[L accepts the clothes gladly, already feeling a twinge of guilt for bringing Shoyo down at all. That's why this can't work, a critical inner voice intones as thin fingers, five newly-grown with the nails not yet bitten down to match their twins on his other hand, unfold and drape clean clothes that nevertheless smell like agreeable pheromones and stir recent memories.
This can't work because you'll take away his smile every time. You'll make it much harder and then you'll kill it.
He tries to hold his head up a little higher, light his own smile brighter. The effect is overbright and strange, but certainly an attempt has been made.
He doesn't have to know the details. That's the nice thing about Shoyo, isn't it? He doesn't have to know much at all... whatever honesty he deserves, he doesn't think like that, and he doesn't actually know you, and that's why he likes you.]
I won't be too long. Thank you.
[Though it takes longer than he'd expected. L typically only has access to a full bathroom weekly when he splurges on a hotel room, and the comfort and luxury of hot water are especially appreciated to scour away the unbalance that comes from nearly dying. It's almost like being hungover, a kind of queasy emptiness, a sense that his goosefleshed skin doesn't fit quite right over his bones though The Emperor did an impeccable job regrowing his hand.
He sits beneath the running showerhead on the floor of the tub for awhile, as he would if he were hungover. When he finally feels heated through, he pulls on the baggy clothes, pants hanging low on his bony hips. They're sportier than what he would usually wear, but certainly preferable to anything stuffed in a backpack that is sticky and stiff with the blood he lost.
He shifts to Portuguese when he overhears Shoyo's enthused words; though he's decently fluent, it's not his easiest or most natural language, and it's accented, something elsewhere in Europe, though it's tough to place.]
I'm not picky. I owe you for your hospitality on short notice... what do you like to watch?
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This can't work because you'll take away his smile every time. You'll make it much harder and then you'll kill it.
He tries to hold his head up a little higher, light his own smile brighter. The effect is overbright and strange, but certainly an attempt has been made.
He doesn't have to know the details. That's the nice thing about Shoyo, isn't it? He doesn't have to know much at all... whatever honesty he deserves, he doesn't think like that, and he doesn't actually know you, and that's why he likes you.]
I won't be too long. Thank you.
[Though it takes longer than he'd expected. L typically only has access to a full bathroom weekly when he splurges on a hotel room, and the comfort and luxury of hot water are especially appreciated to scour away the unbalance that comes from nearly dying. It's almost like being hungover, a kind of queasy emptiness, a sense that his goosefleshed skin doesn't fit quite right over his bones though The Emperor did an impeccable job regrowing his hand.
He sits beneath the running showerhead on the floor of the tub for awhile, as he would if he were hungover. When he finally feels heated through, he pulls on the baggy clothes, pants hanging low on his bony hips. They're sportier than what he would usually wear, but certainly preferable to anything stuffed in a backpack that is sticky and stiff with the blood he lost.
He shifts to Portuguese when he overhears Shoyo's enthused words; though he's decently fluent, it's not his easiest or most natural language, and it's accented, something elsewhere in Europe, though it's tough to place.]
I'm not picky. I owe you for your hospitality on short notice... what do you like to watch?