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At times, in the depths of Hell, late at what passed for night, Cana would clutch their pillow and wish he had never confronted her. He replays his death in his mind, over and over again.
"You're so hot when you cry. At least I get to see that one more time before
and then the sound of their blood pounding in their ears had gotten to loud to hear her. Brooke's lips moved in the center of his vignetted vision. They had tried to read her lips, even though they didn't want to hear it. The flush on her face, the way he had felt heat on his knee as the world went black. It hadn't really surprised him that she was getting off on it—she had loved every minute of breaking him. Why would she stop now?
Maybe if I had just cut contact.
They stare ahead into the dark shapes of their room. As the new Head of the Envy Department, there were perks. Cana had chosen to make a room that reminded them of their childhood home. Now, the familiar silhouettes taunt them with a life they gave away. Or maybe it was taken. Surely, someone would know from the outside.
"I hate you," he whispers. The only reply is the drone of parties and nightlife from soul intake a few blocks over.
They want to move on, they really do. But in spite of everything, knowing it was just a way for Brooke to take their life away, she took more than that. Cana will never get those years back. And yes, Hell is surprisingly accommodating to a newly minted demon. But sometimes, when he closes the streaming window, he finds himself waiting to hear that little notification. The thought makes them sick. Does he want to hear from her? It's not even possible. He would know if she was here, it was part of the deal they cut with Lucifer. Once Brooke died, they would get to confront her once last time. If they still wanted to whenever it happened.
"Of course. We were destined for each other, right? Please, just…reassure me.
"You won't leave me, right?"
She tore them both apart; after all she did, she severed the thread with her teeth.
Because Cana couldn't just be happy for her. Because he had to try and paint her like some kind of cartoon villain. They knew she wasn't well when they got with her. Not her fault he couldn't set proper boundaries to take care of himself. They were supposed to help her, for crying out loud, and he had the audacity to lash out at a smaller, female indie streamer for being insecure—
It's not my fault. It's not my fault.
Cana clutches their mouth, then their hand goes to rub at the bruises that never left their neck. The twinges of pain make him whimper. They say it again, trying to mean it.
"I hate you," he whispers.
"I hate you. I hate you. I…" The words get stuck in their throat, and Cana thinks they might vomit. They press their own fingers into those well-worn grayish indents. Pain spreads out. He squeezes, feeling his useless breathing falter. They'd started wearing a collar necklace during the day to cover up those horrible bruises. Foundation would rub off. But the collar is off, now, and he feels lost without it.
He can't stop himself. He caresses the bruises, then presses down. The pain is familiar, seared into his senses, right next to the fuzzy panic and resignation that colored his final moments. He starts to cry. Burning hate crawls in their stomach like a million centipedes.
"I hate you." Their voice is getting raspy. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…I…hhh—" There's not enough air to speak anymore.
Just as black creeps in around the edges of their vision, Cana's hand goes limp. He gasps for air. It's a reflex he can't help.
Well, it's not his life to take, is it? During the day, sinners' hands reach for him as he sits atop a pedestal, bodies clamoring one over the other, fingers scorching when they contact Cana's tainted flesh. They'll never possess him. Even when he's surrounded by hellfire, he's nothing but hers. Every scream, every recoil as they realize they can never usurp them, it's nothing. Because none of the voices are hers.
"I…" Their voice is thick with tears. After a few seconds of trying to choke them back, Cana gives in to full-blown sobbing.
The covers feel so cold without another body in them. They wish they had put a hot pack of rice or something in the pillow, now, to imitate her warmth. It would only be a cheap substitute. When he sees her again, will he have the strength to cull her? When he gets his personal audience, what if he gives in to that twisted yearning and falls to his knees, begging again to be ruined? It's so fucking lonely down here. Cana barely had friends up above by the time they died, but spreading out new roots when you've been trained to stay in an e-girl's bedside planter is nigh impossible. He feels more like a limbless starfish than a person with autonomy. The arms just won't grow back.
I hate you, Cana thinks. I'll never forgive you.
He wasn't inclined to forgive as a person, and even less so as a demon. It was weakness, the flawed nature of a human ever willing to forfeit dogma for devotion, that led him here. Brooke had her idol, and Cana his. Two wicked sinners, now bound even in the afterlife. They're still waiting for her to come back. It's disgusting.
Cana feels for the bruises again and presses down.