Hotaru
I'm made of dead man's money, you can see it in my smile
It's far from a surprising answer. Even without the Attuned bond, which feels like two gaping voids with a magical bridge between them, she knows him too well for it to be shocking. "At least it would be ironic. The Flood - drowned." Her own huff of a laugh harmonizes belatedly with his own. Humor that only they can look past the black and bleak of to find something worthwhile.
His refusal shouldn't hurt, there shouldn't be anything left to hurt, but she aches all the same. Jealous, vindictive, bitter. "Flora is old enough to move on if I did it," she notes softly, responding to words left unsaid but deeply implied. Sunjata cannot do the same. They both know it. Hands limp in her lap, legs outstretched fully, her perfectly straight posture is wooden and hollow. It lends unflinching qualities to her figure that keep her from physically recoiling at his apologies, at her son's name on his lips.
The sand beneath her would be easier to swallow than the emptiness in her throat when she tries. "I'm sorry about Nate." Her voice cracks on the man's name - because unlike Sunjata, who had never met Enzo, Hotaru has to grieve them both. It's far from a competition, but her attempt at condolences weigh heavy with pain. Her eyes slip shut and crease heavily beneath the weight of her agony, but her head doesn't bow. She wants to see the sun on the water, feel it on her face. She isn't sure yet if she wants it to be her last remembered sensation.
His refusal shouldn't hurt, there shouldn't be anything left to hurt, but she aches all the same. Jealous, vindictive, bitter. "Flora is old enough to move on if I did it," she notes softly, responding to words left unsaid but deeply implied. Sunjata cannot do the same. They both know it. Hands limp in her lap, legs outstretched fully, her perfectly straight posture is wooden and hollow. It lends unflinching qualities to her figure that keep her from physically recoiling at his apologies, at her son's name on his lips.
The sand beneath her would be easier to swallow than the emptiness in her throat when she tries. "I'm sorry about Nate." Her voice cracks on the man's name - because unlike Sunjata, who had never met Enzo, Hotaru has to grieve them both. It's far from a competition, but her attempt at condolences weigh heavy with pain. Her eyes slip shut and crease heavily beneath the weight of her agony, but her head doesn't bow. She wants to see the sun on the water, feel it on her face. She isn't sure yet if she wants it to be her last remembered sensation.
Watch the fire rise, burning through my paper skin
