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Volley’s choice of residency had been an apartment complex in Little Homeworld. Due to its multicolored nature, and the fact that three of the Diamonds’ former Pearls lived there, it had been nicknamed “The Coral Reef.” Steven thought it was a bit crude, considering the way Pearls lived on Homeworld, but besides the Renegade, no one else seemed to mind that much.
“Steven!” Volleyball greeted brightly, beaming. “It’s so nice to see you.”
Steven tried not to overthink it. He didn’t know Volleyball that well, but she knew his mom. Last time he had seen her, he had snapped at her. He’d proven Volleyball’s point about his mom’s destructive powers. The Reef was very much a wreck. He had to prove it; he was better than Her. He’d never stoop to her level (but he already had); he was Steven Universe, age seventeen, savior of the Universe, and decidedly not his mother. Volleyball couldn’t see her in him. He’d make sure of that.
“Hi, Volley,” he answered, cheerfully. She stared at him, brows furrowed. Had he spaced out for too long? He took off his new sneakers (turns out it wasn’t normal to only own sandals and only leave your hometown past twenty miles for Gem missions and space before you turned sixteen), and stepped inside. It was very Volleyball, he’d give it that.
The apartment was carpeted in pale pink, warm, and the walls were creme, pristine and patterned with faint pink seashells and snow-white gulls. “I brought a housewarming gift. Hope it isn’t too late.”
It turned out that Jayhawk had pottery workshops. He’d crafted her a teaset, patterned with azaleas. Saucer, cups, teapot.
“Oh, how darling!” Volleyball said, staring at the porcelain through the clear plastic, promptly, she covered her mouth with her hand, an all-too-familiar humility taking over. “You shouldn’t have.” The bag was set down on her marbled pink-white countertop.
“So, how are you? Everything okay at Little Homeworld?”
Volley seemed to perk up at that, like a rabbit helicopterping an ear. “Quite. I’m taking Mr. Universe’s music classes. Sometimes Pearl comes in, too. You used to teach it, right?”
“Well, I can always come here more often. Warp and Lion and all.”
“Do you want tea?”
He nodded his assent. She scurried to bring the water to a boil; the kettle was pale coral, cherry blossoms engraved onto its surface.
The kitchen island was adorned with multicolored fruits, packets of tea leaves in woven baskets. He could tell she was shaping up to be something of a connoisseur. “Hibiscus,” he said, grinning, particularly interested in the bag of the hibiscus-mango-infusion blend on the table.
He could see how different she was from Pearl, namely in her movements. Still graceful, still poised, agile. But her movements were gentler, softer, rounder; they weren’t hardened by six thousand years of war. Pearl’s movements were sharper, cutting, sweeping, thrusting, like she always had to be en garde. And she did.
They had one faint memory of each other after the White Diamond Incident. Volleyball had struggled to speak, still shrouded in White, and Pearl had looked close to tears when she murmured under her breath, “It’ll be very difficult for her…” and made a subtle cupping gesture with her hands. He felt shattered, unable to establish a convincing argument, and Volley had finally told him not to cry.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” he offered. “Back the last time we met.”
He saw her falter in the corner of his eye. There was a seashell tucked into one of her buns.
“Is this about when you yelled?” she asked. He didn’t answer. He stared at his feet. “It’s okay!” she amended, worry in her eyes. A few of the Quartzes he used to teach said he “grew on people easily” — did he?
“Is it?”
A beat of silence.
“You scared me, but… I know you’re not Pink. Pearl says you wouldn’t hurt a fly. She loves you.”
She loves you. There was an emphasis on it, like she knew he had a doubt. Three simple words. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. Huh. The irony of the statement was blinding; he was sure he flushed a little pink, both the glowing kind and the human kind. Volley frowned but didn’t speak.
“I love her too.”
Volley’s face softened, and she poured the tea in matching cups, the same cherry blossom deal. He thanked her, though they drank in silence for a while.
“I…”
She tilted her head.
“When I was a kid, I always felt so much pressure to be like her. Mom— Rose— Pink, I mean. Everyone admired her, and thought of her as their bold hero, but she was just a victim of her circumstances.” He blew the surface of his tea, tracing another hand over the rim of the cup. It rippled. “She hurt so many people. She used people. And then I got older, and saved the Universe. I had my own legacy. I thought that… If I couldn’t fix things, make people happier, then no one would love me anymore. That I’d be just like her, and there wouldn't be any need for me anymore.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, staring at her reflection in her own cup, amber and golden-hued.
“And, like, now that I know that I’m not her… That she didn’t just lie dormant in my gem all my life… It’s making me think that everyone’s just disappointed. I’m afraid of being like her, because she’s horrible, but afraid of not being like her, because after that, my worth is just conditional.” What’s seventeen years to a millenia? Or several?
“Oh, Steven.” She was looking at him with an expression he couldn’t place. “What she did…” —her eyes brimmed with tears, tone cautious— “It was never your responsibility. I was never your responsibility.”
He can’t blame anyone but himself; few Gems ever fully grasped the meaning of “child,” even if he once taught a Human Bio class at Little Homeworld. “It shouldn’t’ve been. But it was.”
She rose, walked over to him, sat and propped her knees up so they’d be at eye level. She stroked his hair in a soothing gesture, perhaps a tad out of her depth. “Oh, stars. When did you get so tall?”
“You sound like Pearl.”
A giggle, jubilant. “Good.” For a brief moment, stasis. “...If it helps… I don’t think you’re all like her. I never expected Pink— Rose— to change, but she did. And if she made you over it… it was worth it all.”
He scoffed at the crudeness of “made.” “Who’s been telling you war stories?”
Her hand stilled; this conjured a furious, glowing blush. It was pinker than Pearl’s, but still slightly cool-toned. “Bismuth.”
That’s new, but somehow not surprising.
He got off the chair.
He hugged her; she was the same height as Pearl, about half a head taller than him now. Her gem thrummed from her navel, radiating a similar pink. She rubbed his back; perhaps they were both a tad out of their depth; not used to comfort. She finally hugged him back, returning the embrace.
“Pink buddies?” he asked, sheepish.
And he swore that her grasp on his shirt became the slightest bit tighter. “Pink buddies,” she answered, quieter.
And that was why he began to take monthly visits to Little Homeworld.