god knows that she's not one of the best mothers out there. she's selfish, she's irresponsible— a stereotypical teenage mom, if one will allow her to say that. that's not what she wanted to be, though. chica wanted to be caring, she wanted to be selfless and loving. she wanted to mend the bad blood that runs through the veins of her family's bloodline, she wanted her children to have a good background and a mother they could look up to, she wanted them to have everything she hadnt. instead, she gave them exactly what her parents gave her; trauma piled after trauma, hazy afternoons spent with an barely-there alcoholic of a mother and a spawn donor, knowing damn well that their existence was determined in a single night of brandy and lust— not passion, lust.
i'm just like her.
the thought makes her cringe. brain churning poison, chica finds herself wading onto the porchstep of her son, who miraculously hasn't passed any judgement over her— or at least, not that she knows of— and the crude way she took care of him and his siblings. he reappeared a month or so ago but they haven't had much conversation between them. that's partly her fault; she hasn't been actively seeking him out and she's been too chickenshit to let anything else but a few words pass between them. she's been bracing herself for the fallout, the fallout that will surely come, and for his words to stab into her like knives. or, for him to actually stab her with knives. either will do. her hand come to tap against the wooden door, a frown knitting her lips.
/sorry for the quality ffff COFFEEBLENDS puppylove
pff don't worry about it, I guarantee this is worse//
truthfully, coffeeblends harbours no especially harsh feelings towards his mother. true, she's been a bit -- no, a lot absent, but the absence hasn't affected him too negatively. probably. had coffee always been quiet? reserved? it's hard to tell if his stoic traits decided to make their appearance as simply a part of maturing, or if it's part of his parents never really being there to show him otherwise -- and maybe his obsession with coffee has a part to play in all this, spawning from his "neglect". some crave attention, that feeling of being needed and wanted, in their lives to make up for being primarily left alone by others. for some, hugs and physical contact serves just fine for the warmth people require to live. coffee seems to have replaced that for the elkhound; acting as a placebo for that warmth and acceptance, if you will, in replacement of that he feels robbed of. whatever.
the hound had been pouring a lot of coffee into his usual, nondescript white mug when the knock reaches his ears. it's rather quiet, he notices, and then comes to the realization that exactly who would want to talk to him? he has a habit of biting people with his words, and not many would desire that within a friend. after all, he doesn't like conversation. he doesn't like others. it's best they stay away. but, wait a minute, this isn't quite correctly reflected in his actions: showing up to each joiner who paces at the border, or making sure he's one of the first faces to greet a member making their first appearance outside of the comfort of their home. and maybe it's for that sense of security that comes with familiarizing yourself with everyone about you. but that isn't important at the moment; coff's got a scalding cup of coffee in one dark paw and someone's at the door.
clearing his throat, the canid opens the door and his breath hitches in his throat: it's his mother. the person he's, honestly, the least expected to show up at his door. he's the only "medic" in the clan at the moment -- he'd half expected it to be someone with the sniffles or something else. but this is certainly a pleasant surprise, so coffee jerks his head upwards in a sort of nod and speaks up after a moment of staring with a simple "hi, mom." the term of endearment is forced out of his throat awkwardly, voice almost cracking like a teenager instead of the consistent, deep velvet of what it usually resonates as. he wants to spit it out at the carcal, let her know exactly how he's feeling at the moment with a sarcastic tone, afternoon coffee interrupted by her unexpected arrival. but this is his mother, and even he knows how to be polite. after all, she put him on this earth, she can take him off.
"do you want some coffee? it's still hot, or boiling, really -- why don't you come in? it's kind of chilly." his sentences aren't thought through coherently, rather rushed together in an attempt to get his thoughts voiced -- and, dammit, he didn't even mention that he doesn't really have any sugar or milk or anything like it. ugh, does chica even like coffee? he sure hopes so, or this could blow over badly. the suggested wind blows through his very bones and coffeeblends shivers as if on cue, some of his coffee spilling over onto his paw. he'll shuffle aside awkwardly, showing that, indeed, the femme can make her way inside if she likes. it's awkward, simply inquiring if his mother would want some coffee like they're old, estranged friends.
"THIS IS THE TRUTH ABOUT IT" & TAGS