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emotions are foolish.

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Drowsy sunlight flickers through the heavy curtains, the glow drowning the empress as she must try to continue to work. Melia must file these reports, must focus her eyes upon the papers and not the sweet images in her head. Must not, she musn't lick her lips in such a pathetic want, musn't envision their hands twining together like flower vines growing with each other. No, she cannot. The object of her affection loved someone else, it was simply horrid of her to fantasize, to have a whining need for someone who clearly did not favor her. And really, no one in their right mind would give up an adventurous life in the colonies for a boring one, kept in the palace and Alcamoth itself. Not even Melia wants that, why should she force the other to suffer her fate with her.

Even still, the warmth of the yellow light on her face makes her eyes droop, and she licks her lips in a weird, whining need. What would it be like, if she had enough courage to say what she wanted to? What if she brought her mouth up, right next to her love's ear, and whispered all kinds of sweet nothings, of compliments and even that dastardly 'I love you.' Would Fiora like that, she wonders.

Slowly, she slips under, and within the realm of half sleep, the answer is yes. Stuck in a limbo of half fantasy, half lucid imagery, Melia can see the two of them perfectly. Fiora's eyes seemed to be a song, an enchanting lullaby that drew her in closer. Here there are no words, and instead Melia finds her arms locking around Fiora. How painfully aware she is of their height difference, just a few inches felt like so much when she had to stretch to touch lips. It is a chaste, quick action, butterfly wings fluttering against each other ( lips that would be warm, if she had enough guts to simply speak to Fiora ) And yet, it is a kiss, not the first that she had imagined, and certainly not the last either. None of this would be her last trip into fantasy; she would probably never stop imagining Fiora locking her into an embrace, and dancing to inaudible music. In her mind, the metal of the woman's body does not hurt, nor bite, as she lays her head across Fiora's shoulder.

And Melia's face hits her hand, realizing that the collar bone she thought she had been lying on was her own elbow. Of course, of course it would all be fake. None of it could be true, after all. Melia was an empress, she had a duty to continue on her bloodline; Fiora was a homs, who had no duty to continue anything, but seemed to be enraptured by a sweet fellow anyhow. It was better, that these just stay fantasies, she thinks. Shaky hands clasp around the pen once more, and she tries to resume her own writing; but all that comes out is a small, pointless doodling of two girls, pulled close and making sure the other was just as comfortable as she ( one with drones on her back, and the other with wings on her head. )