[What Mello wants spans leagues and universes, and there is no immediate response. Instead, he sips the cognac. It's warm, sweet, and burns going down as it always does. Heady, thick. He's regarding L with a standoffish gaze; how can he even seem vulnerable, right now? A moment, two, before he goes on.]
I.
[But Mello was never one to hesistate.]
Hurt her, [he admits, and fuck if it doesn't make him feel small to do so.] It wasn't intentional, and when you said that I hurt you —
[The sentence is left unfinished, but his eyes ask: was it the same?]
no subject
I.
[But Mello was never one to hesistate.]
Hurt her, [he admits, and fuck if it doesn't make him feel small to do so.] It wasn't intentional, and when you said that I hurt you —
[The sentence is left unfinished, but his eyes ask: was it the same?]