Controlled sobs rack your body uncontrollably, not caring enough, or even having the energy to stop your emotional breakdown. Ooo was almost annihilated off the face of the universe today, thanks to a certain burning monarch, and although the reaction stabilized due to your knowledge in chemical reactions, not a single word of gratitude was sent your way. But that's not what's bothering you. Racing through the corridors of your castle, up these stairs and those, you hurry to your room before any suspicion about your behavior arises.
"Milady," a shrill voice calls from behind you, stopping you dead in your tracks. "Is everything alright? Was there any trouble collecting taxes today?"
"No, Peppermint, everything went smoothly," we almost did die today, but that's beside the point. You force your cracked throat to form audible words, still not facing the small butler, "Though I am feeling a little under the weather at the moment. Please reschedule all other meetings this afternoon and evening for tomorrow. No arguments," you add when you see him open his mouth to retort.
The striped candy harrumphs, abides by your requests nonetheless. "Tea for your rest?"
The cold handle of your bedroom door catches you by surprise, reminding you of a certain person, "Extra sugar and cream on the side." You pause momentarily before shutting the door behind you all the way after entering, "And a bowl of fresh berries. Raspberries."
You distract yourself from the tears that scratch at the back of your eyes just long enough for Peppermint Butler to deliver said tea and snacks. Bidding him a good day, you immediately crash onto your bed, oddly softer than usual, and cry. Your tears are aliens on your face; salty as they stain your pillowcase, spreading around like it's nobody's business. The cushion that suffocates you doesn't heed the flow, but at least it stifles the pathetic hiccupping noise your throat makes. You lay motionless for a while, the mattress threatening to swallow you whole (wishing it would), burying your self-pity along with you. Until—
Shuffling behind you. You immediately whip around to face the noise; midday light burns past the window and through your unadjusted pupils. You squint.
She can hear your sobbing from a mile away, damn those hypersensitive ears. She clambers through your open window, unsure of what to do next. What can she do? Does she approach? Will you turn her away? Your current state is beyond what she's comfortable with dealing so why she's here at all, and at such an ungodly hour for her, you're unsure.
"I saw it," she starts. "The explosion. I know you were there. Did you… get hurt?"
Her blue skin steams, you think, wiping your bleary eyes to make sure you aren't seeing things. "You're one to talk." She isn't even wearing gloves, that idiot.
"I asked if you got burned." She draws the curtains closed with the snap of her fingers and floats closer, cautiously.
You don't want her seeing you in this state: an absolute trainwreck of emotions you were made to regulate at a young age for the sake of diplomacy and proper royal stature. But you aren't going to make her suffer the sun home. "No, I didn't." Hesitation, "Why are you—"
"To make sure you haven't caramelized." She hovers above you now, eyeing every inch of exposed skin that isn't currently engulfed by bed sheets. With a light push to your shoulder, you allow gravity to pull you down onto your side as she continues to inspect.
"Shut up." Your eyes still aren't dry, wet at the corners even, but as you lift your hand to blindly find hers, you forget a little of your unhappiness.
When she's finished ogling over your body for a little longer than necessary, she adjusts you so you're on your back and her weight settles in your lap. She doesn't waver at the swimming cloudiness in your eyes as her eternally red gaze stares down at you. "Tell me what happened." Her fingertip traces down the tearstain on your right cheek.
Groaning, obviously not wanting to get into this right now, or at all, you try to reach above for a pillow to cover your face before further embarrassment ensues but her long fingers and cool palm clamp down on your wrist. "You said it yourself, 'you saw it'," you quote with your fingers, "so why do you bother asking?"
"Don't get snarky with me, brainlord," she growls, "you know what I mean." Pressing her nail a little firmer, she continues along your damp skin, leaving puffed scratches. "Was it the girl?"
You don't say anything. She doesn't get it, blinking tolerantly.
"So… what? Are you like," she shifts slightly, "jealous of her and Finn or something?"
Oh. Now you're fuming, sweltering from the inside out. You've lost track of how many times you've been accused of that today. If she pulled a face like Jake did earlier, you might have just strangled her right then and there, on your bed, physically conveying your anger on the vampire's lean neck. "For the love of—why does everybody assume I'm jealous?" You push her off of you and she lands awkwardly at the foot of your bed in disarray. "I understand Jake, that dunce of an animal," you spit, "and of course I would expect such an accusation from Finn whose IQ is that of a rock, but you, Marceline? I expected a little more… something— anything! — From you."
The monarch in question throws her hands up in defense. "Whoa, chill. Out. Bubblegum. What's this really about?" She murmurs something along the lines of it not being her fault that you're jealous of a 13-year old. Marceline pulls down at her shirt's hem to readjust it over her front but there's no point. You grab at the fabric, square in the chest.
"I just saved Ooo's ass today and the most I'm hearing of it is that I'm covetous of two children who lumping like each other! Give me a break!"
"Bonnie," Marceline tries to ease your grip off her tank top but no avail. "Look, I don't know what your deal is, but the Finn thing? It's so overdone and—"
Snap, goes the last thread of that regal practice that keeps your temper anchored. You lunge at her, nails like daggers in her shoulders as you slam her against the bed with as much force as the cushion underneath can take before bouncing back.
"Newsflash, Marceline! Are you ready?" Sarcasm drips onto every inch of the vampire below you. "It's not about Finn!" You make an obscene gesture with your hands to demonstrate a head explosion, accompanied by a throaty p-koo noise with your mouth, before gripping back down onto her. "It's about you! As are all my problems these days, aren't they?" You don't mean that personally but it still stings.
Had it been a different circumstance, another point in time even, Marceline would've laughed. Joked about how adorable you are when you're angry. The added effect of your theatrics puts a cherry on top, one she'd like to drain the red from. She'd hold you in place, not the other way around like what's happening now, peppering kisses down your neck and collar, just the way you like it. But not today: her look of bewilderment is an understatement, her throat tightens as she swallows down on thick saliva.
"You know what? Yeah, I'll admit it. Maybe I'm a little jealous, Marceline. No, let me rephrase that," you pull back exaggeratedly to pinch the bridge of your nose, more so to keep your tears where they are, "I am jealous." The admittance is clear, regardless of the bite. "Is the world happy? Shall I summon the Morrow to fly me over Ooo to beseech such news?" You crash your forehead lightly against Marceline's as you bring yourself back down, both wincing at the pain. The vampire is panting seemingly unperturbed air against your hot skin yet her lips quiver all the same. Her mouth parts slightly to speak, but the words are choked down as you firmly close the distance against her.
Unsure of what to do with her hands, Marceline instinctively, gingerly, places them on your hips where they belong, running over all-too-familiar areas. You fight, in each other's mouths, on each other's bodies, until you break contact.
"I'm jealous that they can be together!" You seethe, biting her lip. Marceline shuts her eyes tightly. "That they can go out together without judgment! That they don't have to keep each other secret! That they would defy nature to be with each other!" Bite, harder this time, almost enough to draw her undead blood. "Yeah, I'm pretty fucking jealous." Sharp nails scrape over her loose shirt, down her chest and taut stomach as hers draw up underneath yours, mirroring opposing movements. On the verge of tears, the final confession reels out. "I'm jealous that they're brave enough to take a chance to show others their happiness, and I'm not!"
The movements halt as wetness leaks down onto Marceline's face. She wraps her arms around your waist and you cry, for the third time today. Cry into her hoping she'll take your tears, like she's done before, and make them disappear by some magical touch of her hand, by the tone in her voice, by the look in her eyes.
"Marceline, I—" You falter once. "Grod, I love you! I love you so much and you know that! My love for you is stronger than I am as a whole, and that's what I hate the most… I'm too much of a coward to ignore others for the one I love." You shake your head, weak indeed.
She remains quiet, ushering you to continue though you silently beg for her voice. Her lips are pursed but a faint, familiar tug sits on the edge.
Sighing, you unintelligibly sputter, "It sucks because I can't be with you the way I want to be and yet… here you are. I can't parade you around like my trophy; mine."
"It's okay, Bonnie. I understand," she coos even though she doesn't; she never will. Your circumstances are completely different from hers. Two worlds, two timelines that intersect at the now; she won't ever understand it the way you do. She doesn't know how much it affects you. She palms your itchy cheeks to lift your face, eyes patient as they survey your pink visage. "It's for your kingdom."
"The kingdom. I'm such a hypocrite, Marcy! You know, I gave Finn that whole spiel about responsibilities demanding sacrifices today and he obviously had no clue what I was referring to. He thought it was about him," a wry laugh escapes you. "It isn't fair… you don't deserve to be put second."
Her sweet smile is all teeth, not a trace of a smirk in sight; two rows gleam as the setting sun's orange flare accents their jagged points. "Then you can rule me too. My kingdom."
You're lost. "What?"
She moves to sit up, your legs on either side of her hips. Her throat clears into her fist, a sign that she feels awkward. "You know, cause then… you'd have to divide your attention between two kingdoms without feeling bad since you gotta run me too." Marceline's usually suave with her words, as smooth as the voice they ride out on, but her explanation is stupid. Her goofy grin is stupid. She's stupid. You're stupid. Everything— everyone— is stupid. "You can rule my kingdom too."
Her words clench your heart even if they lack luster. Somehow, they sting as they soothe. Like alcohol in a wound; pressure on a bruise. They aren't sweet, but truthful. Your eyes threaten to well up with tears of distress once more as you watch her put so much effort into this complicatedly typical 'Romeo and Juliet' romance story (as Marceline once put it). Your relationship is far from ideal: you call her out and argue over small things, she disappears without notice, but she always makes her way back to you. She teases until you're annoyed, you ask her to leave when the mood isn't right, but you always call for her again.
You grip tightly onto the backs of her arms, afraid that if you loosen, she'll disappear as quickly as the night came. Instead, she sits there; lets you weep and soak the front of her shirt with your warm tears as she continues to lull your tense muscles. "Don't cry." She rests her mouth against your brow, trying her best not to cut you with the sharpness of her incisors. Marceline combs the knots out, as well as the day's unrelenting stress, from your heavy, weighted hair until she reaches the small of your back. She presses against the spot, reassuring you that she's not leaving tonight. "Don't cry for me," and whether it's a request or a statement, you try your best to abide.
No, you two aren't perfect, in any way, shape or form, but you seal each other's cracks. You're restrained and she's overly emotional, you're sweet and she's sour and when you bark, she bites. No, you aren't the flawless monarch that should be the representative face of the Candy Kingdom, and you don't know if you'll ever be perfect, for your people or for Marceline.
But if there's one thing you do know, one thing you're comfortable with admitting: you love sharing the throne in your own flawed kingdom with her.