make it a habit of shelving your things? [Blatant as the sentiment is; a mock-curiosity creases his brow — ever the antagonist, Mello will push and push no matter the price. He'd unapologetically paid with his life once before, after all. This?]
no subject
[A soft grace in the way warm fingers slide just above the stem, attention falling momentarily to the small amount of liquid behind translucent glass. The Sin's words roll off of his shoulders — reminders and for someone always on-edge: veiled warnings — while something who does nothing aside from simply being is a near-entrancing spectacle; something a human could cast off the following day as a mirage — a trick of the light here and there; a glitch in his peripheral — but Mello knows better, doesn't he?]
[Ambitious? Him? What would give Greed that idea?]
[Tit-for-tat, but Mello was never one to divulge unnecessary details. That he never finished what he set out to do is a thing that nips at his back with every failure, every attempt unsatisfied. A living, breathing ghost trapped in an eternal loop to complete a series of events that have long-since unfolded: the stain of his end marks him so visibly, does it?]
[What's mine is mine — is mine — is mine; oh, but Mello's dignity is his to hold, but what's Greed's is Greed's — (one of his own) — so by extension, by logical order — ]
No.
[Low; confessions aren't for devils, but here they are. Mello drains off the glass in a single motion, fluidly places it nearby without a word of gratitude (never his strong suit, after all) and it's the alcohol alone that dulls the sting that comes with the memory of loss. But he'll cover it with a half-grin, a shrug that doesn't mean a thing. Appearances and all.] But that was a long time ago. [Just a few months; just a blip in the scheme of things — Mello never was one to let go of wins that were always his to take. Not when they were snatched away by a hand weaker than his own.]
[A tip of his head; copper charring and melting away, a breath of something intangible and near enough to give off a vapor — oh, the Sin's questions are always loaded. Succinct, convoluted; does it matter? What's his is his and it's enough when Mello says it's enough; the beat of silence is enough to fill nebulas and yet — ]
[A full flavor rests heavy on his tongue when he tests it against the backs of smooth teeth, mimics something like the sound of dissidence in his throat — brazen thing that he's always been. ]
You've always got somewhere to go, don't you — [Near-condescending; he glances at the bottle offered. He'll take that later, when sleep refuses to come as it always does. Mello should know; he was a busy person himself — king of nothing and no one important when it came down to the wire; someone who didn't have time for a thing that didn't suit his end-game, but this — now?]
[Call it impudence.]
[He's long-scarred from teetering too close to fire (lessons learned and filed away) and the first step takes thought, balance, determination — the next? A matter of leisure and poise, uneven as it might be. Twenty going on what might as well be a hundred with wisdom and experience and Greed will see him because that's what he's chosen as his 'something else,' misguided as his intentions tend to be where matters of dynamics are concerned.]
[The sting of the tattoo still bites into his skin; it bypasses the numbing effects he's consumed so much to put into place. Just enough to take the edge off; just enough to dull the throb.]
Do you make it a habit of shelving your things? [Blatant as the sentiment is; a mock-curiosity creases his brow — ever the antagonist, Mello will push and push no matter the price. He'd unapologetically paid with his life once before, after all. This?]
[A grand show of immature vanity.]