wip

[pendancy]

Two months and four days have passed since a too-determined boy let the weight of the world fall upon his shoulders by merit of his stubborn nature. Two months and three days since he'd covered corn-silk blond with a dark hood, tucked his chin, and slipped through wrought-iron gates meant to keep them protected from the reality of a world they were being programmed to stand against. A few pairs of trousers and shirts haphazardly balled into a small pack he slung over his shoulder, a meat-carving knife he'd nicked from the kitchen almost a year before for no other reason than to test whether he could get away with it.

It's raining in London — it's always raining in London — and he hasn't the mind to take shelter beneath an awning when the shop-owner from two blocks over most likely saw him slip that packet of crisps into the folds of his jacket. That cold, stiff rain that raises thick fog from the pavement kept warm by idling vehicles pelts him relentlessly as he keeps to shadows and alleys.

December has never been kind.

His denims have long-since tattered along the cuffs; length was never on his side with his small stature. The frayed fabric slogs through puddles, scrapes along concrete and old, preserved cobblestone where tourists are none the wiser to a thin hand slipping into a pocket or purse. Mello is a dark figure in the dusk; he's an unnoticed thing with the way he weaves around larger bodies and lamp-posts, hood eternally shielding his delicate, young features. Paranoia began a long time ago; it's written itself into the intricate code of his DNA.