[The chocolate is sticking to the wrapper a little bit. L's focus is on getting the last bits, instead of on Shōyō's flustered reaction. He misses a lot of changing shades from pink to red, and actually looks again at the tennis racket on Shōyō's palm after folding up the red wrapper and slipping it into his pocket.
He's been making an effort, since Deku's post on the matter, not to litter, having been perhaps one of the more culpable and careless with his various candy and pastry wrappers.]
That's not permanent, is it?
[His first thought, with some alarm, goes to tattoos, since he's aware there are parlors in Trench for that purpose. Maybe it's magical? Is Shōyō trying to make himself better at tennis for L's sake?
He glances up, startling at the beet-red shade of Shōyō's face. Picanha's gorgeously operatic singing is hardly making the moment less jarring.]
Yeah...?
[He draws out the agreement, thoroughly confused by everything he's just witnessed. His brain, dutifully, goes to work on what seems like many pieces cut from different magazines that are supposed to make a picture when glued together. A supermodel's solitary eye, here, a sports magazine there, birds of paradise cut from an issue of National Geographic somewhere else.]
Do... you want to sit down for a second? You've been running around a lot...
[Lycka rolls up on land, offering a place for them to lean or sit if they'd like. At the orca whale's full size, her bulk can take it.
As L reaches out his hand to stroke above her eye, the flash of a matching tennis racket marking is visible on his palm. He hasn't noticed it, yet.]
no subject
He's been making an effort, since Deku's post on the matter, not to litter, having been perhaps one of the more culpable and careless with his various candy and pastry wrappers.]
That's not permanent, is it?
[His first thought, with some alarm, goes to tattoos, since he's aware there are parlors in Trench for that purpose. Maybe it's magical? Is Shōyō trying to make himself better at tennis for L's sake?
He glances up, startling at the beet-red shade of Shōyō's face. Picanha's gorgeously operatic singing is hardly making the moment less jarring.]
Yeah...?
[He draws out the agreement, thoroughly confused by everything he's just witnessed. His brain, dutifully, goes to work on what seems like many pieces cut from different magazines that are supposed to make a picture when glued together. A supermodel's solitary eye, here, a sports magazine there, birds of paradise cut from an issue of National Geographic somewhere else.]
Do... you want to sit down for a second? You've been running around a lot...
[Lycka rolls up on land, offering a place for them to lean or sit if they'd like. At the orca whale's full size, her bulk can take it.
As L reaches out his hand to stroke above her eye, the flash of a matching tennis racket marking is visible on his palm. He hasn't noticed it, yet.]