everything in retrospect [honkai star rail; cocolia/serval; teen]

[sodomhipped]

Title: everything in retrospect [or read on ao3]

Fandom: Honkai: Star Rail

Pairing: Cocolia/Serval, Serval & Gepard

Rating: Teen

Warning: None

Tags: Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, Falling Out of Love, Angst

Author’s Note: The title references Metamorphoses by Ovid.

And, as usual, thanks to my partner for editing this and making it far better than it otherwise would have been.

Summary:

Belobog often felt like it belonged more to Cocolia than Serval.

More than once over the years, she had told Gepard that Cocolia won the city in the divorce—except there was simply nowhere else for Serval to go. So she stayed.

『Or, despite her protests, Serval is commissioned to make a statue to commemorate Cocolia.』

---

i.
Belobog often felt like it belonged more to Cocolia than Serval.

More than once over the years, she had told Gepard that Cocolia won the city in the divorce—except there was simply nowhere else for Serval to go. So she stayed.

Even after being invited to go with the Astral Express, she stayed.

She knew that reminders of Cocolia would be everywhere, but it was even worse than she anticipated. While the history is fresh, everyone rushes to laud Cocolia’s life. Bronya seems to bear adulation gracefully, but Serval writes a number of embarrassing songs to cope.

Cocolia is history, Serval reminds herself; history should have no bearing on her life anymore. What should it matter that she wasn’t able to stare Cocolia in the eye one last time? Serval can never regret her choice to stay behind and protect Gepard. And eventually, she got to say goodbye to Cocolia in her own way.

It should be enough.

But Cocolia always had a habit of becoming her problem, even when it defied all logic.

 

 

ii.
“A statue in her likeness, Gepard, really?” Serval sighs. “You know what she did.”

Gepard has the grace to grimace. “I know. But Lady Bronya can’t turn down such a generous offer of funding when the people believe Cocolia to be a hero...”

“I understand that,” Serval interrupts. “But asking me to build the damn thing? I’m not even an artist.”

“The proposal suggests a meld of mechanical and, uh, statue,” Gepard says. “Look, I feel bad asking this of you. But there are so few people who knew Cocolia and have the necessary skillset. If it’s not you, it’ll be a random sculptor—and Lady Bronya would rather entrust the task to someone who understands Cocolia well.”

“Tell her ‘thanks but no thanks,’” Serval answers, though her conscience pangs somewhat. She may have lost an ex-lover, but Bronya lost so much more. From what Serval can see, Bronya bears it well, but losing her mother must be hitting her hard.

“Would you want some stranger to commemorate Cocolia instead?” Gepard asks. He knows her too well.

“No,” she answers, not thinking of strange hands assembling Cocolia’s body, “but that doesn’t mean I’m going to do it. That’s my final answer.”

 

 

iii.
Serval’s mind is made up. Right until the moment she gets a personalized letter from Bronya. She reads its apologetic sentences three times before tossing it to the corner of her desk in a crumpled ball.

She’s still stewing on it when Gepard visits that evening.

“Fine, since you’re going to twist my arm, I’ll make the stupid thing,” Serval says. He hasn’t said anything about the statue.

“Pardon?” Gepard smiles, wryly. “I only asked the one time. Two weeks ago.”

“Enough, enough,” Serval continues, like Gepard is arguing. “I said I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?”

Serval waves him off. “Do you want me to make the thing or not? Don’t ask me again or else I’ll change my mind.”

 

 

iv.
No less than six crates—all stamped with the seal of the Supreme Guardian—arrive at her workshop two weeks later. They’re heavy as hell, but she manages to drag them inside by herself.

She spends about fifteen minutes searching for an old crowbar before she can crack the top panels open.

Inside are perfect, orderly rows of gleaming metal plates.

“So I guess this is what you’ve come to, Cocolia? A heap of metal.”

Serval runs a finger across one of the sharp edges. Pain bites the pad of her finger, and she looks down on reflex to check that the skin isn’t broken.

 

 

v.
The boxes sit untouched for a week after. The days tick by on the calendar, and the boxes sit waiting with silent judgment.

Eventually, Serval can’t stand the clutter and gets to work. She hammers four plates until they are rounded, fitting together in an approximation of a sphere. These will represent Cocolia’s head. They are rudimentary, of course. She slams a hammer in the very center of one plate, creating an uneven indent. It looks nothing like a nose, but she doesn’t particularly care. If they wanted someone to lovingly shape Cocolia’s lips, they hired the wrong woman.

But Serval can’t help but recall the first time she and Cocolia kissed as she welds the plates together. As the jagged seam raises beneath her torch, she remembers a party long ago.

Cocolia had looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful, but at the Belobog military academy, she held herself more serious and studious. That night, Serval managed to convince her to go out, and Cocolia had given in, gave her a crooked smile and said, ‘The things I am willing to do for you’ in a husky tone that sent shivers right to Serval’s core.

‘What are friends for?’ Serval answered, heart fluttering around the words.

The students gathered at the outskirts of town for these parties. They were beyond the range of the geomarrow heaters, so someone had created a bonfire to chase away the pervasive chill. As the night wore on—and the supply of beer dwindled—the crowd grew smaller and huddled closer to the flames.

They sat close together, one of Cocolia’s thighs warm against her own. And when Serval looked at her, Cocolia watched her in return with steadiness, her eyes soft as they flickered against the darkness.

Serval believed she knew Cocolia’s thoughts, and so she leaned in and pressed their mouths together.

Cocolia had sighed happily against her mouth and pulled her closer.

 

 

vi.
The actual making of a statue isn’t very difficult when you don’t care about how the end product looks.

Serval slams metal against metal, welding each piece into place until a dismembered, craggy body begins to take shape in her shop. The thing is so big that she has to keep the parts separate—there lies an arm, there a leg, on the countertop lolls the head.

Cocolia is strewn across every surface of her life.

It will look monstrous when she puts it all together.

 

 

vii.
Cocolia’s hands were always cold. Serval joked about it often, shivering exaggeratedly whenever Cocolia teased her fingers under the hem of Serval’s jacket uniform to find bare skin.

Once, when they had a break between semesters, Serval brought Cocolia home to the Landau mansion. The house was always warm, buffered by no less than six heaters along its outer walls.

After dinner with the family, they made their way to their rooms. Serval’s parents had given Cocolia the room across from Serval’s, but by unspoken understanding, Cocolia followed Serval into hers without so much as a moment’s hesitation.

They sprawled on Serval’s bed, which was more than large enough for them both but they tangled together anyway, bodies pressed together. Serval can’t remember what they spoke about—classes or something else mundane—but they were giggling together when Cocolia’s face turned serious. Serval thought Cocolia wanted to say something, but she only kissed Serval instead, deep and long.

She swung her body over Serval’s, straddling her thighs.

“Serval,” Cocolia said.

Cold palms snuck under her shirt, spreading out across her stomach and causing Serval to hiss and squirm. She stilled when Cocolia’s warm mouth touched hers.

No one ever kissed her since like Cocolia did then, like there was nothing in the world except the two of them. They tossed their shirts aside, leaving only their matching academy uniform skirts. Half-stripped, the room had felt so cold. Goosebumps raised on her skin from either nervousness or the chill.

It was the first time Cocolia slipped her hand boldly up Serval’s skirt, bypassing the gusset of her panties until Serval was gasping into her mouth. And it was the first time Serval coaxed Cocolia to lie back on her bed so she could shuffle down to return the favor.

At the time, Serval had felt self-conscious, not knowing what to do. But as soon as Serval pressed her tongue inside, the way Cocolia clutched her hair held her doubt and her shivers at bay.

 

 

viii.
A small crowd gathers to gawk as she puts the statue together. Serval can’t really blame them.

She would have preferred to put it together inside, but it was too big to assemble in the shop. So she recruited Gepard’s help and they carried each piece out into the alley beside her workshop together. Now, his arms tremble as he strains to keep the left arm aligned with Cocolia’s shoulder.

“Hold still,” she warns.

“I’m trying,” he says. She can hear the effort in his voice. “How much does this thing weigh, Serval?”

“Dunno,” she answers, breezily.

“How much longer do I need to hold this?”

Serval watches him struggle a moment longer. “Actually, I made a lift for just this occasion. But you were doing such a great job showing off, little brother, that I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He looks so surprised and annoyed that Serval laughs so long and hard that her sides hurt.

 

 

ix.
After Cocolia became Supreme Guardian, they stopped seeing each other. Serval felt like she was missing a limb without Cocolia around, they had been inseparable for so long. But if Cocolia felt the same, she never let on. She ruled with that placid, icy demeanor. Serval often wondered if Cocolia ever thought about her—longed for the days when they both had less responsibilities.

And then, on the day her research was stolen away from her, she stopped wondering:

“Your services as an Architect are no longer needed.”

“Excuse me?” Serval answered. “I’m the lead researcher in the Stellaron Research Division—”

“This directive comes from the Supreme Guardian.”

“Then tell the Supreme Guardian she can grow some balls and fire me herself,” she snapped back. It wasn’t her best repartee, but anger blinded her eyes. She rubbed at them with the back of her hand and it came back wet. “You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll talk to her myself.”

No one stopped her as she stomped her way to Cocolia’s grand office in Qlipoth Fort—not until she tried to open the ornate doors.

“Madame Supreme Guardian is currently occupied.”

“Tell her to become unoccupied then.”

The guard gave her an unimpressed look. She glared at him until he acquiesced, slipping inside the room. After a few minutes, he returned.

“She said that you are allowed to wait, but it may be a while.”

A half hour went by and someone came out of the office. Another group went in after. An hour passed in this manner. Then two.

When the guard started to give her pitying looks, she left. Cocolia never bothered to seek her out to explain why she had been ousted. She received an official letter in the mail a few days later thanking her for her service and although the bottom of the letter had a neatly typed ‘Cocolia Rand,’ it wasn’t even signed by her personally.

 

 

x.
Fully assembled, the statue stands imposing. Larger than life.

The metal creature that represents Cocolia, each and every piece contorted to Serval’s will, catches the light on every curve. Over the course of years, it may darken, but right now it is bright and clear—glittering almost like ice.

“Is it done?” Gepard asks, coming to stand beside her.

She looks the statue over again. Everything is in its place.

And yet, there’s something about it that nags at her. It feels unfinished.

“It’s missing something,” she says. But she has no idea what. Gepard puts a hand on her shoulder.

 

 

xi.
She never does figure out what’s missing.

Bronya meets her in person to thank her for the statue. Her face is as clear and determined as Cocolia’s ever was, but her expression—unlike her mother’s—is tempered with empathy. The statue is then moved to stand in front of the history museum in the middle of the small plaza.

Serval tries to forget about its existence, but it’s difficult.

People she hasn’t talked to in years stop her on the street to tell her how much it means to them. They thank her for her hard work, saying the statue will help Belobog remember.

The most funny part is the review in the newspaper. The ending line says: “The untitled statue may as well be called ‘Grief of a People,’ because the sculptor has so clearly embodied the anguish of all Belobogians at the loss of our Supreme Guardian.

Serval snorts and balls the paper up, tossing it towards the trash can. It misses by a large margin.

There is no room inside of her for grief now. And the old anger is nowhere to be found either. It slipped away so slowly that she did not even notice it leaving.

Now, there is nothing in Serval reserved for Cocolia; she can finally think about Cocolia and feel nothing at all.