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Arranged marriage should have been left in the dark ages, where it belonged.
Most of her friends had no idea, of course. She was a well kept secret, even in her own family. The black sheep that cut her hair short, got all number of ‘inappropriate’ piercings, went into the RAF just because she loved to fly, made out with girls in pubs.
In truth, Lena Oxton was part of the British Monarchy. Not in line with the crown, of course. Close enough that it made her more stuffy relatives nervous, though.
And her life had been nearly perfect, she was an amazing pilot, free from the constraints of the royal family and the crown. And though she hadn’t really found a girl she wanted to settle with, she was hopeful she would one day. And it would be...perfect.
...Until the summons.
Oh it had to be a joke. It just had to. Who in their right mind would pick Lena for this anyways? A contract nearly two centuries old. Some French/Anglo agreement for some damn war that no one but history nerds even knew about.
But maybe this was a way of getting rid of her. Or punishing her. Or maybe the French pissed off her relatives so much that they saw fit to make them wed Lena as some sort of sick, passive aggressive political move.
Whatever the case, Lena’s carefree life ended one some dreary Tuesday in January.
It was, admittedly, a rather strong jolt to her system to find that her fiance was not some stuffy diplomat twice her age but instead, a woman. But any initial wave of hope had been firmly dashed by her intended’s clear snarl at her state of dress and her hung over appearance. The accusations ran thick about Lena not taking this seriously, showing up in street clothes. But as far as Lena was concerned, they could all fuck themselves.
Every damn day is something else, something that takes up all of her time and energy. Today...it’s a fitting.
She’s shoved into a dress with a corset cinched up entirely too tightly, bare freckled shoulders atop the expensive material.
They don’t care about her, that much is clear. Her bride to be, the Lady Amélie Guillard has fully taken the reins for wedding planning, leaving Lena Oxton just a doll to be dressed.
It’s not as though Lena doesn’t have her own ideas for what she wants. She hadn’t really gotten far enough to consider whether or not she’d want a dress or a suit. Both seemed right somehow, if she picked it herself. Maybe a cute summer wedding where she’s just in a white knee length sundress. Or maybe she could rock the tieless suit with the crisp white dress shirt open and a tight silk jacket well cut around her bust.
But the current... nonsense she finds herself in isn’t her at all. It’s made for some stuffy princess. The yards of brocade, the cathedral length veil…
“...I can’t breathe, take it off!” she complains for the fifth time, turning to glare at the dresser that’s cinching her up even tighter. “Put me in a suit for god’s sake. Surely you got something for a prospective groom, we can dress that up instead of this.”
Oh she’s made this argument three times over by now, only to be told she’s a bride. Brides wear dresses. And brides wear the dresses they’re told to.
And people are getting frustrated with her, by this point. She fights the corset one time too many and the attendant lets out an extremely unsubtle sigh and steps out.
Lena growls, trying to reach back to undo the goddamned laces binding her tighter than a rack of lamb.
“Everything’s a damn fight with her. She wants a suit for heaven’s sake. A suit.”
Lena can’t help the smallest satisfaction to hear the outrage in that woman’s voice, as though she couldn’t possibly understand that some girls have different preferences. For god’s sake, they’re officiated a state sanctioned royal lesbian wedding.
Of course no one sees it like that. All she ever hears is how much of a sacrifice it is, how the Lady Guillard should be somehow compensated for wedding someone that cannot bear her a child.
And they all have the gall to be upset with Lena for not taking it “seriously”.
Lena realizes that the attendant isn’t on the phone. That the person she’s ranting to is there with her.
Lena’s fingers freeze over the laces when she hears Amélie’s voice.
“...A suit.”
“This little brat is going to make this wedding into a drag show. I shouldn’t be surprised if she just ditches the dress altogether. She still insists on wearing that...thing in her ear.”
“I can fucking hear you.”
There’s another exacerbated sigh and Lena squirms to loosen the god awful laces in her back. Perhaps out of sheer spite that awful woman has bound them up too tight, and Lena’s starting to see stars.
“Is it...so very awful, if she wanted to be in a suit?”
There’s a moment of silence, both with Lena in the dressing room and the attendant outside.
“...you’re joking. She’ll look like a prepubescent boy. We’ll already have to stuff her bust for the dress.”
“Yeah, you already got a good handful, didn’t you? Enjoy it, Lady?”
There’s the sound of a muffled scream and something breaking.
“You deal with her. I’m done.”
Lena’s lips curl into a wry, angry smile at that. At least she wasn’t the first to crack.
The door opens and Lena turns to see her fiance in the doorframe, clearly annoyed.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to see the dress before the wedding day, love.” She spits the word with all the venom she can muster.
“We both know you won’t be in it.”
The reply is so fast, so sharp that Lena almost misses it, trying to read the woman’s expression as her eyesight spots from the corset constricting her like a python.
“Yeah…’cause I’ll be dead from this one.”
Strong hands turn Lena, and she finds she doesn’t have the strength to fight it as she’s positioned backwards in the chair, away from her intended.
Suddenly breath fills her lungs as the woman works the laces loose, and Lena’s subsequent gasp isn’t so much dramatic as it is real.
“You...want a suit?”
“I’d like to wear something that isn’t suffocating me!” Lena snaps, finally losing it. “Every damn thing about this wedding is suffocating me. Every time I want something for myself I get told it’s not tradition. That it doesn’t fit with the wedding plans, that it won’t look good to the public. And then after all that, that damned... bitch half strangles me in this damn gown while insisting that it’s beautiful and I should be grateful.”
Hot tears spring to her eyes, and Lena presses her face into her arms resting on the back of the chair. She can’t be seen like this, not by this cold woman.
The gown comes loose, the back open. And Lena feels fingers tracing her spine.
“Oh don’t you go off on how skinny I am too. That lady wouldn’t fucking let that go either. I know my bust isn’t big but for god’s sake - ”
“The lacing just left marks. I apologize.”
Those fingers remain, and Lena feels them dip into the marks left over. And despite herself, heat wells in her lower stomach.
How weak she is, for responding so favorably to the smallest touch. But it’s probably the first time she’s been treated to gentleness since this whole thing started.
Lena sniffs despite herself.
“A suit then,” Amélie whispers, and Lena feels her nerves light on fire when that open palm sweeps up her back, to give her a soft pat on the shoulder. “I’ll try to find someone that isn’t...so disagreeable.”
If there was one part of all the awful planning Lena thought she’d like...it would be the cake tasting. What wouldn’t she like about it? Cake, champagne. Tasting frostings, flavors, spices. It seems like something that just...should have been enjoyable, after all the stress of royal etiquette classes she’s been sorely behind in.
However.
She knows she should have known better.
It’s a photo op.
They already picked the cake. Lena’s sure of that. It’s explained to her that this is a time for her and her…. “beloved”...to look in love.
The realization that there are no...normal flavors is the final straw.
Maybe, had she been there on her own - or perhaps, with a sweet girl, she would have enjoyed tasting odd flavors like earl grey. But now it just makes her stomach turn.
The whole thing is fake. And they’re furious at her again.
She thought, somewhat foolishly, that they would be in private. Maybe...a chance for some much needed time with the woman she’s going to spend the rest of her life with. And on the way over she had thought about that. Maybe it didn’t need to be all so...terrible.
After all, Lena still feels her nerves stand on edge thinking about that hand on her back. It had been a kindness she had missed so much, the gentleness of someone just...touching her. And it made her think that...maybe...just maybe... it could be okay.
The wedding planner’s red face, the yelling that she would show up in street clothes of all things to a photo op is humiliating enough. For the first time she actually feels like an idiot. She realizes, after the blinding flash of at least twenty shutters that this will be plastered on the tabloids for several news cycles. England’s royal family in shame.
They correct her blunder quickly, pulling Lena into a back room to style her hair and dress her properly. But the initial humiliation was already there.
She doesn’t taste the cake.
It doesn’t matter anyways.
Her fiance, in stark contrast, is dressed to the nines, a sharp black sheath dress that’s both modest and form fit. A heavy gold collar statement necklace, expensive earrings. Chopsticks that Lena guesses have real gold in them holding up her hair in a high bun. A lady of stature and high society. Unlike the punk that showed up in a hoodie and ripped tights.
The cake makes her sick, bile rising in her throat. When they’re treated to another sample, Lena realizes that she has to run to the bathroom or risk an even worse photo op by vomiting on her fiance’s dress.
Her makeup is ruined by the time she’s finished vomiting into the toilet, trying to catch her breath and calm herself down by the sinks. Her palms grip on the fine marble sink top as tears stream down her cheeks, making her mascara run.
The door opens and, thinking it’s that damn wedding planner again, she screams her frustration.
“Get. Out! Is five damn minutes of privacy too much to ask for?”
The door doesn’t close. And she hears the step of heels against the fine tile coming closer.
Lena looks up from behind ruined makeup, realizing Amélie is there. Something crosses in that gaze, something so beyond what she normally sees in those cold eyes.
The woman lets the door close behind her, reaching past Lena to a stack of white steamed wash cloths. With one hand on her chin, the other moves to gently wipe away the ruined makeup, to soothe her sore eyes after her tears.
It takes two of those cloths. And Lena knows, distantly, that her mascara and eyeliner is gonna stain them to hell.
But she doesn’t really notice.
All she can feel are those fingers, the way her chin is lifted with the barest touch. The way that steamed cloth gently works at the ruined makeup…
The touch is lighter than a feather, smoothing down to clean off the ruined gloss over tired lips…
The attention only hails more tears, Lena fighting back a half whimper.
“...there…”
Those fingers still hold Lena’s chin up, fingers raking into her mussed hair to push it off of her flushed forehead.
“...is a chocolate cake too damn much to ask for?”
Lena’s voice is broken and oh so soft, staring up into those vibrant blue eyes. And all at once, those arms wrap around her, nose and mouth buried in her hair.
She smells like expensive rose perfume. She smells like everything she should, of hair product, of expensive shampoos. She smells like the sort of lotion she was always told she should put on after a shower but always forgot...
And Lena’s eyes fall to half lidded, finding the faint scent of her skin beneath all of that as those fingers caress into her nape.
It has all become...bearable, after the cake tasting.
That hug resonates in her mind, chasing after her with every annoyance, every damn intrusion. Beneath the initial scowl, the anger that Lena wasn’t taking this seriously, there is a profoundly gentle woman, aware, so viscerally aware of Lena.
That awful corset thing has been replaced with a suit, a sharp navy thing that fits Lena to a tee. Despite the general animosity the planner had for Lena in a suit, she did have to admit that Lena cut a sharp silhouette. The golden silk accents on the lapels and the pocket square set off her eyes, she found.
And she could see herself in eyeliner sharp as daggers, with glossy lips, with a white rose pinned to her breast. It felt like her.
Distantly, Lena realizes how lucky she is. This could have been a man. An ill tempered diplomat with no room for her brand of unorthodox self expression. He could have demanded her in a dress. Demanding her on her back…
Lena pales at the thought, staring at herself in just her panties and bra after sliding out of the suit in the changing room.
There is, however, one thing that continues to nag at Lena.
By all appearances, the Lady Guillard was...well. Straight.
Her consent to the marriage was as valid as Lena’s - meaning...she could not deny it. It was expected of her by her family.
The thought turns ill in her stomach. She was...stunning. And the small moments of intimacy they shared...it would kill Lena to think that this woman was only enduring such things for her family’s pride.
The thought of them in the wedding bed. The thought of Amélie quietly excusing herself to sleep elsewhere. Years of separate bedrooms. Of kissing in public but never in private...never as partners.
Much as an arranged marriage to a man would have set Lena into a loveless marriage...would an arranged marriage to a woman send Amélie down the same path?
Len fancies herself a bit more... empathetic than a stuffy diplomat, though. She would never force her way into Amélie’s bed. They need never be anything but to uphold appearances. And they had the added benefit of not needing to secure a child through means of sex.
Lena looks at herself in the mirror.
She never thought she was unattractive. Sure, her breasts weren’t as big as some might want them. Maybe not to the point of being a princess’s body. But she wasn’t ugly. And between the few freckles between her breasts and down along her stomach, she knows she’s not unappealing.
Maybe her bride to be wouldn’t care for the extra piercings hidden beneath her bra. She could let them close, if such things were...distasteful.
But...of all the things stripped from her with this union….her self expression would be the final straw. The most devastating. If she was forced to grow out her hair, to wear dresses….she’s not sure she could really take it.
Lena slowly pulls on her tights and takes a deep breath, sinking down into the chair.
They’re hardly allowed a moment alone. Perhaps that’s what makes this so difficult. Both of them are so damned busy that Lena knows, naturally, they’ll still be strangers by the time the wedding comes around. And she’ll have no better answer to her question.
She finds herself searching Amélie out. Looking at her from across the room...to glimpse beautiful glacial eyes and whatever hair style she has. Those dresses are always so classy, and her makeup is flawless. Exactly the kind of woman Lena would naturally avoid.
They were….the most dangerous, after all. The sort of perfect woman that usually hung off of the arm of an impossibly smug bastard, the sort that most often claimed to feel threatened if forced to share a changing room with a known lesbian.
It must be clear to her by now that Lena had….preferences. And the worst part was….Lena Oxton was developing a crush on her fiance.
It’s a tall room, a beautiful room, overlooking a rainy day but a viridian field past a lush garden. With the huge bay windows, Lena would far rather spend her time curled up on the sill with her earbuds in, watching the rain and feel some semblance of peace after nearly a month of endless preparations.
No sooner did she get to comment on the beautiful field, however, did her dance instructor tell her they’re not there to look at the scenery, that Lena had a lot of learn in a small amount of time.
They’re dancing right now, Lena and the dance instructor. Or rather, there’s music playing, Lena’s stumbling, and the instructor is scolding.
“Back straight. Shoulders square. You always start with your right foot. From the top again.”
Sure...she wasn’t great at dancing. But dance is something Lena always thought was something you couldn’t really put words to. Something you did because the music felt right and you wanted to move. And she wasn’t uncoordinated - though, when she tried to show the instructor what kind of dance she was good at, the woman could only huff so much to hide the sheer disgust in her eyes at the sight of Lena doing the Charleston.
Lena would like to imagine it’s out of gender inclusion that she’s being made to learn both the man’s and the woman’s part to this dance. But in truth she knows very well that her height might make it impossible to dance the man’s part, but her insistence on a suit might mean she has to.
Oh if only you were a man, she can hear the unspoken end of that awful woman’s words, the words she just barely avoids speaking.
She’s tight and nervous and frankly worried about what might happen if she flubs up again (would the woman stomp on her foot if she keeps stumbling over hers?) that she doesn’t realize they have an audience.
The hairs on Lena’s neck stand on end when she sees Amélie standing at the corner of the hardwood dance floor, glancing away from Lena to stare out at the field.
Perhaps shyness? At being caught staring?
Something bubbles in Lena’s chest at the thought.
That chin lifts, suddenly wanting to show Amélie that she could be a good dance partner. Worthy to hold hands with. Worthy to sway with. But perhaps in haste to prove, her confidence ends up bringing another misstep, another exacerbated sigh from the instructor.
Does no one have patience for her?
“...Alright. From the top again. Remember to count with the music.”
“....would it not make more sense for her to dance with me?”
Lena turns back to those eyes, to see that there’s...something in them. She’s not quite looking at the instructor, not quite looking at Lena either. But her question is genuine. Soft.
There is one thing that Lena learned about Amélie, after meeting her. This particular woman was a career ballerina.
She had seen the sheer strength of muscle beneath delicate hosiery, athletic strength beneath grace. And as her intended steps over into the middle of the ballroom floor, Lena suddenly feels something in her turn to ice.
If the instructor was furious...how much moreso would her ballerina fiance be?
“I’ll lead,” comes that soft voice. And for all the guff she gave the instructors, the planners, the dressers, this is the first time Lena’s confidence truly fails her and she balks.
“Uh….I don’t know. I’m really not good at this.”
“The only way to get better is to do it…”
The answers is obvious, yet the woman fails to snap it. An extended hand drops, no longer pressuring Lena.
Somehow she looks...sad, however - those blue eyes falling away from Lena.
“I mean, all you gotta do is ask my instructor, I’ve been stepping on her feet all day. And you...I mean, you’ve made a career of it. I’m gonna look like an idiot.”
“I made a career out of ballet, not ballroom dancing.”
There’s a moment of silence. And Lena realizes, after a couple passing moments, that in truth, she would like to dance with her intended. But she’s caught between masculine and feminine. Would her fiance even want to lead? There’s no way she could be any kind of prince for her, the crown of her head falling just below that chin…
“...’m better at the man’s part but you’re…”
She doesn’t know how to say it, to talk about it. At the core, she knows that the burden of being masculine would better fall to her than someone so...utterly feminine. But she’s tiny compared to Amélie. So far down would that head have to come to press against her shoulder. It would be awkward.
And maybe, distantly, Lena realizes that maybe she’s the one that wants a shoulder to rest against.
Hot tears spring to her eyes and Lena looks away sharply.
“...I can lead, chérie.”
Lena watches the woman step over to the stereo before the tears in her eyes get the better of her and she looks back to the field, to the rain, to the green grass.
By the time the first notes of soft piano come over the stereo, those eyes close over her tears.
Everyone had that soothing piano playlist. Lena’s tastes ran way more pop and grunge, but when she just needed something to take the edge off of her nerves, there was always that piano playlist. And top of it, this song.
Claire de Lune.
She imagines her fiance listens to nothing but music of this genre. Perhaps she’d have the same revulsion for Lena’s tastes as the instructor had for her brand of dancing..
Still. If this was the sort of music to be played…
A hand comes to rest on her hip. And Lena looks up, realizing her fiance has closed the distance yet again.
She takes the hand offered, letting her palm rest in it. And then...carefully...she comes to fit against the woman who is, again, in yet another one of those dresses, even just to visit a dance studio on a damned rainy London day..
But she’s drawn close.
She can smell her skin again. Her hair is up in a high pony, but it’s loose near her face, falling in soft little strands and held in a half pompadour high on the front of her head, accenting a rather endearing widow’s peak…
“Just relax,” comes that voice, and a hand rests to the back of Lena’s head. She goes without fight to that shoulder, accepting the comfort.
The steps come, and at first Lena fears them. But Amélie doesn’t seem to mind the missteps, waiting patiently for her to return to center.
Somewhere after the first minute or so, Lena starts to trust Amélie’s motions. To trust the music.
Her hand slides closer to that neck, feeling the expensive statement necklace and the chandelier earrings brush her fingers as she cups that neck. She can feel the long strands fall like silk across the backs of her fingers, the response from the hand at her hip to softly work past the hoodie she’s wearing to stroke gently.
Oh it’s enough to make her weak in the knees. Gone is the instructor, with her sharp voice and aggressive scolding. Gone is the room, beautiful and polished, gone are the bay windows, gone the rain, the field...the garden.
It’s just them and the music. She can feel Amélie’s heart beneath her ear, the way she inhales with the start of each new measure, the way she signals the direction half a beat before they move.
“All eyes will be upon you,” Amélie whispers.
“...but...I will be there too.”
The dance is apparently a big deal. Bigger than Lena would have guessed. And not only does Lena need lessons (oh does she ever need them) but apparently Amélie does too.
Lena sneaks her way into the room, the same big broad one with the huge windows…
She’s not in a dress.
The instructor isn’t there, and her fiance has taken advantage of the barre at the end of the room, working herself into a deep stretch that makes Lena’s heart leap into her throat. Maybe moreso, considering that her fiance is wearing something far more Lena-esque - sweats and a tank. Yet on her…
Lena’s breath catches in her throat when she watches that leg come up, hip height, then further - the woman working herself into a full, standing split.
She looks like a vision, with her hair bound in a tight bun, stepping down and holding herself upright while wrapping her arms around her calves and pressing her chest to her thighs.
“...I suppose it’s only fair you watch my session,” comes that smooth voice. “D’accord. She’s not here yet.”
Realizing she’s been spotted, Lena steps closer.
“Y’don’t mind? I…”
Lena swallows.
“I-I watched a couple of your performances online…”
That seems to catch the woman off guard and she rises, those blue eyes widening slightly. Full lips part.
“I mean, you’re really good. Really good. It’s kinda...wild to me they’re making you practice here.”
That expression softens so significantly, Amélie’s head tilting.
“When did you know you wanted to be a ballerina?”
The curiosity must be warming to her, because she stops trying to stretch altogether. Those eyes stay focused on Lena in a way that makes her insides turn to goo.
“Since I was five. Mother put on music one day and...well, that’s all I wanted to do.”
Lena laughs.
“I jumped off Mum’s roof at five. Made a pair of wings with some cardboard and thought I could give it a go. She wasn’t real impressed, I can tell you that.”
Lena steps over to the big window, finally indulging in her desire to look out over the big green lawn. She sinks down in the sill, resting an arm on a bent knee.
“Got my pilot’s license at 14. Because I’m technically in the royal line, they wouldn’t let me do anything too fancy but I’m damn good at demonstrations. Formation drills are my favorite. When you can look out and see your wings practically touching with your mate’s...I live for that.”
Amélie steps over, sinking to the opposite side of the giant window. Her chin comes to rest on her knee, and Lena feels a warmth surge up from her heart and into her cheeks at the unguarded affection she sees in those eyes.
“No one really approved,” she goes on. “But that’s been my life. No one’s really ever approved of me.”
Amélie leans in. And with her in sweats and a tank...she feels...approachable.
“I think I was the only one they had to offer you. Otherwise they would have fit you with...probably anyone else.”
A hand reaches for her own, and Lena lets out a soft noise when those fingers trace over her knuckles before sliding beneath her palm. Lena’s fingers close around hers.
Sparks shoot up her spine at the contact, something so utterly tender and innocent and right all at the same time.
“Should be obvious by now,” Lena confesses softly. “...I...like girls.”
She shyly glimpses Amélie to see if this news has any impact on her.
She doesn’t look surprised. Or upset. Or frustrated.
Just...far away.
“I...I know.”
“....’n’ I’m sorry if that’s not your cup of tea. I want you to know that. I was hoping we could at least just be good friends.”
There’s a silence, a held eye-contact, as though Amélie’s hunting for the words to say. Those full lips part once more, Lena catching the glimpse of perfect white teeth beyond.
The door opens, a loud clap breaking the two out of the moment. The damned impatient instructor claps another couple times, and Amélie stands, leaving Lena at the window sill. Against her will, the pilot feels a wave of coldness sweep through her when that hand leaves hers.
There’s a knock on the door.
Lena’s just finished buttoning her suit jacket, looking at herself in the mirror. The cut is perfect - which, obviously, it should be with the number of tailors they have on staff. Still, to see it made to fit her in a way none of her clothes ever has is...amazing.
It brings in her torso, doing nothing to hide the shape of her hips or the swell of her chest. Feminine and soft. No one will mistake her for a man in this.
She assumes the knock at the door is the hairdresser, someone she was promised would clip the sides and make her look good, not just...feminine. Amélie had found someone herself for that. And Lena was grateful.
“Come in!”
The door opens as Lena pops her collar, experimenting with different looks. But when her eyes catch her visitor behind her in the mirror, she darts behind the folding screen in the corner.
“You’re not supposed to see me before the wedding, love! It’s bad luck!”
Amélie herself is only in a dressing gown, and Lena’s exclamation brings a smile to her lips.
“I think you will find that superstition is only for seeing a bride in her dress, chérie.”
Lena slowly steps out from behind the screen and watches when Amélie’s eyes rake over her.
“...did you have a good time, last night?”
Some RAF buddies had taken her out, for drinks, for fun. ‘One last night of freedom before you’re locked in to the ol’ ball and chain’ they had said, which had only made it worse. Was it really so awful to be married?
After the two months of hell...she did have to wonder. It would be awful, if her fiance had no feelings for her. Especially since her own feelings had begun to tumble out of control.
“Ah...I don’t really remember much. We went through a whole bottle of Scotch. The good kind…”
It’s a lie. She didn’t drink all that much. Her buddies were plastered and had promised her a stripper, but they were so sloshed that they didn’t notice she had slipped out well before the lady in question arrived.
All Lena could think about was Amélie anyways, something she thought about as she sunk beneath her sheets and stared at the ceiling. Thoughts of spooning - or, delightfully, being spooned - and the realization that it was all too much to ask for.
She’d bed a man, surely, for the prospect of perfect rich children, the image of a perfect high class life. Children that would be sent to a governess so their mother would continue working. But there would be no reason to lay beside Lena.
Amélie sits down at the small bureau, setting a little box on the marble top.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Lena slowly steps over, pushing back the cover.
Two golden chandelier earrings, set with sapphires. A perfect match for her suit.
“Ohh...love…”
“These have been in my family since my grandmother. I remember seeing Mother wear them for special occasions. They are well loved. And…”
Amélie takes one in her hands, gently reaching for Lena’s chin to turn her slightly, to slip one, then the other, into Lena’s ears.
“...they count for both something borrowed and something blue.”
Lena turns to look at herself in the mirror, eyes widening. Somehow she looks complete now, even before her hair and makeup. Since her mother had died nearly ten years ago, she had never quite felt like she belonged in any of this royal society stuff. And all through this...engagement, she’s felt so isolated.
The coldness of the metal against her neck is pleasant, and the gold brings out flecks of amber in her eyes.
She fights back tears, trying to stay playful.
“I thought something borrowed had to be from another happy bride,” she quips.
“It doesn’t say it can’t be from another bride on her own wedding day.”
Lena sniffs, a little laugh escaping her throat. Somehow in her own self pity...she had forgotten that Amélie was a bride too.
“...are...are you happy though? ‘Cause it won’t work unless it comes from a happy bride.”
Amélie reaches for another chair, and Lena takes the unspoken command and sinks into it. Those blue eyes pierce into her own, something burning behind them.
“I…”
She breaks off, and Lena sees tears welling in those eyes.
“...I never thought I would be. You were nothing like what I expected. But I had resigned that I wouldn’t be happy, but I could make do. But you…”
A hand lifts to Lena’s cheek, a thumb stroking along the corner of her mouth.
“I...I am happy…”
A pained smile breaks across that face before tears stream peacefully down. And Lena leans in.
She tastes like expensive rose lip gloss, stained with tears. But there’s no hesitation when Lena’s lips brush hers, and that mouth meets hers in kind.
For several moments do they stay locked, with fingers softly brushing into one another’s hair, Amélie’s fingers sweeping gently along those earrings and Lena’s twining gently in long, dark locks.
Suddenly Amélie pulls back, cupping Lena’s face in her hands, as though realizing what they’re doing.
And Lena laughs, with tears streaming down her own cheeks, reaching up to thumb away her fiance’s tears.
“Aw, love...if that’s true, I’m happy too.”
Lena reaches to rest her hand on Amélie’s thigh, to touch so gently.
“Oh!” the thought suddenly hits Lena, and she reaches to undo the ring set high in her left ear. Once in her palm, she hesitates.
It’s nothing fancy. It’s not even expensive. Titanium, because she has a nickel allergy. But nothing like the gold earrings hanging from her ears.
Soft amber eyes glance up at Amélie.
“...guess you don’t have the piercings for it, but…”
Amélie reaches for Lena’s hand, to take the small ring. She closes the clasp, then pulls a long pendant from beneath the dressing robe. From there...she closes the earring around the chain.
“...I’ll wear it over my heart.”
They don’t have sex.
They’re both exhausted after all, when they finally make it to the lavish suite that was for their first night together. The bed is covered in rose petals, champagne left in a bucket of ice. But one awkward, somewhat fearful exchange of looks and they were both relieved that sex was off the table for tonight.
Amélie pours the champagne as Lena glances out the window at the brightly lit city beneath.
“...it’s okay, right? That we share the bed though?”
While she’s not ready for sex now, Lena worries somewhat that it’s just been put off the table for good.
“It’s plenty big enough,” Amélie comments, hesitation in her tone.
“I...I know it’s big enough,” Lena whispers. “Just…”
Amélie places the stem of one of the glasses in her hand, and Lena looks up gratefully, reaching to take a sip. She watches Amélie reach to pour her own, eyes getting caught on that golden ring now sitting on that finger.
“...just?” Amélie prompts, moving to sink into one of the plush chairs near the window to share in the view.
“...I dunno. I know we’re not ready for sex but I was hoping...we could cuddle, I guess.” She looks down. “...maybe make out.”
Lena takes a long sip of champagne, trying to use it to calm her nerves.
“I mean I don’t want to push you. Or freak you out. I dunno if you’d ever be ready for sex with a girl...with me...but…”
She stops when she sees Amélie set down her glass, standing up to move to Lena’s spot near the window. She sinks gracefully down, folding her legs on the small couch. She extends an arm, and offering.
An invitation.
Lena carefully sinks near her, reaching to pick up Amélie’s glass and hand it back to her.
“....I’m not...opposed,” comes that soft voice, an arm reaching around Lena to keep her held close.
Three sips of champagne and Lena’s eyes are already heavy. And she can tell by Amélie’s slowing heartbeat and regular breathing that she’s fading as well.
“We should get in bed, love,” Lena whispers sleepily, setting her glass down and reaching for Amélie’s before giving her a hand up. “C’mon, sweetness. We had such a long day…”
Amélie stands, but instead of heading over to her bags, she instead gently presses her forehead to Lena’s shoulder. An arm loosely wraps around her from behind.
It doesn’t last long. But the affection is all Lena needs to feel her heart burst.
Amélie changes in the bathroom, Lena in the main room. Typically Lena likes to sleep naked, but...tonight she’s picked a pair of comfy polka-dot panties and a soft tank.
She picks the side of the bed near the wall - so her wife can lay on the side with the view - and waits.
Amélie comes out in a white silk nightgown that leaves Lena breathless, hardly able to stop herself from staring as she steps over to her side.
“You don’t have to take the wall,” she whispers, smoothing her hand across Lena’s cheek. “You love the view so much I won’t take that from you.”
“Well...frankly, love...you are the view.”
It’s a little awkward, settling in. They both want to touch, but so unsure. When Amélie wraps her arms around Lena, however, peace washes in waves over her.
Her nose buries into that neck. And Amélie softly rubs along her spine.
She ends up rolling, so her back is to her new wife. Amélie’s arms wrap around her, and in the half haze before sleep, Lena looks down to see their wedding bands brush before she sinks into peaceful sleep.