[He doesn’t like the bustle; reminds him too much of downtown L.A. at any given hour when he’d have to pull up his hood and tuck his chin just to make it through without anyone taking a second glance at his face. Paranoia is par for the course as far as he’s concerned, which is why Mello isn’t particularly amused when the low click of cameras sound in his direction. (More along the lines of highly annoyed, but with this much attention, a scene and subsequent fallout isn’t in his best interest.)]
Don’t do that— [First and last warning, aimed at every stupid half-wit within a twenty-foot radius. Bad enough that he has to tuck his wrist beneath his sleeve everywhere he goes. Mello doesn’t hide. And he doesn’t pose for photo-ops. And he doesn’t answer questions about himself. Or anyone. He doesn’t like people’s faces obscured, even if there’s a logical reason for it during this time of year. Makes him jumpy.
These people are too close, the air too prickling-cold where it slips through gaps in his coat. All of this—
What? A sweetheart? He doesn’t have time for this shit.
Maybe if he takes one down, the example will be efficient enough for him to get out of here without any further questioning.]
Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not him. [Or maybe he is. Doesn’t matter. He wants out.]
Have a Mello • Death Note • Fashionably late
[He doesn’t like the bustle; reminds him too much of downtown L.A. at any given hour when he’d have to pull up his hood and tuck his chin just to make it through without anyone taking a second glance at his face. Paranoia is par for the course as far as he’s concerned, which is why Mello isn’t particularly amused when the low click of cameras sound in his direction. (More along the lines of highly annoyed, but with this much attention, a scene and subsequent fallout isn’t in his best interest.)]
Don’t do that— [First and last warning, aimed at every stupid half-wit within a twenty-foot radius. Bad enough that he has to tuck his wrist beneath his sleeve everywhere he goes. Mello doesn’t hide. And he doesn’t pose for photo-ops. And he doesn’t answer questions about himself. Or anyone. He doesn’t like people’s faces obscured, even if there’s a logical reason for it during this time of year. Makes him jumpy.
These people are too close, the air too prickling-cold where it slips through gaps in his coat. All of this—
What? A sweetheart? He doesn’t have time for this shit.
Maybe if he takes one down, the example will be efficient enough for him to get out of here without any further questioning.]
Whoever you’re looking for, I’m not him. [Or maybe he is. Doesn’t matter. He wants out.]
[Wildcard]
[Throw it at him; he can take it.
But can you?]