[The wait's both a blessing and a curse. Knowing L's at least well enough to respond to a watch, dress himself without help, and get out to breakfast (presumably, keeping ever in mind the detective's penchant for riding his own limits) takes a weight of anxieties off Myr's mind. Which makes space for others, of course, but with the initial flush of adrenaline past those are easier to relegate to the future where they belong.
He's even got time to parse through his own fury and try to make sense of it. Time to commit what he can of it to the Maker, to refactor and plan and play out scenarios of what might come of confronting Mello a second time (a dead faun, in most of them).
Time to worry about what's taking so long, and whether he should have gone hunting for L instead.
Time, at last, to rest his face against his folded hands and pray that should his Bonded have tumbled into a gutter somewhere, he'd be able to find him--]
It's, [Myr's muffled voice hitches as L's discomforts, large and small, become that much more obvious for closeness. He clears his throat, straightening and flattening his hands before him on the table.] It's forgiven.
[He's not used to being rendered utterly inarticulate by circumstances but there's a very, very long pause after that where he cannot find words to express the resurgent emotion in him (horror/fury/grief/guilt) as it's woken by these tangible evidences of the previous night. The only question he can lay hands on is,]
Why?
[There'd be more to it but they're interrupted nearly on the instant by a solicitous waiter, now that the table's filled. Did the gentlemen require menus, drinks, a list of the morning's specials?]
no subject
He's even got time to parse through his own fury and try to make sense of it. Time to commit what he can of it to the Maker, to refactor and plan and play out scenarios of what might come of confronting Mello a second time (a dead faun, in most of them).
Time to worry about what's taking so long, and whether he should have gone hunting for L instead.
Time, at last, to rest his face against his folded hands and pray that should his Bonded have tumbled into a gutter somewhere, he'd be able to find him--]
It's, [Myr's muffled voice hitches as L's discomforts, large and small, become that much more obvious for closeness. He clears his throat, straightening and flattening his hands before him on the table.] It's forgiven.
[He's not used to being rendered utterly inarticulate by circumstances but there's a very, very long pause after that where he cannot find words to express the resurgent emotion in him (horror/fury/grief/guilt) as it's woken by these tangible evidences of the previous night. The only question he can lay hands on is,]
Why?
[There'd be more to it but they're interrupted nearly on the instant by a solicitous waiter, now that the table's filled. Did the gentlemen require menus, drinks, a list of the morning's specials?]