Aches only make the soreness in her chest worse. His reaction to her surprise is enough to send her down, taking up arms and promptly turning against herself so that the weight of her sins is her punishment.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that in that way, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It leaves her like petals leave a dying flower, touched by sadness and wounded by the fact that she has let things go this way, that she could have stopped it if she hadn’t been so quick to react. But nonetheless, “I’m still glad to see you.” Her voice can only pipe up with hopes of her somewhat-apology accepted, trying her hardest to keep the smile burning across her face there despite the self-loathe.
It doesn’t fit right on her features though, its grace flawed by the tension of her muscles obvious in her brows, the lines under her eyes, the stress in her jawline. She’s a mess, and there’s no easy way to hide it.
“You stop. Look bad.”
I feel bad.
“Let know? Skullface care. Maybe. Not know.”
You’re a lot of help.
A mental shrug of the shoulders is enough to make her want to roll her eyes at him.
“I thought you were going to be Kid, or actually Zhu. Hobgoblin doesn’t care for names and uses nicknames instead, and I can never be sure.” Hobgoblin’s unseen expression burns a hole into her. His jaw has slacked, brows hung low and forceful with eyes hard. She doesn’t dare to look at it out of fear of the sight.
“You know call differently. Did that.”
I wanted to be alone. I wanted to see my sons, any of them.
“Without?”
No. I don’t think I ever want to be without you.”
The stone crumbles slightly, but not enough to make any progress. His attention has shifted and there’s little for her to focus on with him now. Goodbye, she could whisper into the sanctity of their bond and have no response.
Hobgoblin is strange like that, and if a third had known the two from their beginnings, then it would have told her that Hobgoblin’s strangeness towards her is her own creation.
Volterra moves them onto other things and she returns to him at his request, ears pushing forward only to sink further into disappointment as the realization strikes her. She has been so far from the herds and this life, spare herself and Hobgoblin, that she hasn’t cared to even think about how the Earth God had abandoned his herd, yet somehow she can agree with his decision. Had she not recently done the same thing with her crown, leaving something that everyone would have demanded she keep for her own safety, for the good of herself?
If Gods could act as she did, then what point was her agony in it now? They are one in the same, and she sees now that she shouldn’t look down upon herself for what she had done.
“Don’t think of it as worrying.” Her assurance is written in comfort and wisdom, like she’s seen this lifetime and every one before and after it a thousand times over. “Gods are like us. They can’t stand forever with the weight of the world on their shoulders, and sometimes sacrifices need to be made. He’s a god; I’m sure he’ll know what to do when he returns, and if not, he’s got the other three to help and any of those in Helovia that intend to assist. ”
All of this just to try and kiss the concern and any possible sorrows off of his face. Whether or not it works is left entirely to him, but her needs are met.
For what else he has to say, she has no response, only able to tuck her lips into her mouth in that nervous habit she’s acquired and nod with body language alert.
It only slips away for a second to sip at his pain before letting the comfort and warmth of knowing that someone does still enjoy her.
Hobgoblin gladly shares in it with her, purring beginning to thunder in the depths of his chest as his approach continues, finally coming to rest on his hind haunches as his chattering quickly turns into repetitive chirps. ‘Hurry up’ screams through his body language, directed only for Vérzés.
And she almost joins him in this, nearly acting out on things that she knows better to do, choosing not to do so because Volterra is supposed to be her friend, if not one of her dearest, but their gestures of affection and companionship have never been more than gentle, brief touches and the reassurance of it in their voices and words.
To this day, she doubts she can care for anyone so deeply again that she feels the urge to bring them up into her arms when blood is not shared. Cera, as far as her mind knows, is gone, and with him, he carried away her heart and her belief in loving so deeply for someone.
And maybe even she, never they had been in love, wasting her heart and emotions childishly, having lost her chance before she even had an inkling of what to do with it but still stubbornly pushing on. You don’t love someone that way only to pick it up for someone else.
There is though the briefest moments on this planet where her heart takes the better of her muscles and pushes her forward with short, light steps that end in reality, still so dearly wanting any reminder of what dear friendship is supposed to be in her head. They only carry her into her own agony, teeming with regret along the shoreline of brokenheartedness where everything else that comes with those sort of things waits with patience, arms wide open.
So with her heart wearing a scar only freshly healed, still feeling the aches of the acts that brought it forth, she offers him with the most genuine smile she’s sure she’s ever made, plain and simple. It puts out her cigarette of this right where the biggest crack is in her heart.
“It’s really nice to hear that.”
I can’t tell you how nice it is to hear that, from anyone, but especially you. More words that grow in the womb of her mind only to pass away at the hope of life. Wasted.
She should know better than to relish in the light of that. Volterra is not Cera, he’s never going to be the brightest light in her darkness or the straight shot of happiness and purity when she needs it. Volterra is the cold, hard world, a sucker punch to the face that she comes back around looking for more, Stockholm syndrome with her rapist.
While that is nothing but a fleeting thought, something she suppresses for the best,  Hobgoblin feels the invisible choke of the thought where it matters most to him(the soul), and lets it rip through him, powerless.
Because even though she consented so long ago, it wasn’t like that was something she was ever wanting, only willing for the sake of her child.
There it is, right where she should had known too. Right on his lips, with the “Do it for him. Do it so he’ll be happy.” from long ago.
Sultan of the Throat.
Oh Gods, it rips the most brutal hole in her that has ever been, but what purpose does it have? Is she not being immature, selfish? Volterra wanted to be a lead, she had told him that the rank she was giving him was going to be a good step into the direction of what he was wanting, and here he is, right where he wanted to be. By all of her laws, she should be happy for him, but why must it be forced when it runs out of her mouth?
“I’m happy for you.”
“Please don’t.”
And why does the demon in her head plea with her not to lie? She takes the softest hand she’s got and pushes him off to the side with a gentle touch.
I want to be happy for him. That’s how he’d want me to feel about it.
“But You not. You upset. Why?”
Because I’m childish.
Hobgoblin sinks because he can’t tell her that she isn’t. All of the facts are in front of them, and in the silence, probably without meaning to, they’ve sworn to see the world the way it is before it carries them too far. That’s what happened the last time.
“It was your dream, wasn’t it?”
One more time around the block, one more time to make sure that she had blindly taken someone else’s hopes and goals and promptly beaten the ever-loving shit out of them when she could do nothing good with them, too busy trying to make them right to see that the effort wasn’t worth it. “Either way, you deserve it more than anyone else there does.”
Definitely more than I did.
She smothers the cat in the bag so that when it is opened, all Volterra has the chance to see is her smile for him, proud, happy, having also been poured into her voice for good measure.

OOC: please fucking excuse i am DEAD inside with feelings

"Talk."

You were angels,

And I sit and listen dreamlessly,