Work Text:
There’s an envelope sitting on the kitchen table.
Flora knows, without needing to read it, who it’s from. It’s a bright, vivid red, a bloodstain on the lacquered wood, mocking, and her first instinct is to take it out back and burn it, feed the ashes to the soil. Her second, more reasonable instinct is to open it: if it’s from who she knows it is, then the consequences of refusing to address its contents are certainly worse than the contents themselves.
So, despite everything, Flora opens it.
Inside the envelope are two things: a folded piece of cream paper, and two tickets.
Flora unfolds the cream paper first.
Congratulations, the cream paper reads, in arching, swirling script, like she’s lucky, that the writer has deigned to speak to her, [REDACTED] Grevillea, and of course they used the wrong fucking name, of course, she can perfectly picture the smug little grin on Cassandra’s face, you are cordially invited to the Grand Dream City Ball! You have been selected amongst a lucky few as an honored guest for your status as a gym leader, as well as your contributions to Grand Dream City’s Botany Initiative. We invite you and a guest of your choosing to attend this year’s festivities.
There’s some more assorted bullshit that she doesn’t bother to read, too busy fuming at the insult so easily folded in, because she had her name changed years ago, here, through Grand Dream City’s Legal Department, not that it even fucking matters, then, Signed, Cassandra Novax, Mayor of Grand Dream City.
Oh, that bitch. Flora crumbles the cream paper in her fist, reels back, and tosses it out the window. Let the berries feast on Cassandra’s snide little slight. She’s got better things to do.
Talon is gone for the day. Florin, however, is not; no, he watches the entire proceedings with a look of supreme serenity on his features, picking slowly at his breakfast of black coffee and a single poached egg. At her impromptu game of paper-softball, his brows furrow together, and it’s only once she’s turned back to the table that he speaks.
“So,” Florin says, after a moment, “what was that about?”
“Oh,” Flora says, a little snidely, allowing the hard line of her mouth to slide into a shit-eating smirk, “good morning, brother dear. I didn’t see you there.”
“Very funny.” Florin rolls his eyes, before arching a brow. “Seriously, though, what was that—?”
Flora sighs. “Cassandra,” she huffs, gliding past him to the fridge. God, please, let there be some leftover iced chai mix, or she’s going to kill the nearest living thing to her. Not a plant. Florin, probably, if she can get her hands around his thin little neck.
Ah, thoughts of fratricide. A balm on her weary soul.
“Cassandra,” Florin echoes. He drums his fingers. “What, uh, about Cassandra?”
There, at the back of the fridge: a glass carafe of light brown liquid. Score.
“You know, the usual,” Flora says, withdrawing the bottle of iced chai, its cool weight briefly grounding as she selects a glass from the cabinet, “random bureaucratic bullshit, invitation to the Grand Dream Ball. Bitch deadnamed me on the invite.”
“Oh.” Florin blinks, before his brows furrow. “Wait, you got an invite and I didn’t?”
Flora sighs. So supportive, her brother. Such an ally. “Of course that’s what you’d focus on.”
“I’m sorry you got deadnamed,” Florin says, a concession, picking at his egg with a silver fork, and he isn’t even looking at her, “it’s annoying that it keeps happening, I’m sure, and you deserve better. The bureaucracy in this city is a nightmare, I know, but—”
Flora rounds on him, irritation peaking. “But what, Florin?”
Florin meets her gaze evenly. “I’m sure Cassandra didn’t do it on purpose. She probably didn’t even write the letters, Flor, I can basically guarantee she has a staffer for that.”
“Sure,” Flora says. She inhales, then exhales. Carefully, hands steady, she pours herself a glass, before setting the carafe down on the tablecloth. “Right. A staffer. Whatever.”
“It doesn’t sound like whatever.”
“You said it, right?” Flora stares at him, and Florin stares back, his gaze cool, calm, unbroken, in that way that she hates. “Some random staffer probably did it. Doesn’t matter that my name has been changed on every legal document since I turned eighteen— no, it absolutely had to be some nobody that would have had to dig deep to find it. Right?”
Florin holds her gaze. Then, he sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says, “it’s not cool. It really isn’t.”
Which is basically a non-answer, and an invitation to drop it.
Flora takes it. She’s done talking about Cassandra. “Right,” she says, settling into the chair across from Florin. “Of course. So, did Talon get invited, too, or am I just Grand Dream City’s resident sweetheart?”
Florin snorts, at that. Right, that’s fair, even if it stings just a little, which she immediately ignores. “Nah, he got invited, too. Invited me as his plus-one in case I didn’t get invited myself, which, seeing as there were only two envelopes, I probably didn’t.”
“Guess you’re just not as special as I am, brother dear.”
“Guess not.” Florin picks at his egg as Flora takes a sip of her drink. Ah, that’s fucking good. Insulting her annoying brother and a glass of cold chai, what a wonderful morning— transphobia aside. “So, who are you gonna invite?”
Flora blinks, pausing mid-sip. “What?”
Florin stares at her like she’s stupid, and she glares back. “Your plus-one,” he says, and looks away, which Flora counts as a little victory, “it’s not mentioned in the letter, but you’re basically required to bring one. Looks bad if you don’t.”
Flora pauses, for a moment. Considers her options. “Jenkel?”
“As in, Uncle Jenkel?” Florin’s eyebrows take a hike up to his hairline. “The guy banned from even stepping foot in Grand Dream City for being a wanted eco-terrorist? That Jenkel?”
Flora shrugs. “Could be fun.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Spoilsport.” Flora folds her arms. Despite her desire to cause as much chaos as possible, really take a shit on Cassandra’s pretty heels, Florin has a point. Also: probably a really solid way to get her ties to Bladestar discovered. So, not Jenkyll. “I genuinely can’t think of anyone else.”
Florin arches a brow. “Seriously?”
Flora shrugs again. “I don’t know, dude. I don’t have that many friends?”
And then Florin has to open his stupid fucking mouth, and ask, “What about Rune?”
Flora does not flinch. She does not. Instead, she swallows, squares her shoulders, and meets Florin’s gaze evenly. “What about Rune?”
Florin stares at her for a long, long moment. “She’s your best friend.”
No, she isn’t, Flora thinks, but doesn’t say, not anymore, not since—
Not since she revealed her operation to Rune, and Rune rejected her. Not since she made the half-second decision to threaten Huey Hagan, the only person in the entire world that Rune actually cares about, because, for a brief second, she believed that Rune cared about her, too, and that was a mistake. They haven’t talked since then, and it’s been six months, and yet Flora is floundering, because their facade of friendship has been more or less a dance of plastic ballerinas, gliding in artificial arcs around each other, every word carefully calculated.
And yet—
It’s a thought. Rune was investigating corruption in Grand Dream City, Flora knows, that was the whole reason she considered her for Bladestar, and yes, Rune turned her down, but last she knew, Rune was still looking. This could be a huge opportunity for her: a chance to get up close and personal with some of the premier members of Grand Dream City’s upper crust, to dig and schmooze and uncover whatever dirt she needs.
(Maybe even enough for Rune to forgive her, and for them to—)
All Flora has to do is call her, and make the offer.
Flora stands up. “You’re right,” she says, after a moment, “I should invite Rune.”
Florin offers her a small little smile. “Still not awake, huh?”
“Not in the slightest!” Flora chirps, grasping her glass in one hand and the carafe in the other, like she hasn’t spent the last handful of hours in her room relaying commands to her technicians in Bladestar, trying to figure out how the fuck Rift Matter works. “I need to go make a call!”
She only hopes that Rune will answer.
The first time she calls, it rings, once, before being sent straight to voicemail.
The second time, it rings until she’s prompted to leave a message.
The third time, Rune immediately picks up.
“What,” Rune grits out, her voice laden with iron, “do you want, Flora?”
“Just listen,” Flora says, desperation rising in her throat, because she’s spent the past ten minutes curled up in her bed fighting her phone, “please, just listen— just give me five minutes, and then you can hang up, and block my number, and I’ll never call you again, I swear.”
There’s a pause, and for a moment, Flora is certain she’s been hung up on.
Then:
“You have five minutes,” Rune’s voice comes out flat as an overcast sky, heaving and unyielding, and Flora can’t bite back the wince that comes with it, “I’m setting a timer. Make it count.”
“I have a proposal.”
“It’s four minutes now.”
“I’m serious,” Flora hisses, frustration rising, because Rune has always been stubborn, even if she hides it well when she needs to, “It’s not— it’s not what we discussed last time. It’s something else.”
“I’m all ears, Grevillea. You’re the one on a timer.”
“Grand Dream Ball,” Flora blurts out, “I got invited, and I— I want to offer you the chance to attend, too. As—” she swallows— “as my plus-one.”
A pause.
“Why would I do that?”
“Think about it,” Flora says, thoughts whizzing about in her skull like flies, fingers shaking, a faint, static crackle to her limbs that makes her feel numb as she breaks out in a sweat, “a chance to schmooze with the upper crust of GDC? Think about how beneficial that could be— for you, for your—” investigation— “work. You don’t even have to talk to me. You just need to dress up, show up, and be in my vicinity.”
Another pause.
“I see,” Rune says, “that could be beneficial.”
Another fucking pause.
Flora swallows. “So—?”
“I’ll consider it,” Rune says, and then, heart-droppingly, “is that it, or do you have something else you want to say to me? Maybe try and threaten my students this time? My landlady? The old man that sells me my breakfast sandwiches?”
“No,” Flora says, “no, I—” she swallows again, her throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
There’s a click, and the line goes dead.
Rune’s right. She’s not. Bladestar is her life’s work, everything she’s been fighting for, everything her father fought for, and she would do it all over again, even with the hurt curdling in her chest at the way Rune spoke to her. Given the choice between her friendship with Rune and her father’s legacy, she knows which choice she would make.
It doesn’t hurt any less.
Flora doesn’t get up from her bed. She finishes her glass of chai in a single, leaden gulp, peels off her sweat-soaked pajamas, and curls up in bed.
Let Florin deal with gym challenges today.
Flora needs to rest.
The Grand Dream Ball arrives faster than she expects.
Flora keeps herself busy. She tends to the Botanical Garden, takes challenges, fills out paperwork with Florin at the kitchen table late into the night, a lamp and two glasses of cold coffee between them, a silent pact of mutual suffering. Neither of them speak, but it’s something, and it’s always been the something that binds them, so it’s enough. It has to be.
Flora doesn’t have anyone else. Not that Florin is worth much.
In no time, it’s the night of the ball. Five in the evening, and Flora is still getting ready.
She doesn’t have much. Most of her outfits follow the same trend, green and comfortable, fit for working in the gardens or going on field expeditions. Practical, with her own personal taste added in, just for flare, her faux rafflesia blossom and olive-gradient skirt and knee-length black boots with golden buckles. It’s hers, and she likes it, and she doesn’t like wearing anything else, and therein lies the problem.
There is, however, one thing for her to wear.
It’s folded in a long, neat green box. The inside is padded with tissue paper, and when she opens in, the dress inside is stunning. It’s a deep, rich shade of emerald, with delicate filigree forming small blossoms in its folds. At a glance, the neckline is designed to plunge, and the straps hang off the shoulders; slightly revealing, but just enough to be fashionable. It is, in a word, beautiful, and everything she’s ever wanted, and—
It was in her father’s things at Bladestar.
There’s a card inside. Flora picks it up, and reads it slowly.
Flora, the card says, in her father’s handwriting, and Flora swallows, my dear, sweet daughter. I know I haven’t been the perfect father to you regarding your transition and your struggles, but I want you to know— if you’re finding this, then it was set aside for you. It was your mother’s, before she passed. I’m certain you’ll look beautiful in it. Signed, your father, William Grevillea.
Heat pricks at the corner of her eyes, stinging. Flora shakes her head, and unpacks the dress.
It takes her fifteen minutes to get it on, and between that and makeup, she’s certain the boys are irritated with her. She clunks up the stairs in her stiletto heels, dress swishing around her, arms outstretched at her sides briefly before bringing them back to clutch her, well, clutch to her chest, and Florin and Talon’s eyes widen at the sight of her.
Flora blinks, brows furrowing. “What.”
“Mate,” Talon says, and god, she’s always hated the way he does that, calls everyone mate regardless of gender, because she can’t say anything about it, but, “I don’t usually say this to the lassies, but— you look stunning.”
Flora cocks an eyebrow, putting a hand on her hip. “Seriously?”
“You—” Florin swallows, rubbing his arm. “Flor, you look like mom.”
Flora startles. That— wasn’t what she’d expected. “Oh,” she says, after a moment. “Really?”
“Spitting image,” Florin says. He looks down at himself, in a faded green suit with an orange tie and polished brown shoes. “Damn. Making me wish I had one of dad’s suits, Flor.”
That gives her something to latch onto. “Don’t,” Flora says, flouncing past them to the door, “you wouldn’t be able to pull it off. You don’t have the—” she searches for the right word— “presence.”
And then she’s out the door, Florin’s protests following on her heels.
The Grand Dream Ball awaits.
Flora has been here for fifteen minutes, and she already wishes she’d skipped it, damn the consequences.
So far, she counts six weird looks, three unprompted comments, and at least one person— an older man in a worn suit with a fading hairline and half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose— looking her up and down before, offhandedly, applauding “the effects of modern medicine, despite the deviants who use them”. She’s fuming, just a little, and it takes actual effort to unclench her fists at her side and school her expression into a polite smile.
Then, there’s a tap on her shoulder.
“Miss Grevillea?”
Flora scoffs, turning, preparing herself for another bullshit question about her dress or her hair or her gender, again, some snide little once-over, and—
She freezes. Her jaw nearly drops to the floor.
It’s Rune.
When Flora invited her, she had, honestly, not expected much; Rune has always valued practicality over aesthetics. The girl dresses like a nun’s younger cousin, all shades of brown and cream and cashmere, interrupted only by the bright flash of her hair and her sharp, searching eyes. It’s been a point of contention for longer than she cares to remember, nevermind how she’d eventually found herself longing for their stupid, petty arguments.
Except now, Rune is here, wearing a suit, slicked throat to heels in crisp black tweed, black dress shoes shining like they’ve just been freshly polished. Gone are the plaid skirts and cardigans; no, here, Rune’s riotous crop of fiery hair is cut to just above her shoulders, her bangs framing her face in a way that makes her look almost roguish. She’s not even wearing her usual makeup, just a light touch to contour her cheekbones, darken her brows, .
It’s a dizzying transformation. Flora, her cheeks suddenly hot, swallows.
Her brain catches up half a second later. Rune is staring at her, face schooled into an expression of polite flatness broken only by the slight furrowing of her brows. Her hands are clasped over her thighs, and she meets her gaze evenly, without flinching. It’s the expression of someone meeting an acquaintance, a coworker, at a formal function.
“Rune—” Flora starts, and then amends, “Miss Hagan.”
They’re not friends anymore. Not here, not now. Here, they’re just tentative allies working towards a common goal. Flora holds out a hand, and, after a moment, Rune takes it.
Her palm is warm and soft, her grip firm. Rune’s hands have always been bigger.
Vaguely, she’s aware of Florin shooting her a look. Thankfully, Talon manages to have some tact, and drags her idiot brother away by the arm to find a waiter in search of some sparkling champagne. Mentally, Flora allows her opinion of Talon to tick up just a little, before she’s busy contending with the fact that Rune’s hand is still wrapped around hers, and she has no idea what to do or say, and—
Rune drops her palm, and Flora lets her.
“So,” Rune says, gaze sweeping around, peering over Flora’s head— and god, Flora managed to forget how tall she was, a good two inches, but with those shoes she’s wearing, she manages to clear Flora’s head easily even in her stilettos. “How’re you doing?”
It’s thin and flat as the paper her invitation came on.
Flora shrugs. “Oh, you know,” she says, ignoring the urge to say or do literally anything else, briefly just grateful to talk to Rune like she used to, not great, considering you used to be my best friend and now we’re basically strangers and I haven’t seen you or talked to you in six months and— “busy.”
“Busy,” Rune says, gaze flicking back to her. “Right. Busy with—?”
Bladestar is the word of the day! Unspoken, hovering right on Rune’s tongue. Flora swallows, unable to meet her gaze, because Rune’s eyes are a deep, sinking red, like looking into the center of a rose, easy to lose yourself in.
“The Botanical Garden,” Flora says, after a moment, and Rune nods, neat and self-contained, shoulders relaxing just-so, and oh, doesn’t that sting. “We— we just got a new crop of Morelull in from Darclight that need to be rehoused, and we’ve been inspecting rumors of a Crest cropping up in the area— our researchers have been doing scopes of Altair Manor.”
“Interesting,” Rune says, still not meeting her eyes. “That’s interesting.”
“Yup,” Flora says, popping the ‘p’.
“Interesting,” Rune says, again, and Flora feels her brow twitch.
“Oh, is it?” She cocks her head. “What’s interesting about it, Rune?”
Rune’s gaze flicks to her. “What you were saying, obviously.”
“I said ‘yup’.”
“I’ve never heard you say that before.” Rune shrugs, rolling her shoulder so casually, so easily, before fixing her gaze on something over Flora’s shoulder again. “That’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, well,” and Flora can’t help the cold arch of her voice as she propels each syllable from her lips, “having no friends leaves a lot of room for experimentation. Losing your best friend? You would not believe the amount of time that clears up in someone’s schedule.”
Rune’s gaze flicks to her again, and this time, her red eyes are cold. “I know what you’re doing, and I don’t have time for it. I’m not falling for your bait, Flora. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“You’re welcome, by the way,” Flora says, the words bitter on her tongue, “for the invitation.”
“Thank you,” Rune says, crisp and cool, and then she’s gone.
Flora watches her go for a long, long moment. Then, she sighs, and turns away.
Thank god there’s alcohol.
Six flutes of champagne later, and Flora is feeling amazing.
Who gives a shit about Rune? Flora has a new best friend: alcohol. It’s one of those companions that, logically, is probably not the best for you, but once you start hanging out with it, everything gets nice and warm and floaty, and all the shit that sucked, just. Suddenly stops sucking. It’s stellar, and Flora has never been more grateful for its warm embrace.
That’s what friendship is. Not someone who just, just, leaves you.
“So,” Flora finds herself saying, to a man with a crisp suit and black hair and a wide, fake smile, his two lackeys on either side of him, “basically, to train Grass-types, you basically, like, need an education in the botanical silences— sciences. Take, uh—” what’s a good one— “oh, take Ferroseed. It’s an incredibly hardy glass— uh, Grass-type, but you need to manage its heat exposure very carefully, or it’s liable to purse— haha, sorry, burst into frames— flames.”
“Fascinating,” the man says, a strange glint to his eye. He waves a hand, and his lackeys disperse into the crowd. Flora giggles at the word— lackeys. “Very fascinating. Tell me, young [REDACTED], that dress— it looks familiar. Where did you acquire such a garment?”
Flora’s brow furrows. What? What did he call her? “That’s— that’s not my name? My name’s Fiore— wait, sorry, no, my name’s Flora. Flora Grevillea.”
“Ah, yes,” the man says, lip twisting slightly, “how could I forget. You call yourself Flora. Well, some of the esteemed members of this city may see fit to respect your delusions, but I’ll do no such thing. Now, [REDACTED], if you wouldn’t mind answering my question— where did you—?”
Okay, something’s— something’s wrong. What is he—?
“My name,” Flora hisses, straightening, irritation burning through the heat-haze of intoxication, “is Flora, you gangly, snaggledtoothed piece of shit—”
A hand comes down on her shoulder, firm and unmoving. The man— he’s touching her. He’s touching her, and he isn’t smiling, and his grip is tightening— tightening around her shoulder as he speaks, brows furrowing with displeasure and distaste. Too late, Flora recognizes that she might be in danger.
“I won’t repeat myself again,” the man says, as Flora tries to pull herself free to no avail. Nobody is watching; they’re all busy chatting, and the few people that do look her way quickly turn their heads. Why is nobody—? “Where did you get that dress?”
“Let go,” Flora slurs, panic spiking, “please, let go, you’re— you’re hurting me, stop—”
“The dress,” the man echoes, suddenly in her face, and—
Suddenly his grip is off her shoulder. There’s a hand wrapped around his wrist, neatly-clipped nails digging into the meat of his forearm. The man winces as his hand is pried bodily off her shoulder, and Flora tilts her head, just slightly, to catch a glimpse of the face of her rescuer, and her heart drops to her feet.
It’s Rune.
Rune, in her suit and tie and pointy shoes, here on a mission and nothing more.
Rune, brows furrowed, mouth set in a tight line that she recognizes as fury.
“Hands off,” Rune says, and her voice is pure ice, every syllable. The man retracts his hand, rubbing at it, a look of pure anger making itself home on his features.
“You—” the man sputters— “do you know who I am?”
“No, and I don’t care.” Rune folds her arms. “Enlighten me.”
“My name,” the man hisses, eyes flashing with rage, “is Alphard Altair, last son of the Altair family. I am a paragon, and you, you nameless little bitch, are nothing more than an amoeba beneath my shoes to be scrubbed off.”
Vaguely, Flora is aware of people staring. She hunches, just a little, her usual confidence wavering in the face of panic and inebriation, finds herself folding into herself just a little, cradling herself with her arms below her chest. This isn’t what she wanted— she doesn’t understand what’s happening, or why—
Why is Rune defending her?
Rune arches a brow. “Really,” she says. “Alphard Altair. How— interesting.”
The man’s face twists into a smug, ugly grin. “So you’ve heard of me.”
“Yes,” Rune says, “I’ve heard of you. A failed politician, defeated multiple times by his primary opponent, William Grevillea.” Flora flinches, and the man’s face falls. “Now, you’re here, picking on his daughter— assaulting a girl half your size and a third your age. Is that about right?”
“You—” the man splutters— “you—”
“Yes, me,” Rune says. She doesn’t hold out her hand; instead, she places it on Flora’s shoulder, and Flora startles. “Rune Hagan, personally employed by Thomas Blakeory— yes, that Thomas Blakeory, not his son,” she says, at the man’s expression, “and professor at Axis High. But you,” she adds, “may call me Freya.”
The man doesn’t startle so much as all the blood drains from his face in a single second. He takes a step back, then another, before disappearing into the crowd. The crowd swallows him whole, and conversation resumes at its previous pace.
Rune turns to her, and Flora blinks. “You okay?”
“The fuck do you care,” Flora bites out, something hot and turbulent in her chest, and she pulls away from Rune’s grasp. “You made it queer— fuck, clear, that we’re not friends. Why the fuck did you drew— fucking, do that for me?”
“We’re not friends,” Rune says, but her voice isn’t the same glacial ice it was earlier, “but you’re still someone I— you’re still a person. I’m not going to spend time with you, but I’m not going to watch you get assaulted in the middle of a party when nobody is doing anything. Cowards.”
Flora blinks, before swallowing. “You—” she says, very slowly— “you what me?”
“You’re drunk,” Rune says, instead of answering, and looks away. “Let’s get you home. I’m done here, anyway— got everything I needed. That guy was one of my targets, and now I know what he’s after.”
Flora’s brow furrows. “You what—”
But then Rune is lifting her up, full-body, and where her own limbs are and weak and frail as a newborn Deerling’s, Rune is strong. She lifts Flora like she weighs nothing, in a blatant princess carry, or Flora knows people are watching, she knows. In her drunken, dazed haze, she manages to bury her face in her hands as Rune fucking carries her out of the Grand Dream Ball in front of every single person of importance in the goddamn city.
“What the fuck—” Flora hisses, but Rune interrupts her.
“Shut up,” she says, and Flora’s jaw clicks shut. “Keep talking, and you’re going to throw up. This is a nice suit, I’m not cleaning vomit off it tonight. I’m taking you home.”
“Okay,” Flora says.
“I told you to stop talking,” Rune says.
“Okay,” Flora says.
“Just nod, Flora.”
Flora nods.
Rune carries them home on her Rapidash.
The ride is warm and silent. Flora spends it cradled against Rune’s chest as she holds the reins to her steed, occasionally petting its flank. She doesn;t say anything, even as her thoughts run a mile a minute, even as a thousand emotions war in her chest, as she struggles, desperately, for purchase in the raging tide of her thoughts. It’s so hard, and now Rune is here, and it’s supposed to be okay, and nothing is okay, and—
“Why,” Flora says, and Rune shifts, slightly, “why are you— why are you doing this?”
Rune doesn’t say anything, but she does lean in, just slightly, and a hand brushes her wrist.
The ride continues in silence.
Finally, they arrive at the Botanical Garden.
Rune helps her off the horse. She sets her down carefully, and when Flora’s legs wobble, Rune wraps an arm around her shoulders, and takes the keys from her clutch. She lets them into the dark house, sitting Flora down at the kitchen table, and fishes a glass from the cupboard. Flora blinks, wincing, as Rune flicks on a light, and fills the glass with cold water.
“What—”
“No talking,” Rune says, and suddenly the water is in front of her. “Drink.”
Flora drinks. The water is cool and refreshing, flowing down her throat in fluid gulps, and the sweat gathering on her brow is suddenly cool, her ears less heated.
“Good,” Rune says, standing, “you’re home, and you’re hydrated. I’m leaving.”
“Wait—” Flora pushes off the table, jolting to her feet. She props herself up with a single arm, and her thoughts are buzzing so hard in her skull, but— “please— wait. Don’t go. Please.”
Rune sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “Flora, I told you, I’m not doing this—”
“Please,” Flora begs, and suddenly her eyes are hot and wet.
“You’re such a fucking sappy drunk,” Rune hisses, but she doesn’t walk towards the door, just stands there, staring at Flora. “This is manipulative, you know. I know you know that.”
“I’m sorry,” Flora says, and Rune goes still.
When she doesn’t say anything, Flora continues. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m sorry— I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have threatened you. I shouldn’t have threatened Huey. I’m— I can’t— I’m so fucking sorry, please, don’t leave, please—”
“Flora—”
“I love you,” Flora says, and it hangs in the space between them like a bomb.
Rune stares at her for a long, long time. After a moment, she sidles up next to Flora, and pushes her shoulder down, forcing her to sit. She refills her glass, adding ice cubes this time, and slides it across the table. Flora wraps her hands around it, and doesn’t drink.
“Rune—”
“I’m leaving,” Rune says, stepping up to her. “You can’t stop me. I’m sorry.”
Then, she takes her cheek in one hand, leans down, and—
Oh. Rune’s lips are warm and soft. Her hair smells like ash and sandalwood, brushing against Flora’s cheek, and her fingers are gentle where they cup her jaw. For a moment, nothing else matters, not her and not Cassandra and Team Xen and Bladestar. For a moment, it’s just her, and Rune, in the dark, two people entangled slightly, lips touching, and it’s warm, and quiet, and enough.
It’s Rune who breaks the kiss. She pulls away, her face downturned, and Flora lets her.
Rune makes her way to the door, and Flora doesn’t stop her.
Knob in her hand, Rune pauses.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, voice heavy with something Flora’s half-drunk brain can’t identify, doesn’t want to identify, not here, not now, not like this, “I loved you too, Flora.”
Then she’s gone.
A year and a half later, after she’s been arrested, had her head shaved, and everyone she’s ever cared about has abandoned her, Flora watches the news of Rune’s death from the prison cafeteria.
She goes to bed with tears staining her pillow, and sleeps for a long, long time.
For once, her dreams are empty.