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How do you plan a wedding?
Anne has researched this topic many times before - her journals from highschool could easily attest to that. In all honesty, the big night of a wedding, placed carefully over a beautiful spring evening, lights scattered perfectly around the wedding venue, tables decorated with bluebells, orchids, and calla lilies were all carefully rehearsed within her dreams, paired with two people she knew would always be a part of her life.
Was it so selfish to want to love, date, and marry your two best friends who love each other and not you?
Is it selfish to only have eyes for a specific someone, carving out plans that you never really expected to become reality? Only for you to be smacked in the face with the reality of them marrying each other, while you stood on the sidelines, still yearning through it all? It's a little disheartening to let it go, come to terms with the fact that you'll be alone but never alone because those two always have to include you in everything, don't they?
So, when the two of them asked her to help them with the wedding, really, how could she say no? Maybe the process of building their wedding will bring her some… inner peace. Maybe her feelings will slip away with the wedding night, happily content with the life ahead of her with no regrets whatsoever.
Absolutely no regrets, it’s possible.
Easy, even.
Sure, it’s a little hard to fall out of feelings when the supposed ‘husband’ is wrapping his arms around you while you discuss important details with their hired planner. Planning a wedding is stressful , and Anne cannot deal with all of his shenanigans on top of the entire wedding situation. But she doesn’t shove away, even if she maybe should.
…Maybe his gentle rocking helps her destress a little. Allows her to get back in her little zone, as he picks up the conversation for her, going on about catering, music, and more. Catering, Which reminds her.
“Maybe an open bar for the guests? The venue already has a bar set up, so… it might…”
“Might what? You wanna drink on my wedding night, Boonchuy?” Sasha snickers, head tucked into Anne’s shoulder and neck. The touch honestly burns her skin, affection pooling into the air just about as quick and easily Sasha slipped his hands into her own.
“So what if I do, Waybright?” she says, if only to shove down the fluttery feelings and hide them from herself - or god forbid anyone else.
“Won’t be Waybright for much longer,” he grins. “Depending on how long you keep me waiting.” And then he presses his head further into her shoulder, like he hadn’t just said that , like he didn’t even think about what that could imply - but of course he didn’t. He’s marrying Marcy.
But still.
How can he be so affectionate without a thought in the world? Why does his rich cinnamon cologne soothe, while they sway side to side ever so slightly as the planner looks to the both of them with curious eyes.
“So… You two are the lucky couple? Oh, you look so sweet together. I wish you the best.”
What. Look at what he does.
The assumption isn't her fault. Not her fault.
“Oh, no, we’re not- he’s- um, I’m just a friend. Just- uh, y’know… helping.” she chuckles, face shamefully warm.
“Oh?” he teases. “ Just a friend? What happened to all that sappy nonsense from when we were kids, huh? Look at what you and I have now , or whatever. I’m hurt, Boonchuy.”
“Take my name then, and we’ll talk,” she snips, just to shut him up; she’s not sure how much more she can take right now. Heart beating fast, face flushed red. She just hopes he can’t tell how much she means it.
The planner just looks at them with confused eyes. She shakes her head, turning back to talk with the venue owners about flower arrangements.
Sasha suddenly looks up. “Oh, and Mrs. Parker?”
“Hm?”
“Add bluebells into the arrangement. They’re… sentimental.”
Oh no.
“I thought-” Anne starts, nervous smile on her face, “I thought, um-”
Mrs. Parker perks up. “Oh, so you’d prefer the old arrangements?”
Sasha’s face scrunches up, a confused expression that Anne really shouldn’t find quite as endearing as she does, given the circumstances. Given that she’s planning his wedding . His and Marcy’s, because the world seems to have a fucked-up sense of humor; because she’s not allowed to have either of them, so of course they’d get stuck with each other.
So then why does he ask for bluebells?
“Old arrangements?” he asks, because of course he doesn’t know. It’s not like she was going to tell him about the plans she’s had scribbled up for years now, not when it’s all red-green-blue and heart-strength-wit; Sasha, Anne, and Marcy. The three of them.
“Yep, that’d be great, thanks!” Anne chirps before either can continue. “So sorry about the confusion, uh- we’d better get going, don’t wanna keep Marcy waiting, y’know!”
She wraps her hand around his before she can really think about it, dragging him away and praying that she doesn’t yell after them.
“You alright, Annie?” Sasha runs his hands through her curls, drawing close, hands pivoting to her lower jaw, guiding her to look him in the eye. “You were- you looked a little-”
“I’m fine. ” She huffs. “We just have a tight schedule–there's no room for messing around, Sash.”
“Okay, you're right. I'm sorry.” He starts, “But it should be fun too, right? This is something I want you to enjoy– we want you to be a part of it.”
There’s something unabashedly laced within his words, telling a tale of impossible ‘I love yous’ that have to be Anne’s imagination.
The two of them want her? What could that mean, when she’s helping them plan a wedding . Their wedding. Not hers. Painful reminders jab at every edge of her being whenever she remembers this little piece of information.
Not your wedding, is thought as she puts together wedding plans and a binder full of pictures cut out of what could be hundreds of magazines. Plastered all over her scrunched up face putting this little binder together, gluing sin after sin for her friends to use.
So, something cracks . And she’s almost surprised that it’s taken this long. Tears fall, and she can’t bear to look him in the eye anymore. “Don’t-” She hugs herself. “Don’t joke like that. It’s not funny.”
His face twists into confusion. “Why would I-” He pauses, “Why would I joke about that? We want you. We do. ”
No they do not. Not in the way that she wants them. They don’t want the bluebells, orchids, and calla lilies like she does, expressed in blue pinks and greens that flow together in harmony, like how it’s always been, or how it used to be.
And has it ever been, really? Because wasn’t she the only one spending the highschool years drawing stars and hearts around amalgamations of their names - Boonchuy-Waybright-Wu - in pink, green, and blue, the three of them, always and forever?
“Anne, you know we…” she’s not looking at him, but she knows that he pauses to bite his lip. Marcy would give him a quick peck to make sure he didn’t.
She hugs herself tighter.
But then there’s soft touches against her arms, making her feel as fluttery and beautiful as butterfly wings.
“You know we care about you,” he mumbles. “And I’m sorry if we don’t say it enough. You’re lovely , Anne, I know it’s- there’s… we don’t always know how to tell you, because neither of us are very good at that kinda thing without being ridiculously over-the-top about it,” Sasha laughs. It’s choked, she notes; he’s crying too. His arms wrap around her shoulders. He leans up to look into her eyes for a short moment before pulling her into a hug, arms wrapped tight around her shoulders. “But hey. I love you, Anne. Me and Marcy both, and… we want you here with us. Til the end.”
And this time she hugs him, letting the tears fill her eyes once again - because it almost sounds like a vow.
---
The dance hall is not nearly big enough.
Okay, sure, Marcy and Sasha didn’t really have a ton of people that they’re looking to invite, and she knows that a lot of people would just be lounging around and hugging the walls after the first couple of songs anyways. Logically, the place is plenty big enough for their little ceremony - Sasha and Marcy never wanted to go big or all out to begin with - and certainly for the three of them now.
So maybe the size of the room has absolutely nothing to do with the claustrophobic feeling tugging in her chest.
So maybe it’s Sasha, arms wrapped around her shoulders and looking up at her. Eyes reflecting the dull overhead lights - he makes them look more like precious diamonds - and smile leaning in devilishly close to hers as he drags her through the steps.
Maybe it’s an old song playing that they’ve all heard at least a million times before, between whispers of truth-or-dare and promises they swore to keep. Anne had suggested something newer, something more Sasha-and-Marcy, because it had only seemed right; they hardly need to spend the night dancing with her image in mind, she thinks, even if she’d want nothing more than for them to want it too.
“This is so unfair,” Marcy pouts from off to the side, arms crossed.
And Anne agrees, because the song sings about love as she holds him in her arms, and it’s a bit too on-the-nose for the moment, for how she’s always felt; because this is their wedding venue, not hers, and so it should be Sasha and Marcy dancing, not-
“Sashy, move over,” they whine again, tugging on his arm. “I wanna dance with Anne.”
They’ve gotta be kidding.
But of course they’re not, because if planning her life-long-loves’ wedding wasn’t bad enough on its own, they seem determined to make it so. Marcy somehow manages to squeeze into what already-too-little space there had been between her and Sasha, running their hands along her arms and back to her hands, effectively pulling her away from him - not that this is any better.
“Hiya,” Marcy grins. And this close, their hands trailing from her fingers to hold her around the waist, she almost forgets why she shouldn’t find it so endearing. “Can you believe Sash’s trying to keep you all to himself?” they grumble, pressing their face into her shoulder and lazily stumbling through some half-resemblance of the steps. “He’s a meanie.”
“Um.”
Anne tenses, taking a few steps back - if they were to ask, she’d simply forgotten the steps for their dance. Because telling them, ‘ Oh, yeah, just didn’t want you to hear how fast my heart was beating ’ might defeat the purpose - just a little.
And truthfully, she is just a little scared of that possibility when they once again press up against her chest, but she’s more confused than anything else.
“Shouldn’t you, uh- shouldn’t you and Sash be dancing? It is your wedding.”
She’s given a slight moment of peace as Marcy leans back to finally clear some of the static from her mind.
Of course, she doesn’t actually take it. Why would she, when she could instead watch the way they draw their face into an exaggerated expression and look decidedly between her and Sasha, as if this is somehow an actual choice they have to make - that they haven’t made already?
So she’s no better off when Marcy wraps around her again, drawing in more confidently.
“Nope,” they grin, only releasing her for a moment to bop her nose. “Actually, he’s kind of short. Shorter than me now. Can I marry you? I don’t wanna just have a short husband.”
Anne lets out a strained, unintentional little laugh.
Frog , they need to get better at changing their tone when they tell jokes - and she knows it is one, but apparently her heart hasn’t quite got the memo.
Marcy doesn’t laugh with her; they instead give her a small, left-leaning smile. They have a dimple there - one she’s seen Sasha kiss probably a million times over. Her breath hitches at the idea of doing the same.
“I don’t really think-” she starts, but the wrong syllables are stressed and stretched, and it doesn’t sound like her normal speaking voice at all , and they surely notice with the way they quirk their head to the side but it really doesn’t help her to calm down any. She shakes her head, hoping it’s excused with the context, and takes a deep breath to clear her head. “I don’t think Sasha would appreciate me stealing his wife,” she jokes back. Maybe she needs to work on fixing her tone, too, so she won’t have to feel the sting of the words all too real in the pit of her stomach.
They shrug. And then, with no warning or any time to prepare, their legs drop.
“Woah, hey, are you-”
“See, look at how strong you are, Annie,” they grin. “You could definitely take Sasha still, sword or no.”
“Marcy-”
“My lovely knight! You have to save me from a miserable life of having to bend down for kisses every single morning. Imagine how sore my neck would get!”
“Marcy, stand up,” she groans. “We’re supposed to be dancing.”
Contrary to what she believes, Marcy agrees; more than that, they perk up in a split second, already pulling her into them again.
“So you’ll dance with me?”
Before she can answer, Marcy is scooped up from the floor and out of her arms. She has no time to celebrate nor mourn the loss before shrill screams of laughter echo around the dance hall, bouncing off the walls.
Sasha’s scooped Marcy up in his arms, twirling them around - and she’d complain, but it’s the closest to dancing they’ve been in the last hour, so whatever.
Besides, she’s not sure she could draw her eyes away for long enough: the lights bouncing off Marcy’s messily pulled-up hair, Sasha’s arms flexed around their torso to hold them up, Marcy’s head thrown back in laughter, repeating Sasha’s name like their favorite melody - because of course he is.
They’re stunning , she thinks, the two of them; she can’t help the coils of guilt from growing in her stomach.
Regardless of how much the two of them beg, she stays away from the dance floor the rest of the evening.
---
“What about this one?” she asks.
It’s a pretty dress, shorter than most of the others that they’ve looked at because Marcy had only just made that specification. It’s ruffly, though the fabric doesn’t seem too irritating or itchy from what the picture displays; even if it did, they’re only trying to get an idea so they know where to look. She’s sure they could find at least a hundred variations.
Earlier, any suggestions had been excited chirps, bubbling over with the thrill of browsing through frill after sequin after fabric.
But now, her voice is… not dull, no, because that would mean she’s not enjoying herself.
And surely she is, because she’s wanted this day since before she even knew exactly what it would mean. It’s not like the changed context , for lack of a better term, has entirely spoiled the experience she’d spent all of highschool dreaming up, and it’s not like she hadn’t realized just how long dress shopping would actually take.
She just thought that she’d at least get to try some of them on.
Still, she’s not bored . Not when Marcy gets a giddy grin on their face and leans their chin on her shoulder to get a better look at the old magazine, arms wrapped around her waist from their spot on the bench.
“Nice find, Annie,” they grin. She tries not to notice how it ghosts over her skin.
But of course - because at this point, it’s almost laughable how much they both seem determined to make her suffer in the time leading up to the wedding - Marcy isn’t done.
The tattered pages are torn from her flimsy grip in less than a second, and it’s equal parts relief and disappointment when Marcy’s arm moves from her waist.
They stand up, tilting it this way and that, searching for the perfect angle.
When they’ve got it, they bring the magazine down once again, before flashing her another grin and sitting down once again. In her lap.
“This dress would look great on you,” they say. There’s far too much sincerity in the words, mumbled tiredly as they lean their head back against her shoulder. “We should be done now. This is taking too long.”
It takes far too much self control not to shove them off her lap and onto the tiled floors.
“Marcy,” she grumbles, shifting uncomfortably. “We’re looking for a dress for you . Y’know, it’s kinda your wedding.”
Not mine , she thinks - has been thinking, for the last however long they’ve been doing this.
Marcy starts to say something that she’s not fully paying attention to; she wraps her arms around them, grabbing at the magazine still in their hands. The world seems against her, though, because all they do is squeal and wriggle away, sending dozens of cut-out dress and ring designs fluttering across the floor of the shop.
A sheepish grin in their eyes as they meet hers.
“Sorry.”
She glares at them; still, it’s not a second later that she’s on the floor with them, picking up the pieces of the magazine.
It doesn’t take long to gather most of the little cut-outs into a pile - maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, she thinks, because maybe Marcy will actually take this opportunity to find a dress they like, and maybe then they can get out of here and Anne won’t have to feel like she’s suffocating in all the different kinds of fabric, and-
Her hand stalls for a second too long.
“Woah, what’s this guy doing in there?”
“Uh-” Anne stutters. She flinches as Marcy picks up the little pictured ring, an intricate and dazzling design, “It’s- it’s nothing. Just Sasha being… Ugh, he just- He found it while we were picking out a ring for you. Said it’d be good for me, but- I mean, not like- just, y’know.” She shrugs. “Theoretically. But I’m not the one getting married, so.”
“Yeah,” they mumble, but it’s distant in a way.
She tilts her head, but this time, they cut her off.
“Sashy’s right. It’d look good on you.” And they smile again, filing that stupid picture of a ring inbetween the pages of the magazine. “Matches that dress, too.”
It’s hard to ignore the way her heart speeds up at that, similar to when Sasha had first told her about it. Because why would they care about stupid things like what wedding dress and band she should wear, if she ever wore one? What would that ever matter to them, the way these things matter to her?
“Whatever, Marbles.” She stands up, brushing her hands against the sides of her torso: brushing off the dust of the floor, and any stupid insinuations her mind might want to make. “I appreciate it, but we’ve been here for three hours and you’ve said that about at least twenty dresses now, I’m starting to think I need to just head out and leave you to it-”
“NO!”
The sound of ruffling fabric, a few glares in their direction. Marcy at least has enough sense to look away sheepishly; though if any of the people actually hold their gaze, Anne knows she won’t hesitate to glare back.
“Sorry,” they mumble. “Sorry, I’ve just- I’ve thought about this a lot, y’know.”
And between hesitant words and anxious breaths - surely because of the attention they’ve just drawn, and nothing else - they have the audacity to grab her hands. To trace little patterns into the sides of her palms with soft thumbs, and to look into her eyes. “It just wouldn’t be the same without you here.”
She knows it doesn’t mean as much as she wants it to. That it won’t ever.
Still, Anne takes her place back on the bench surrounded by magazines, both those brought from home - Sasha and Marcy’s apartment , she corrects - and those owned by the store.
“Okay,” she grins. “Of course I won’t actually leave.”
And that, if nothing else, is as true as it can be. She’ll never leave, not for anything: not sword fights or alternate worlds or commanding wars against themselves and each other.
Hell, even through death they’d never really lose her.
So take that, marriage .
And perhaps it’s a bitter thought; far too cruel for the happy couples wandering about the little shop, preparing for the happiest day of their lives. But Marcy leans into her shoulder, rambling happily about dress length and shape and everything else that most definitely should’ve been covered hours ago , and she can’t really care.
Even if she has to go through hell and back for them again, she’ll do it without so much as a question.