"You have a British accent," Mello pointed out. "It's subtle, though. Like you tried to get rid of it, and replace it with an American one. You're originally from Winchester, right?" He was confident in his identification. He'd spent the better part of his childhood surrounded by that intonation, and he'd recognize it anywhere. That had to be a clue, then. He cringed as the pieces failed to fall into place. Mello searched the walls for a clock, but groaned and gave up after a few dizzy glances. How much longer would he be stuck like this?

"Alright," he said as he pulled off a piece of cinnamon bun and then popped it into his mouth. "So what's your favorite channel? Who are your favorite news reporters?" The words, spoken quickly and slurred, would have been hard enough to understand even if they hadn't been spoken around a mouthful of food. A second later, Mello's eyes widened and he lifted a hand to silence any answer until after he'd swallowed. This time, he was careful to enunciate. "Wait. First. What year do you think it is?"

He'd been putting altogether too much faith in the teenager, he realized. It was possible that Tamaki had been here for much longer than a couple weeks.