Sunlight filtered through Bonnibel's curtains; taut rivulets of piano wire light, sharp and scathing against her eyelids. Time had passed rapidly by her stagnant mind - hadn't the dawn been gentle once? Hadn't it stroked her skin from sleep?

She rolled over, turned her sore eyes away. Though the light hit a mirror across the room, its reflection was not so harsh, and she could look absently in that direction as she pleased. It had been altogether an absent night. Bonnibel supposed she had wandered between sleep for maybe a few hours, never quite allowing herself to drowse, kept static by the incomplete work at her bedeside, and small purse of drugs that she was clutching to her like a teddy bear. She hadn't opened it, indulged in it, but the promise was there. She'd been up past midnight, scribbling in ever-greatening piles of cigarette ash, and watching vapid reruns of shows she didn't care about. Since then, she'd laid in her unmade bed, staring at a closed window, now at a wall.

Life was distraction, and she'd lost, among other things, her motivation. What had happened to the effervescent kid who had wanted to be a scientist, wanted to be a princess, wanted to dance into the night to the dizzying music of her name on a lover's lips? What was left? She was young, she knew, but her body ached.

Sufficiently depressed for the morning, she began to root for her phone amongst the pillows. It quickly became clear that it wouldn't be found anytime soon, so she rolled back to face her curtains. Judging from the light and the wintery weather, it must be almost midday, at least. That meant she'd already missed her lab. Alright then.

Even if the day was already a failure, it didn't necessarily have to be wasted, so she got up and slung on a T-shirt and slippers (it was colder outside her blankets) and went to the kitchenette to see what could be done. Cleaning was certainly an option, she thought to herself scoffingly, as she appraised the grimy counter and the ketchup stains on the hob. She decided she would make an attempt on it later, but her priority was to find herself an at least vaguely nourishing breakfast. There were two bowls yet undirtied, but no cereal, so she had to scrounge around to the very back of her cupboards. There was half a loaf of bread, and a croissant teetering on its expiration date that took precedence for both taste and urgency. Jam? None, so she bit off the side of a doughnut and hulled out its contents. The resulting breakfast was certainly not wholesome, and could not be considered nourishing, but the sugar content would certainly take her through the day.

It amused her to think of the studious Bonnibel Grabb of yore, so scornful, scared even, of anything that would risk her health; tobacco, alcohol and their equally deadly accomplice carbohydrate. Though she hated her new dependence on cigarettes, she couldn't complain about finally letting her sweet tooth loose.

Having created a somewhat more significant mess, she set to work with cloth and disinfectant spray. She stopped twice in the middle of her great clean; once to turn on some music (a cringy pop album from her early adolescence) and another time to quickly brush her teeth before the sugar started to ferment on her breath. Here, she got distracted, and started to comb through her drains for those long, sticky chunks of hair that clogged them. Her pink hair was one of her greatest vanities, but when she fished out these drowned scrags, she found herself considering the idea of shaving it all of - that would certainly have been a scandal before, she smiled to herself.

It was at this point that Finn knocked on her door. She shouted out a perfunctory 'Coming!', peered through the keyhole to make sure she wouldn't regret that reassurance, and opened the door with a grin that only her best friend really ever saw these days. He himself began to smile in return, but the motion was strangled partway through as he took her in. Her hair was tousled from bed, tangled by tender sleeplessness, and she wasn't wearing much; her band tee knotted at her waist, underwear disclosing the swell of her thigh. This was a Bonnibel that Finn had surely always dreamed of, and his stuttering expression showed it.

Both apologising, neither really meaning it, she let him in and held a blanket around her to preserve whatever fragile modesty she had just breached. To make up for it: small talk. The weather was remarked upon, he bestowed a patronising compliment upon her slightly neater apartment and an equally patronising comment on another of her failures to show up to class. In fact, he was here for no better reason than to make sure she was, "You know... functioning." She preferred now to turn the tables on the conversation; Finn was now the object of scrutiny, how was his week going?

He had been on a date with Florence to the local park, which did not sound exciting, but there was a local music showcase and he knew she enjoyed a different sort of music to he, she was a fan of the acoustic stylings of some local talent who happened to have been there. His programming class had taken a trip to the university server rooms, and another was planned to visit a flourishing, multinational corporation. Talking to Finn, she had to admit, was one of the most calming things she knew. He was so average, so sweet and friendly and excitable, that she could often feel a little of the old Bonnibel trickle back.

"But before then, we've got our own programming projects to submit - the people who fail to hit the deadline don't get the authorisation to go, so it's a pretty serious set-up. I thought I might try and make a small robot, but it needs to be unique, or at least of a pretty high sentience or complexity to get a decent grade I think. Either way, it's exciting, I haven't tried to make an AI before. I know it's nothing compared to what Nightosphere are doing at the moment, but-"

"Nightosphere?"

"Yeah, the business we're visiting. Didn't I say?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Geez, Bonni, were you even concentrating?" he frowned, the furrow in his brows changing from frustration to concern in a mere instant, "Oh my, you're pale, are you okay, do you need anything?"

"I need a drink," she muttered and moved to dirty her kitchen once again (and maybe, along with that drink, she would needsome of that heroin she hadn't yet touched).

Why, when she was having such a good day, did he have to mention Nightosphere, and remind her of the dark-haired girl whose life she had so briefly touched?

Bonnibel had enjoyed the evening spent with Ricardio and the other campers she hadn't before had much chance to meet. It had been very much the generic, teenage coming-of-age type event. Someone had smuggled some alcohol - only one beer between about fourty kids - and they had quickly cycled through campfire songs, musical scores, current hits and the aged music their parents played in long car journeys no one could admit they actually liked. Marshmallows were roasted, anecdotes were told, one unsupecting girl was kissed, and Marceline was considered in the moments in between.

Bonnibel and Ricardio hadn't had a real conversation for what felt like far too long, and she was glad to feel like they bonded over the sparks flying from the fire. She learnt that he currently occupied a part-time job as a masseuse in a local spa, and his mother had distant clames on the Spanish throne; his passion was for science, particularly biology, and he wished to be a heart surgeon when he graduated - "It's partly a need to help others, partly a need to challenge myself every day." He must've learned many things about her too, as her voice had ran over without much pause, and she could not remember much of what they'd said, not even if the conversations were serious or casual in nature. Regardless, she felt like she had solidifed a friendship that night, even if another hang in the balance.

Therefore, there was an obvious need to go to Marceline and apologise for whatever she'd been judged to do wrong, make sure this petulant and irate girl could be restored to a somewhat more companionable opinion of her. However, Marceline was not at breakfast, and so she sat with Lucy and tried to care about the pros and cons of false nails.

She then found that Marceline was not in her own room for work, and had not headed to Bonnibel's either, so was tasked with finding something to do until lunch rolled around. She had packed her old Nintendo in case of emergency, and she decided this situation qualified, so spent an hour on Mario, and a couple more minutes doodling lazily in a notebook. When her roommate charged in demanding evacuation, she had no choice but to relocate, so sought out Ricardio and his partner Jake to see how their project was progressing - the answer to this was swimmingly, so she observed them silently from the top bunk and tried to make conversation whenever it wouldn't pose as an interruption.

Lunch came: still no Marceline. There were, however, cold chicken wraps and the beginnings of a food fight, so really it was her loss. Afterwards, she managed to entice a small group into a few games of pool, but they had partners who were somewhat more eager than her own, and they all eventually vanished. Now Bonnibel had trul nothing to do. In moments of boredom such as this, Bonnibel, though humble almost to a fault and occupied with everything other than appearance, often surrended to the pleasures of self-renewal. She had no make-up packed, and did not think Lucy would look kindly upon such a theft, so decided instead to experiment with her hair. Sectioning out strands of rich auburn hair, she began to weave delicate plaits about her head. Milkmaid braids were one of her favourite styles, setting off the soft insinuations of her face with a wispy elegance she wished she could always possess.

This only took a couple of minutes, and she found herself again with nothing to do. With a sigh, she settled on the windowsill - and got right back up. That was it! She would go for a walk in the surrounding forests, she could surely spend at least an hour out there. She substituted her slippers for a pair of trainers, and went outside, where the undergrowth was spared from the sharp summer heat by the dense foliage above. Birdsong rang clearly through the trees, above the susurrus of ferns... and a strange stratching sound beyond.

"Marceline?"

"What's up, princess?" she drawled, glancing up from the tree trunk she was carving into with a single thin razor blade. When her eyes caught the ginger girl standing just a few feet away, she grinned lopsidedly, letting out a low, appreciative whistle from the corner of her mouth, "You look like you've come out of a fairytale... or I guess even more so than usual," she winked. With feline nonchalance sharpened with grace, she leaned onto the stump, crossed a thin leg over the other, purred, "Do you come here often, Schnecke?" And then, before Bonnibel could ask, "I learnt German for a while. I thought it sounded cute. Appropriate."

She shook her head, inexplicably frustrated, "What on earth are you doing out here?"

"Oh. I thought you got my note."

"No?"

"Well no wonder you're so late," she pouted, "And here I thought you had dolled yourself up for me."

Bonnibel's replies did not have any of the other's playfulness, and it was difficult to keep from grumbling, "I had nothing else to do. I was looking for you all over but I figured you'd jumped ship for a while - you weren't at meals, so that was curious, but I don't know. I thought I'd really angered you last night, you know."

"Nah. Want a strawberry?"

Apparently, that settled it. Marceline, arrogant and tempestuous and altogether incomprehensible, was decidedly unbothered by whatever had occured at the campfire. Whatever wound her ego, or other mysterious sanctum of her being, had suffered was now healed, and she was now as perky as ever. Though her behaviour was maddening, it was just as equally relieving, and Bonnibel was glad to see her so chipper once again.

She took a strawberry (Marceline had rooted through all the nearby pushes and had half filled a canvas bag with her harvest; Bonnibel decided not to question how hygienic this was) and delighted in the sweetness of the wilder relative of her favourite fruit. The other girl watched her closely as she ate it, asked for another and enjoyed its taste, blind to the fact that the juices were trickling rapturously from her lips. Marceline, quick as starlight, reached out and wiped it off with a finger, which she raised to her lips and sucked clean. Bonnibel, once again so quick to objection, was beaten by the excuse, "I like how red things taste is all."

Even this could not stop the blush that swelled to her cheeks - and Marceline felt her own do the same at the shameful thought of this redness and the unholy promise her joke now sparked in her head, so she turned away, "Anyway, I guess it's a bit late to start any kind of work now. How about we find some flowers to thread through that hair, princess? I won't let your aesthetic go to waste."

Maddening, Bonnibel thought smilingly; the girl was absolutely maddening.

Marceline had been looking forward to the next Culture Studies lecture, and when the day came, there was certainly no disappointment. The two hour lecture was as calm, as restful,as usual, and the Byzantine artifacts being studied led into an interesting discussion on theology and religious culture as an extension of geographical. This was why Culture Studies was something so interesting to Marceline; there was nothing right or wrong, to be gained or to be lost, and everything was a great prelude to a new discovery. Simon Petrikov was one of the best men for this purpose, having explored the world when there were still small pockets left for exploring, and with a great eye for detail that beamed down upon them all.

A research task was set, students groaned as they felt they must though without real reservation, and their things were assembled.

"Abadeer, could I speak with you please?"

Marceline obediently hung back, packing her remaining notes away slightly slower so that she didn't have to linger uncomfortably for too long waiting for the others to leave the room. Perhaps she was too good at the self-imposed task, as it was Petrikov who came to her, sat on the desk across the aisle and leaned inwards in that intimate, concerned way of his.

When the others had left the lecture hall, he asked in a manner almost knowing, "How was your cruel 'detention' yesterday?"

"Awkward, to say the least. I think as a punishment, this one is quite effective; nothing can really touch the discomfort of being confined to the same room for six hours with a boy you almost beat up and who now follows you around like a puppy, asking if he's at fault."

"Is he very much at fault, or not at all?"

This stumped her, "I- I'm not sure yet."

"Well, regardless, I think the way Professor Lichter dealt with your little fiasco was quite unfair. Sending you off like a chastised nun was really very unorthodox, and so abhorrently middle school."

She laughed obligingly, "Careful, your prep school upbringing is showing."

"Sorry, I can't help it. It's just so frustratingly infantile - I mean, you're an adult, I'm sure you know how to handle your own affairs - and you haven't even got a single blot on your record that would make the measure sensible! Your attendance is perfect, you've no history of aggressive behaviour... though I suppose that's now changed, would you like me to book you a session with the campus nurse to make sure it's all cleared up?"

"I appreciate that you're trying to lighten the situation somewhat, but-"

"Of course, you don't want to hang behind just so that I can condescend to you," he rolled his eyes, "I promise I do have a purpose, other than to tell you that your most recent essay for me was really great work, you certainly have a gift for understanding symbols."

"Thank you, sir."

"In fact, I'd say you're a pretty gifted student across the board; so rarely do you find a student who can marry a brain for business with the artistic mind that can touch the sublime. You're a rare specimen Miss Marceline, and I wish to see your potential realised," he smiled at her from behind his glasses, blue eyes shining with conspiracy. He leaned further forward, touched a hand to her knee, "I certainly won't let it be sullied by allegations from any snooty, highbrow literature academics."

"It sounds suspiciously like you're scheming."

Petrikov grinned, "But of course, what else do I have to do other than mark boring papers all day? I just thought I'd like to foster your progress beyond the high heights it's already achieved, supply you with as much super-curricular activity as I can. I'll get as much for you as I can, but understand this is a thing of privilege; don't go making the other students come banging at my door for any similar extra-credit, you hear?"

"Well, I can't see any reason why I'd decline such an offer," she shrugged, eyes glinting, "As long as you don't keep me behind after every class."

With a proud laugh, he delivered the binding words, "That's my girl!"

A/N: I forgot my password but recently found an old notebook with my account details in so I'm back! I know this story has been very stagnant, but I decided since I had some free time I'd try and at least do one more chapter while I have the ability to.

I've still been getting emails about new follows and faves in the meanwhile, and I just want to say thanks for all the continued support despite my overwhelming absences. Love ya all ~