Real food always tastes good, no matter what’s going on. It weighs in her stomach just the same, warm and heavy. 

 

Circumstances don’t change the simple fact of taste. 

 

…unless those circumstances happen to include Cinnabari.

 

“You’re eating like an animal,” they chide, seizing her by the jaw mid-chew. “You can’t savor anything like this, seedling,” a hint of fondness coated in excitement softens the blow of their mock-disapproval, “you will slow down.”

 

 

 

Do as I ask. Or I’ll make you. 

 

Monica shudders, reluctantly slowing down. Something in the back of her mind rebels, screams, as she eats so slowly it hurts. This is her house, this is her home, but something about it rings as unsafe. If she ate this slowly before she’d be asking for a robbery. If she ate this slowly during a break she’d be asking for a mark against her, and then the company would never rehire her again, and then she’d be a dead woman walking. She’s about ready to give up, rush through the last bites of her meal. 

 

But there’s also Cinnabari, bringing her back from the edge, keeping up a low buzz of praise. It should feel like empty, meaningless nonsense but there’s a blooming warmth in both their chests that belies a terrifying amount of sincerity. 

 

“There’s a good girl,” they coo, “Nice and slow for me, nice and steady, just like that.”

 

She wants to run or fight, scared and tempted to lash out, desperate to spit up a mean-spirited word. But sweet mush lies heady and dizzying on her tongue, sweet with hidden notes of spice and subtle hints of something woody. It tastes complicated. It tastes sweet, yes, but not excessively so. It’s soft, yes, but not a uniform paste. Between the texture and the taste and the praise — Monica can barely even process all this, let alone gather up the energy for anger. 

 

“Tough-shelled,” they whisper, like it’s a secret. “I love you for it, seedling, my tensed up little thorn. Respected, admired, a figure of your community known far and wide, a survivor who lasted so long it baffles even your peers. And you’re mine now, aren’t you?”

 

She tries to stop. Stop chewing, stop eating, stop listening. But then a prickle of disappointment pops her bubble of careful distance, and she loves them for having the audacity to try to tame her almost as much as she dreads (loves) the possibility of their success. 

 

Monica swallows, mouth dry despite the tantalizing scents and tastes still lingering. Sweetness sharpens into something tarter, an aftertaste she’s always treasured. 

 

It’s hard to treasure anything with Cinnabari here. Hard to pay attention to anything but them. 

 

Cinnabari’s wooden lips mold in real time, delicate bark bending in two to reveal a detailed mouth. Lush pink moss serves in the place of gums, framing teeth carved from glittering white wood. They look…human. 

 

“No,” falls out of her mouth before she even thinks of it. “No, you’re not meant to be human. I — it’s beautiful, you’re gorgeous, but it’s not right. I don’t want you lying to me, Cinnabari, I want…” she doesn’t want to say it but there’s a glimmer of worried yellow in their eyes that she can’t stand, “I want you comfortable.”

 

Relief mixed into throat-closed affection. “Seedling,” they say softly, “you still don’t know, do you? It’s alright, not to know. In fact, I relish the opportunity to explain. Thank you, Monica, for giving that to me.”

 

Again, the heat of anger flares. It was sluggish, slow, dripping like oil until the spark of life that is Dracaena Cinnabari returned to her. Her anger is bright, pulsing, living. A live wire twisted in on itself, a passion that rises to her cheeks—

 

Ah, she thinks, that is not anger. It clicks slowly but suddenly, that this is not anger, that anger may be heated but does not settle nearly as lightly or glimmer so pleasantly. 

 

She is in flushed, feverish love. Capricious, cottony, cozy love. Love.

 

Love is the ache in her stomach in the absence of someone. Love is the lonely, abandoned pit in her stomach. Love is the certain, difficult thing that drives her to sacrifice and toil and live. Love is the hardened, prickling thing that makes a life worth living — dried out and bleached in the sun but stubborn as a horse, refusing to die. It makes life worth it. It makes rules of kindness that hope to be followed. It gives up its own life in hopes for a better future.

 

This can’t be love. It’s different, it’s not the same, how could these two feelings ever share a name? This isn’t cold, doesn’t shiver down her spine, won’t fill her head with worries. A love that comforts instead of burdens, a love that protects instead of demanding protection, a love that is for the softer things in life.

 

Monica can’t…feel this. She isn’t meant for it, isn’t built for it, isn’t used to it. How can she be safe, when safety never lasts? How can time feel slow, when time is always running out? How in the nine sordid hells can she possibly let herself feel like this, like the world is small and safe and soothing?

 

She swallows down empty air, looking into the eyes of an answer. “Tomorrow,” she pleads, “Miss — my, no, I…Cinnabari, I can’t right now. I want to…just talk. Like we used to. Leave the vows and truths and explanations for tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow,” they promise. 

 

Then, they motion for her to continue eating. She does. Bite by guided bite, letting it settle on her tongue, torn between crying joyful tears and shaking under the assault.

 

She’s stopped at her next spoonful, a vine hovering near her throat, the air itself caressing her skin as their minds pulse together in desperate want. 

 

Monica closes her mouth, overjoyed as pride lashes through her. 

 

“Tell me why you’re eating this,” they say. It’s not a question.

 

Leave the food uneaten, they order, and speak.

 

Starve, we’ll starve, it won’t last, her instinct whispers. Never safe, never safe, never safe. We’re starving. We’re starving.

 

“I…can’t,” she says. “I — I can’t, Cinnabari, I’m sorry—”

 

Pain. One bright, solid point. A sting, a prickle, heat wafting over her in one crashing wave. Like someone’s set a fire just beside her, skin warmed but not seared. 

 

Her breath hitches, fear leaving in a rush of punched out air. “I don’t know what you just did but Miss, my Cinnabari, my Dracaena — why am I calling you that — oh God, you used the brainwashing xenodrugs,” she waits for panic to set in. “…something is wrong with me.”

 

 

“You bratty little angel, I adore you so much it terrifies me, I want to break for you but I don’t want to change just bend,” she can’t stop talking, “You broke out the brainwashing for oatmeal, that’s fucking ridiculous, you’re so ridiculous it’s impossible not to love you. I’m worried, madam — what the fuck — worried that if I eat something solid I’ll break my teeth on it, worried that the texture will be too much, worried that it’ll be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I want it but everything’s changing, I need one familiar thing, the world is unsteady and I’m unsteady but food never changes.”

 

“Mah’dah’hmm,” Cinnabari echoes. 

 

“A title, Madam Dracaena. My mother used to love titles, used to tell us about histories and old relics as we worked,” Monica blinks, almost confused, when her voice grows strained. “She died years ago and I’m sad about it. Wait, I’m sad? Grieving?” she frowns. “No…no, she died decades before now, that makes no sense at all. I don’t, I can’t be sad even if I am sad, mourning doesn’t…she even died a good death. She was old, legs gave way underneath her, dead after a third day of bedrest. We saw it coming, we were able to — to say goodbye and give her extra food and we asked the neighbors for…for those fancy painkillers they’d stolen, on the last days, so she died comfortably. Good death.” 

 

“Parolles,” they say softly, “grieving doesn’t end. It just fades.”

 

“I already know that,” she snaps, “I’m not — I want you to love me, not just own me. Love me for what I am, because nobody ever does, because I can’t do things for you and everything is already done and there’s no one left to help.” There’s a wetness on her cheek. Why are her eyes burning?  “The world is better than ever, Cinnamon, it has no need of me and you have no need of me and — fuck, I can’t believe you want me. You won’t want me as anything more than a toy, a pet, a plaything to get thrown out in a few days time — I can’t do that, I can’t, I’ve given everything for nothing but I can’t give you my everything if you can’t promise me that…that you’ll keep it. Please, please, I…I want to be kept. Will you keep me?” 

 

She’s not scared, right now. Oh God. And she’s not scared about the lack of fear, she’s not scared about anything. Just sad, just old, just so many things that it hurts. She’s tired. 

 

Monica Parolles is crying. Sobbing. How long has it been? She didn’t cry when her mother died, not after the first few days. She didn’t think of her mother, past the stories, past the legacy, past the burden and extra work her absence left for the rest of the family. She loved her mother, she did, but there wasn’t time for it.

 

She has all the time in the world now. Why does that terrify her?

 

“You’ll be ok,” they whisper, voice a low rumble in her bones. “Feel it, seedling. Just feel it. Can you do that for me?”

 

 

It hurts. It physically hurts. She tries to — distance herself from it, reframe it, shove it down — but the thing coursing through her disagrees. She tries to do something, anything, anything at all but it won’t let her — all she can do is stay there, helpless and vulnerable, pinned in the claws of something greater.

 

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t but she will — because they’re here — and they won’t give her a choice. 

 

“It’s not fair,” she makes terrible, wretched sounds. Ripped out, torn away noises. She tries to choke it down but something has broken in her, some deep-down thing that kept her functioning. “It’s not — fuck, I’m being childish — but you already see me as a child, you’re so old, so much,” Monica is breathing steadily. Her heart is going slowly. “Loving is knowing, Cinnabari. Love is cold and it aches and the heat — the fluster — that’s for childhood crushes, Cinnamon, for stories. But you’re warm. I’m so cold, all the time, and you’re so warm it burns. I need it, I need you, but I yield and end up lashing out and I don’t know if I want to stop biting the hand that feeds me. I'm so scared, but I don’t — please don’t take the fear away. Just…I can’t have it stolen or I won’t be me at the end of this…just soothe it down, please, I want you to love me…”

 

Vines cradle her close and squeeze her in a steady, beating rhythm. The same beat of her heart. The same beat of their shared music. Greater than them both, greater than anything individual, a joined thing that breathes through her. The fear leaves and she leaves with it until there’s nothing left but a soothed animal, a soothed pet, daring to claim the name Monica Parolles. 

 

She wants that name. Maybe she was never worthy of it but she wants to carry it. 

But she wants to carry theirs alongside it. She can see the shape of them, the wavering idea of a shared name, a changed but similar name.

 

“You’re still yourself,” her affini states, a simple fact of the Universe, “but now you’re mine, as well. Adjustment takes more than a day.”

 

“If I had my way,” she rasps, “then I’d spend the rest of my fucking life adjusting.”

 

They soften, in the way only they can soften, in the way that makes her somehow trust that they genuinely want to be gentle. “I’ll be here,” they promise, “and I’ve lived a long time, seedling. Whether it takes you days or months or decades, I will wait. An impatient predator is a foolish one.”

 

“I don’t…you’re my spouse now,” she fumbles for words, “you’re my spouse and I’m your wife. And I like that, Madam, I really do. I like it more than I can say. It doesn’t fix anything, the marriage, but it makes me happy, even if it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

 

“I’m beginning to wonder if it’s wise, waiting until tomorrow to explain this,” they muse aloud to themselves. “I’d like to keep my word but it’s getting painful, watching you labor under all these terrible misconceptions. A day may be nothing to me, but it can be everything for you.”

 

“You’re my spouse,” she insists, rushing to change the subject. “So…eat with me. Please?”

 

They freeze. “We’ve been eating together, already. You enjoyed quite a lot, seedling. Oh!” they make a rough, rustling sound. She’s half-sure it’s supposed to be a gasp. “Is this a sign of growing senility? Oh my poor ancient, lovely darling.”

 

“Alright, brat,” she rolls her eyes. “You’ve already proven to be a tyrant, drugging me out of my mind to get the answer to one question. Wasn’t even an important question.”

 

“I gave you very mild disinhibitors,” Cinnabari says gently but haughtily. Monica must have broken something in her brain because she does, in fact, find all of this terribly endearing. “Besides, the question was more of an anchor than anything. If I wanted the answer that badly I could pry it out of your memories at any time I liked,” they don’t seem to realize this sentence is terrifying. Monica, who very recently had the ability to fear things spooned out of her skull, can tell that this display of casual power would usually have fear and anger twisting her up into subtle gordian knots. It would…also have made her a little bit heated. 

 

(It is very much making her feel heated. Which is not at all what they need right now, brain.)

 

“Ah,” she says, as if in realization. “It was a power play. Immature, Cinnamon, honestly. Xenodrugs are for serious issues not…not mind battles.”

 

“This is not a battle,” they correct, “it was never a battle. You gave yourself to me the moment you walked into my library, seedling, and the moment you opened those pretty little lips for me was the moment you lost. This, seedling, is simply a series of tests to see how you react to pressure,” Cinnabari cocks their head to the side, vines wiggling playfully, “I haven’t even begun to pry you open but what you did just now…oh, it was such a wonderful glimpse at what you could be.”

 

Just a brush of the vines, Monica remembers, nothing but a pale imitation, nothing but a dream, and already you’re falling apart.

 

This is a taste of the reality. A glimpse into her future. 

 

She doesn’t know if she can handle what she sees, but she does know that she wants to try. 

 

For now, Monica settles on one thing. Tries to slow down, take it one step at a time. “I know I said I wanted to talk like we used to but I’ve been wanting it for days now and unable to say it.”  She breathes in deeply, letting the words out in a rush of hushed shame, “can you please touch me?” 

 

“Repeat that,” Cinnabari demands.

 

Do it or they’ll make her. Do it or they’ll take over. Do it or no punishment, no failure, nothing but assured success, a win-win where the only caveats includes the mortifying ordeal of being known. 

 

“Please,” she says louder, “please, Miss, can you touch me? It’s so much, when you touch me, but I’ve been thinking all day and it’s…cold. I think if I were in your vines I’d be warm. Not for longer than a few hours, not touching the core of you — I think that’d be too much — but please?”

 

Pride. The world’s smuggest supernova, glittering and bright, an explosion which leaves behind nothing but vicious satisfaction and eager love.

 

She thinks she can take it, if the love stays.

 

She hopes she can believe it, one day, when they say they won’t leave. When they say they won’t hurt her.