Polliamorous

The hive was always humming.

Not with joy, but with repetition.

From the moment of his emergence, Simon had been slotted into rhythm—a birthright of labor, a lineage of purpose. Wake. Work. Waggle. Repeat. Days calibrated by the arc of the sun, nights spent pressed against countless others, indistinguishable in warmth and scent. Everything was shared: breath, burdens, loyalty. The hive moved as one, a monogamous mass in eternal service to a single beloved: the queen.

He'd once loved her—truly.

Not as a bee loves a queen, but as a soul consents to surrender.

In those early days, it hadn’t felt like work at all. The nectar runs were exhilarating, a choreography of trust and timing. His body knew its place in the golden machine: how to curve mid-air to signal a distant bloom, how to fold into the swarm’s embrace, how to press pollen into the comb with reverence. Even touch—back then—had carried meaning. Antennae brushing in shared purpose. The hum of another’s wings echoing his own.

It was enough.

But seasons passed. The dances dulled. The work deepened into drudgery. Intimacy dissolved into efficiency—no more gentle collisions, only jostling. No more watching the queen; now she was pheromonal law, not luminous presence. What once felt like devotion now resembled obedience. They still served her, all of them, as if in a long, dim marriage to a memory of love.

And if Simon’s wings twitched at the scent of a strange flower, if his mind wandered mid-flight to possibilities unspoken—it passed. He returned. He always returned.

Until the ache grew too sharp. Until the sameness soured. Until even the symmetry of the comb began to seem tyrannical.

Desire still lived in him—barely—but it no longer resembled duty.

And then—

Simon fled.