Cinnabari is close. So, so tantalizingly close. 

 

They’re so close to her that Monica has an entirely new category of intrusive thought dedicated to very rudely plopping herself onto their lap and demanding that they touch her. Monica, who was touched by Zoysia and found it almost too good, does not know if she could handle Cinnabari. She’d like to think she’s tougher than that but she’s decided to be realistic, considering the intense shock of pleasure she gets whenever she starts subconsciously leaning closer to them.

 

They aren’t having her issues, lucky old dowager. Their issue is causing them an equal if not greater amount of frustration but at least they’ve got centuries of practice restraining themselves. Monica has less than an hour of practice because she never had anything good enough to warrant this kind of self-control. 

 

The closest she can manage as comparison is…well, if she’d gotten one of the spice bottles or genuine, real food. And if she hadn’t had anyone worse off that she’d end up giving it to. If it smelled heavenly, just ambrosial, and she hadn’t eaten in days. And no one would even get hurt if she just took a nibble at it. And it’s so good, she’d been taunted with the taste in her dreams, she’s had the faintest idea of it on her tongue, it’s delicious and it’s right there and the only one hurt here is no one, not even her, because she wants it even if it kills her. 

 

It’s overwhelming, sparks of joy from contact, close intimacy, all without that feeling of hollowed out wrongness. She feels clearer than she has in days but she’s fogging up all over again, torn between the fear of giving up and the bliss of giving in.

 

It was easier when they were distant but near, away enough to leave her aching and close enough to tempt her, kept at arm’s reach. 

 

But that’s not good enough. Not for this, not for what she hopes to build, not for her Cinnabari. They deserve better than that. She refuses to go back on this, to make half an effort then abandon them, to have days run together as the world loses meaning. She doesn't know why it has to be Cinnabari, just that it does. She doesn't know why she wants Cinnabari to tame her, just that it’s growing harder not to outright request it.

 

“You are not making this easy on me, Parolles,” Cinnabari says wryly. “A great portion of your mind is actively, desperately begging for it at all times. I am…being very restrained right now, out of consideration for the deal you sent that little sproutling to make, but I’d prefer if we started sooner rather than later.”

 

“I’m busy scraping together the strength to kneel,” she replies, a smile tugging insistently at corners of her lips. “Worried your weedy little heart will fail as soon as I get on my knees.” 

 

Cinnabari lets out a languid hiss. “Careful. Good girls may just get what they’ve been asking for.”

 

“I’ve never been good and I’m certainly not planning to start now,” Monica reassures.

 

They exude an aura of insufferable smugness, confident in a way that makes her want to surrender and lash out at the same time. There’s an anticipation, the kind that comes before something you know will be enjoyable, a foreign kind of excitement that builds onto itself with every vague memory bubbling up of faces contorted in pleasure or voices growing incoherent. “Soon,” they warn, “I’ll make you happy. I’ll give you everything you deserve and not a single gram less. Every sweet little treat you can’t bring yourself to take, every wishful thought that crosses your little head, every need left unfulfilled by those foolish excuses for leaders,” twin shudders go through them both, excitement shared and doubling, “feed you the best foods, get you the best clothes — I’ll have you spoiled, seedling, pampered out of your mind.”

 

Well, that’s the new most terrifying offer of care she’s ever received. Why is she finding it hot? Good God, she shouldn’t be getting turned on by what are, tone-wise, threats. Offers. Threatening offers.

 

If they want to help her so bad then they can damn well start now. “If you see me wobbling, support my legs,” she warns. “I’m not built for kneeling, Cinnamon, but I’m gonna. I…want you to know that it means something, all this, all my nonsense. Not even I can understand—”

 

Cinnabari lets out the mental equivalent to a raised eyebrow, all clear assurance and experienced disbelief. 

 

“—no one can understand the reasons,” Monica insists with more aggression than strictly needed. “But I want to make a commitment and show that commitment in a human-ish way. Even if I’m not exactly…if it’s not the normal picture of — it’s for me, it’s selfish, but I’m hoping you can appreciate it. That it can be for you, too, if you’d like.”

 

Cinnabari softens in the way only they can soften. In a way that’s less soft than it is considering, because they know how little she can trust softness and they understand it. “Always focused outwards,” they murmur, “so generous to anyone but you.”

 

It’s hard for her to move these days. She’s not sure if it’s the smoke in her lungs or all the waste they’d be lugging about, if it’s a result of overworked muscles or haggard lungs, but she has basically no stamina. She could walk fine, when she did it slowly and paced herself, but it usually leaves her in bed for the next day. Before, she did everything fine, had the energy to do more than just sit there resting. But being old means being in pain and she only got to not be in pain very, very recently. 

 

Her baseline is some level of pain. It’s fine, what everyone feels at some point. Everyone’s afraid, constantly, and in some level of daily pain. Soldiers get pensions and payment for their work but all she gets are bruises and blisters. 

 

She was too stubborn to ask for help until the pain left her bed-ridden. Then, the affini came and poked their twiggy noses in her business, all saintly kindnesses and low-cost xenodrugs. She’s more mobile than she was before but there’s a limit and…she’s not going to ask for more than she needs. She’s not in pain, she can take a walk and rest up the next day, she doesn’t need more than that.

If she falls, she may break a hip or something. One of those old-age injuries that end up killing people, unable to walk and unable to ask for help. You feed them, clothe them, make them comfortable. But no doctor alive will work on someone who can’t even do labour. 

If she falls, she’ll die. If she falls, she’ll never get up again. It may not be true but it hurts and it feels right and the fear kept her careful, kept her cautious, kept her surviving.

 

She doubts Cinnabari will let her fall, though. They’d never pass up the opportunity to gloat over her about the flaws of the human knee or some such nonsense. (They have a running stream of anxiety dedicated to Monica falling and second stream of fantasy dedicated to stashing her away inside of their body, tucked close and warm against the very heart of them. It makes her feel emotions she does not know how to process and those same emotions feature in several more very intriguing dream scenarios.)

 

Monica lowers herself slowly, their gaze burning across the glimpses they get of skin beneath her dress, of knees which jut out from padless, fragile limbs. 

 

They want her like this, over and over, until the sight becomes burned into memory. They want to paint her. They want to feed her. They want to own her and scorch her and consume her from the inside out until she’s fuller than she’s ever been.

 

Monica politely does not acknowledge any of this, because if she does then she is a little bit concerned Cinnabari will start feeding her by hand while she’s bound to the ground, kneeling on a cushion or pillow instead of the cold, hard floor. She can see herself, looking up at them with big, pale eyes like something out of a dream, watching her own image from Cinnabari’s view, chubby-cheeked but still as scarred and old as ever. The sight of her kneeling right now is not enough — more a snack to whet their appetite than a proper meal — but they can settle for it. They’ll have all the time in the world, soon enough.

 

She has to carefully pry herself away from them, leaving their song without a melody. 

 

The rings she chose are simple, silver-grey bands with shining golden insides. Her grandmother would’ve chided her at the lack of any jewels, despite the fact no one in their family has ever had the money for diamond wedding rings. 

 

She supposes she does have the…resources for it now. But she remembers the dull stainless steel rings her grandmother used to fuss over, cheap and barely recognizable as ritual items, and she can’t help but smile at the thought. Something new but familiar, something scary but ancient, something perfect in its luxury while reminding her of the old-age relics that she’s always had a more than a bit of a soft spot for.

 

Maybe if Cinnabari says yes she can explain it to them. She hopes they’ll say yes, but she has so much practice in dashed dreams that she’ll probably be fine if they say no. She will. She will be fine. She’ll sulk for a day or two and then she’ll be fine and she'll probably never think about them, never mourn their perfect vines, never wish or miss or—

 

“Seedling,” they say scoldingly, “I’ve let you continue under these misconceptions for long enough — and that is my fault, that I was so focused on speaking with you I forgot to correct you.”

 

She would speak, make the point she’d been trying to make, but she’s scared that then they would stop speaking. And she’s missed their voice too much to risk that.

 

Fondness bubbles up in their mind. “I will not be leaving you,” they say firmly, “and you will not be leaving me. I waited too long for the sake of teasing, then too long for the sake of giving you space, but it is clearly doing more damage than I can allow. That is my mistake,” they gesture at her trembling knees, “and this is yours. I will be fixing it for you. The only input you’ll be getting is how, exactly, you’d like that to happen.”

 

“Support me — but don’t touch directly. I need to, I need, I need my thoughts,” she stammers, avoiding the depths of their eyes, “I can’t exactly swear a vow if you…if I’m not thinking.”

 

“I’m more than certain a clever girl like you could find a way,” Cinnabari purrs, a sound that shudders through her entire body, from the round curves of her ears right down to the tips of her toes. 

 

She shakes her head, reaching into one of her pockets to retrieve the wedding band for Cinnabari. 

 

The ring dangles on a white chain so long it could loop around both her wrists twice, excessively oversized for a human but perfectly fitting for the broad neck of her inhumanly shaped affini. It catches the light, white flashing off steel, illuminating the carefully carved words. To have and to hold.

 

The feeling of vine-on-skin is tantalizingly close to what she knows could be, almost at that unknown peak, and like a rocky shore buffeted by the sea her iron will is crumbling to dust under gentle, wanting pressure. 

 

Cinnabari adjusts her position on the ground in a dozen miniscule little ways, putting the stress of staying there on their vines instead of on her muscles, providing padded ground to kneel on, and pressing up against her through cloth. 

 

“Will you, Cinnabari Dracaena, take me, Monica Parolles, as your…lovingly wedded wife?” she asks. 

 

“To have and to hold,” they echo. “Explain it to me, seedling.”

 

She breathes in shakily as a vine edges so close, too close, almost touching her. She feels like a gaping wound, stinging at the touch of cold air, all the pain turned to pleasure and all the pleasure so good it may as well be pain. Too much. Just right. “I’d say ‘in sickness’ but there’s only health here,” she admits. “I’d say ‘for as long as we both shall live’ but you’re going to outlive me. I’d say ‘with God as our witness’ but I don’t think God ever looks away from you, Cinnamon.”

 

“You mentioned a vow, seedling. Tell me about it.”

 

“It’s an oath of love,” she tries to explain. It’s hard, the idea of explaining marriage, when that feels so universal. It’s not even universal amongst humans but she feels like it should be, like it’s obvious. “A vow to dedicate yourself to someone, one that’s meant to last a lifetime if the other person accepts. I love you, I want to spend my lifetime with you, so if you want to…if you can stand another decade or two of this then—”

 

“I accept,” Cinnabari answers simply. “Do you need to put the ornament on me or shall I do the honors?”

 

Monica blinks. “It’s…just like that?”

 

“I intend to stretch your lifespan out as long as possible,” Cinnabari replies, tone nonchalant even though the words are so fucking ominous. “You’ll be living longer than a few decades, seedling, but it’s the thought that counts. I plan to have you, I plan to hold you — why should I not accept a vow telling me to do what I was already planning on doing?” 

 

She’d argue but she doesn’t have a rebuttal to that. And there’s no point in arguing “Well, c’mon then,” she urges, “lower yourself to my level, let me put it around your neck.”

 

Cinnabari does so without hesitation. Just bares themself to her, vulnerable and open, without fear or doubt. All of it is leaving her shell-shocked — was it really that easy? She just…had to ask. And she got it. All she had to do was ask. She’s reeling, as she places the necklace around their neck, fingers grazing against them and ripping a wounded, unsatisfied sound from her throat. 

 

“From now on,” they say, and it sounds less like a threat than a promise, “you will only ever have to ask. Or else I’ll make you ask, for both our sakes.”

 

She grits her teeth, swallowing down a defensive, reflexive insult. She feels naked and bare and open, cornered as a scared animal, ready to both fight and flee. It hasn’t fixed anything, the marriage, but the talking…it helped. She still feels clear, like she’s finally connected to reality again, like the world’s gained new clarity even if the picture it paints is incomprehensible to her. 

 

Just ask. Or they’ll make her ask. No chance for failure, no chance to fuck up, no chance to make a mistake and give them a reason to punish her or leave her over it. There is no expectation or responsibility and there can be no failing to meet expectations that don’t exist or neglecting responsibilities that she no longer has a right to. 

 

Why does it feel…freeing? It should feel like a shackle, like a trick, but all she can manage is sublime relief.

 

Cinnabari looks her over, scrutinizing her for any faults to fix. “I’ll feed you,” they decide, all on their own, “what would you like to eat?”

 

“Ration paste?” Monica answers automatically. 

 

They sharpen, unimpressed and unamused. 

 

“Oatmeal,” she corrects. “With…with cinnamon.”

 

Cinnabari bobs their head in a poor imitation of nodding before moving away to the rarely used kitchen. 

 

Monica follows after them, feeling relieved where she should be disappointed and disappointed where she should be relieved.