Clicking buttons and tapping keys, and who cares about the storm outside when he's in L's room, under L's comforter with L's (sticky, sugar-slick) fingers ruffling his hair, drawing a trail of pink strawberry icing over it. "Brain food," L mutters absently and offers him a piece of sponge cake. "Sugar's good for your brain," and Mello believes him because L is always right. Alwaysalwaysalways.
Clicking safeties on guns and the tap-tap-tap of steel-toed leather boots squelching on cement. And he's storming, raging, angry, angry at anything and everything, burning his short life up in a ball of fury. He snaps off a bit of something sweet and thick and creamy, wishing it was a someone, because sugar is good for the brain and his brain is everything he has. But it isn't sponge-cake, soft, gooey, yielding, but a bar of chocolate that crackles, snaps, breaks.