[Yea, it's insulting. And L is being stubborn — something Mello admires with all of his pride — blowing it off like it's nothing when it's something causing visible distress outwardly with every word, every action.]

[Mello doesn't understand. His only loss was L. He doesn't remember his parents (mostly) and refused to form an attachment to anyone else after the fact. Except for one: they won't speak on him. Ever.]

I know what it feels like, [He confesses in a low, defeated tone.] You've a hole in your chest, and you're reaching out for something that's not there. Will never be there again. [He takes a small breath. Considers his confession.]

Your stomach is burning; everything seems fruitless.

[With a furrow of his brow, he hops down off of the counter. Reaches across to rest a hand on the side of L's head. Mello's never been any good at comfort, but he's making an attempt.]

It fades.

[No, it absolutely doesn't.]

You feel like you're dying. [How Mello has felt since he was fourteen. Even now.] You're not. You've got your Doe. [Pause] And me.

[Gripping at the mess of dark hair just a bit when he speaks.]

I don't know what I am to you. [And there's the cognac speaking.] But you're the only thing in this fucking world that matters to me. [Even now, Mello knows this confession is absurd.]

I won't let you hurt. You don't deserve it.

[Especially over someone who was essentially a machine]

Tell me what you need.

[And Mello will oblige. Because he's weak where L is concerned.]