flora
Flora feels the shift in her mother’s voice before she understands the words themselves, feels the way something gives beneath the surface of her, not a crack but a collapse, and it pulls at her chest with a force that is almost physical. Tears spill freely now, not stinging so much as blurring everything into something softer and more unbearable, her breath hitching painfully as the shape of what Hotaru is saying settles into her bones in a way that refuses to be reasoned with. It is selfish, she knows it is, because even as she listens she cannot stop the thought from sliding in uninvited, sharp and bright and cruel as sunlight on broken glass; what if Kaisel said the same thing, what if he decided that waiting had a limit, that devotion had an expiration date, that love could simply...stop. The idea coils tight in her chest until it presses against her ribs, and she shakes her head instinctively as though she might force it back out, as though refusing it could make it untrue for everyone.
Her gaze lifts to her mother’s face, wide and imploring through the haze of tears, searching for something that might contradict all of this, some small thread of logic or fairness to hold onto, but there is none, only the raw, aching reality of it written plainly in the lines of Hotaru’s expression. The weight of her tears soaks through Flora’s shoulder, through silk and skin alike, and it hurts in a way she has never quite known how to name, because Hotaru is not meant to break like this, not meant to tremble or unravel or speak of herself as though she has been diminished by someone else’s failure to love her properly. The Valkyrie is supposed to stand unshaken, radiant and terrible and untouchable, and yet here she is in Flora’s arms, grieving something that feels both deeply personal and wildly unjust, and Flora can feel something inside herself tightening in response, a protective instinct so sharp it borders on violent.
She does not interrupt, not because she has nothing to say but because there is too much of it, too many contradictions and protests and questions that have nowhere to land. Her hands curl slightly against her mother’s back before she forces them to loosen, aware in some distant way that the strength in her grip is edging toward something less gentle than she intends, that if she is not careful she might hold too tightly, might try to fix something that cannot be fixed by force. So she stays, pressed close, absorbing the words as they spill out, letting them settle even as they grate against everything she believes about love and loyalty and what it should mean to come back from the brink and find someone waiting for you on the other side.
By the time Hotaru’s voice thins into something quieter, edged with dark humour that cuts more than it soothes, Flora’s own tears have slowed only slightly, replaced by the steady rhythm of her breathing as she tries to keep herself from fracturing alongside her. She presses her face into her mother’s hair again, inhaling salt and something softer beneath it, grounding herself in the reality of her presence before she dares to speak. "Well.." she begins, the word tentative but not uncertain, her voice muffled slightly where it rests against golden strands as she gathers the thought into something that can exist outside her head. She draws back just enough to look at her again, brows knitting together as she tries to follow the logic through to its end, and then she shakes her head faintly, as though rejecting the premise outright.
"Can we get his heart back?" she asks, the question slipping out with a kind of earnest practicality that doesn’t quite match the enormity of what it addresses, but feels like the only solid thing she can grasp. Her eyes search her mother’s face again, intent and almost stubborn in their focus, as if the answer might be something they can simply reach for if they try hard enough. "I mean, he can’t really make this decision without having it, right?"
Her gaze lifts to her mother’s face, wide and imploring through the haze of tears, searching for something that might contradict all of this, some small thread of logic or fairness to hold onto, but there is none, only the raw, aching reality of it written plainly in the lines of Hotaru’s expression. The weight of her tears soaks through Flora’s shoulder, through silk and skin alike, and it hurts in a way she has never quite known how to name, because Hotaru is not meant to break like this, not meant to tremble or unravel or speak of herself as though she has been diminished by someone else’s failure to love her properly. The Valkyrie is supposed to stand unshaken, radiant and terrible and untouchable, and yet here she is in Flora’s arms, grieving something that feels both deeply personal and wildly unjust, and Flora can feel something inside herself tightening in response, a protective instinct so sharp it borders on violent.
She does not interrupt, not because she has nothing to say but because there is too much of it, too many contradictions and protests and questions that have nowhere to land. Her hands curl slightly against her mother’s back before she forces them to loosen, aware in some distant way that the strength in her grip is edging toward something less gentle than she intends, that if she is not careful she might hold too tightly, might try to fix something that cannot be fixed by force. So she stays, pressed close, absorbing the words as they spill out, letting them settle even as they grate against everything she believes about love and loyalty and what it should mean to come back from the brink and find someone waiting for you on the other side.
By the time Hotaru’s voice thins into something quieter, edged with dark humour that cuts more than it soothes, Flora’s own tears have slowed only slightly, replaced by the steady rhythm of her breathing as she tries to keep herself from fracturing alongside her. She presses her face into her mother’s hair again, inhaling salt and something softer beneath it, grounding herself in the reality of her presence before she dares to speak. "Well.." she begins, the word tentative but not uncertain, her voice muffled slightly where it rests against golden strands as she gathers the thought into something that can exist outside her head. She draws back just enough to look at her again, brows knitting together as she tries to follow the logic through to its end, and then she shakes her head faintly, as though rejecting the premise outright.
"Can we get his heart back?" she asks, the question slipping out with a kind of earnest practicality that doesn’t quite match the enormity of what it addresses, but feels like the only solid thing she can grasp. Her eyes search her mother’s face again, intent and almost stubborn in their focus, as if the answer might be something they can simply reach for if they try hard enough. "I mean, he can’t really make this decision without having it, right?"
what doesn't kill me makes
me want you more
me want you more
