THE WORDS BRING THEM TO A PAUSE, SILENCE BROOKED THICK with discomfort apparent. At such a young age, they think they do well to hide it, but it shows in the lurching stop that stilts their shoulders as they reach for proffered teacup. They could call this casual Ambassador work, but for friends of Toriel—and therefore friends of Frisk—it is something more familiar, more emotionally intuitive.
Of course, almost all Ambassador work requires some degree of emotional intuition; if Frisk didn't care, the monsters would not have made it to the Surface. If Frisk didn't care, Ceroba would not be having tea with them on a casual Saturday afternoon. For a moment or two, Frisk just stares at the fox-mother over the edge of their cup, expression completely neutral, shouting endlessly into their head. Does she have any idea what Frisk has done? What they have put other monsters through? Fair is fair, in the long run, is it not?
Mouth opens, after several long seconds and a thick false-swallow, but Frisk has nothing to say. They simply shrug, glancing down, watching the light glint off ripples in the cup when they move it back to the table. They aren't very fond of the drink, but it seems to be a recurring thread in so many stories, it's starting to grow on them.
“ Better me than you? ”
Humor does not get them far very often on this front, with Toriel. Frisk suspects it may be similar with Ceroba. “ Just about perspective, I guess. Maybe I'm too young to realize how messed up everything is. ”
They know exactly how “messed up” everything is. In most cases, better than the monsters that tell them that.
FOR ALL OF FRISK'S EMOTIONAL INTUITION , they truly underestimate the intention with which Ceroba invited Frisk here today. This casual Saturday tea is not quite as casual as it seems, because Ceroba is here on a mission. That mission? Well, it... it is just to get to know Frisk better, so perhaps it could be called casual in that way, but Ceroba has prepared herself for the paths this conversation could lead down. There are only so many steps between a casual question and the uprooting of age-old grief.
"Better no one, really," Ceroba murmurs, taking a sip of her tea. Golden flower tea, given to her by... oh, it must have been Toriel. She is not friends with anyone else who stocks it - truthfully, she prefers a good oolong, or even a refreshing barley, now that she's able to access it.
( The first few months here on the Surface had been a delight, truthfully, well-spent gold on endless amounts of things Ceroba had only ever heard stories about. Chujin's life insurance and the, er, financial compensation she had been given after... well, after everything with the Lab came out... Ceroba is not hurting, financially, not at all. It helps that the gold is worth so much more on the Surface, too. )
She is getting off-topic. Ceroba clears her throat, setting her cup down on its little dish before her. "I just mean to say that - well, I imagine it wasn't easy. The first human I met... they had a difficult journey as well. And that was without the pressure of being the final SOUL needed to break the barrier."
... Angel, she does miss Clover. Nearly as much as she misses Kanako. The suddenness of it hits her hard, and she quickly takes her cup back into her paws to give them something to hold onto.
"Forgive me if this is too personal," she says, softly, "but I also have to wonder... how did you enter the Underground in the first place? There aren't many ways in, from what I understand. And when you freed us, I... well, choosing to stay with Toriel? Did you not have somewhere to return to? Surely there were people you left behind."
