Mori wanted terribly to scream at the thought. The truth? What truth? When had the truth ever been valued more than appearances? When did the diagnosis matter more than bedside manner? Nobody wanted the ugly, screaming, bleeding truth, ripped from his hands like a still beating heart. It was never about the truth! It was about ego and pride and being able to tell yourself you're a good person! Nobody wanted him! Not really! They wanted the Morbid Socialite! They wanted the man skilled in talking their way out of any situation! They wanted the poised, composed, jovial man with a penchant for the melodramatic! Nobody wanted the creature that would sooner rip apart his own sternum and sever his lungs than tell another person how he feels! Nobody wanted the monster covered elbow down in dead blood, unexpressive yet feeling far too much! Too direct, too emotional, too morbid, too much! They were only ever too much and he couldn't stand the idea of the Maven pretending to want that from them!
They wanted to take her shoulders and cry that this wasn't about what either of them wanted, that nobody cared about what was best for either of them. He wanted to open the bag and show her, show Jane Rosewood the skeleton in his closet before she could find it herself, ruin their friendship before it could take root. Their chest burst with the desire to just stop pretending, knowing that doing so, dropping the mask fully, would terrify and hurt the witnesses. He wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that he was about to spit in the face of God and kick His ribs until the holy corpse rotted and the blood salted the earth. He wanted to rip the truth from his stomach like a line of intestines and grind it into the dirt with his heel. They wanted to look the Maven in the eye and tell her that her sympathy shouldn't be wasted.
To the Maven, it was but a moment of thought, eyes flickering across the ground in front. When they darted back up, the Socialite looked at the woman across from him and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
"If you so insist," was Mori's weak, almost emotionless response. Not hateful or sad or scared; simply nothing. Nothing was easier than enthusiasm, even if societal convention forced him to accept. Even if his heart begged him to accept. Nothing was easier. "I cannot guarantee I will be pleasant company."
no subject
They wanted to take her shoulders and cry that this wasn't about what either of them wanted, that nobody cared about what was best for either of them. He wanted to open the bag and show her, show Jane Rosewood the skeleton in his closet before she could find it herself, ruin their friendship before it could take root. Their chest burst with the desire to just stop pretending, knowing that doing so, dropping the mask fully, would terrify and hurt the witnesses. He wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that he was about to spit in the face of God and kick His ribs until the holy corpse rotted and the blood salted the earth. He wanted to rip the truth from his stomach like a line of intestines and grind it into the dirt with his heel. They wanted to look the Maven in the eye and tell her that her sympathy shouldn't be wasted.
To the Maven, it was but a moment of thought, eyes flickering across the ground in front. When they darted back up, the Socialite looked at the woman across from him and let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding.
"If you so insist," was Mori's weak, almost emotionless response. Not hateful or sad or scared; simply nothing. Nothing was easier than enthusiasm, even if societal convention forced him to accept. Even if his heart begged him to accept. Nothing was easier. "I cannot guarantee I will be pleasant company."