#queenrune

I’d say you weren’t expecting this but it’s pretty obvious I’m pining so here’s some AU for you to blackmail me with:

“Can you stand?”

   “Just—give me a moment—”

   “Don’t rush.”

   Normally it would be idyllic, reclining in Alarune’s arms, resting against her bosom – if Queenie didn’t feel quite so awful, that is. It was hard to appreciate an intimate moment while teetering on the verge of consciousness. She shudders a sigh. At least they’re in her family garden and not out in public. “This is humiliating. Did anyone see?”

   Evidently, this was the wrong thing to ask.

   “Trust you—trust you to be worried about that!” Though clearly angry, it sounds like Alarune is fighting back tears. She composes herself before continuing; “No. Nobody saw you fall. Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

   “I ate breakfast … on Tuesday.”

   “For the love of—” Alarune tightens her hold, then sighs. “You need to look after yourself. This is the third time.”

   “I didn’t pass out, so it’s not a ‘time’.”

   “Queenie.”

   Instead of retaliating, Queenie wilts, pressing her head against her friend’s clothes. She rests there, momentarily shutting her eyes. “…Okay. I can stand now. But I’m very tired.”

   Steadily, Alarune helps her to her feet, ever so cautious in case Queenie’s legs buckle again. “There, lean on me.” Her tone is gentle – but not for long, as she sharply adds, “We’re going to the kitchen, and I’m getting you some water.”

   “I’m fine now, Runey—”

   “You are not fine.”

After a series of further squabbles and protests, Queenie is dragged to the kitchen. Because it’s early afternoon, none of the staff are present, though the majority were fired a long time ago. Next to the island countertop stands a lone stool, small and humble in comparison to the massive mansion kitchen. Alarune unceremoniously slumps Queenie upon it. “Now stay put.”

   The reply comes as a defeated wail, which Alarune chooses to ignore. She begins filling up a glass in the nearby sink. Queenie slouches over, head resting on arms, but she’s watching with eagle-eyes. Even when it’s the person she trusts the most, she has to watch. No choice about it. It doesn’t take long.

   “I’m going to make you something to eat,” says Alarune, placing the glass on the countertop. She folds her arms. “But drink first.”

   Ever so slowly, Queenie props herself upright and raises the glass to take a sip. It’s refreshing, and she feels better for it, but she doesn’t want to admit as much. “You shouldn’t make me anything—it’s not your job. It’s not becoming.”

   “It’s not ‘becoming’ of you to starve yourself, either!”

   Queenie hesitates. Her head droops. It’s not like she didn’t have her reasons – but it wasn’t like she was doing anything to overcome those reasons, either. On the inside, she was just as frustrated with herself. “…you’re right. I’m sorry.”

   “Honestly, you should really try to—wait, what?”

   “I said I’m sorry.”

   The apology comes as such a surprise that Alarune places a hand on Queenie’s head to check her temperature.

   “Cold as always?” the dragon-hybrid asks dryly.  

   “Hm.” A noncommittal response. The hand is removed. “…You’d better eat. Something simple, like a sandwich. What do you normally have on them?”

   “I like salmon paste.”

   “Salmon paste?” Alarune wrinkles her nose at the thought, but she relents. “Just this once, I’ll make it for you. But only because you’re weak and need to eat. From here on out, I expect you to make your own salmon paste sandwiches.”

   “Can you … cut it diagonally too?” asks Queenie, hamming up her exhaustion a little too much. Alarune gives her a look, but doesn’t decline. She slinks over to one of the kitchen’s enormous fridges and begins the task.

   Much like before, Queenie watches attentively. To her, it feels strange. Why not refuse? Alarune has no obligations. She’s not being paid. She can’t be fired.

   The salmon paste, bread, plate, and knife are placed on a counter away from the kitchen island, to the left. Queenie can see the sandwich being made, but it’s harder for her to see Alarune’s face. Regardless, she can sense her disgust. It made the act all the more baffling.

   “…Runey, you’re a saint.”

   Alarune pauses for a moment, but she doesn’t turn around to reply. “I’m doing bare minimum.”

   “Well no, but—you’re doing it.”

   “People do things for you all the time.”

   It’s true, but it feels different. Queenie feels a lump forming in her throat and downs more water to swallow it. The right words are difficult to find. “Yes, but not because they want to. You … you care about me.”

   A sigh. “Maybe I do.”

   “And I care about you too, Runey. I want—I want to do things for you. You’re always helping me, but I want to help you.” Queenie’s voice is trembling, but she still wants to drive the point home. “Because you’re … you’re my very special best friend!”

   There’s a heavy silence.

   “I see the delirium is getting to you.” Alarune slices the sandwich in two – diagonal, as Queenie had requested. It’s finished.

   “It’s not. I really mean it...” Any strength behind Queenie’s voice peters out, and she drops her arms to her sides. “Runey…”

   Alarune takes this as cue to bring the plate over, putting it down with a gentle clink. “There. Salmon paste.”

   Before she can draw back, Queenie grasps onto her arm. “Please—wait."

   Another moment of silence. This time, Alarune lowers herself. She meets eye level, and seems a touch flushed, but acts guarded about it. “What? What is it you want me to say?”

   “I don’t want you to say anything.” Queenie’s grip loosens. “I just want to thank you.”

   She leans forward.

   Queenie anticipates some resistance – she’s expecting a brisk slap, in fact – but Alarune’s lips meet hers with surprising enthusiasm. It’s soft, and sweet, but very brief.

   As soon as they part, both quickly turn away. Queenie stares down hardcore at the countertop, and Alarune leans far, far back onto her tail.

   “Alright.”

   “Well then.”