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Dainsleif wakes slowly.
The first thing he registers, as he slips in and out of a fog of half-consciousness, is the sound of running water.
It takes him a minute to place the sound as someone in the shower. He slides his hand over to Lumine’s side of the bed and finds it warm but swiftly cooling. He frowns, feeling robbed of a good thing, and thinks hard about getting out of bed and joining her in the shower—but the lure of sleep is too strong and he slips back under.
The next time he awakes, it’s to the sound of the bathroom door opening. He cracks open one eye, squinting against the pale morning light that trickles in through the blackout curtains. Lumine steps through the doorframe, wrapped in a towel and wreathed in steam from the shower, and pads lightly towards her vanity mirror.
“Come back to bed,” he tries, voice sticky and shot through with sleep.
She turns and fixes him with an amused look. “Good morning to you too.”
He pats her side of the bed in invitation and she shakes her head at him fondly. Her damp hair swings with the motion. “I have to start getting ready,” she says. “You should too. We leave in an hour.”
He makes an incoherent noise of protest and draws the covers back up. “Don’t wanna,” he grumbles.
“You’re such a goof,” she says, but the quirk of her lips belies her exasperated tone.
She unwraps the towel and hangs it over the back of her chair, then shimmies into her underwear and bra. He allows himself to appreciate the view.
Then she settles herself in her chair, swings the towel over her head, and sets about drying her hair with an almost violent enthusiasm.
Dainsleif sighs and eases himself out of bed, rolling his shoulder in an attempt to mitigate the ache in his right arm. Lumine’s movements slow as he comes to stand behind her and plucks the towel from her hands. “So impatient,” he chides.
She meets his eyes in the mirror and grins unremorsefully. Her hair settles like a puffy gold cloud about her face. “Places to go, people to see. You know how it is.”
He clicks his tongue and sets the towel on her head again. His movements are slower than hers, more deliberate—partially because the burns that stretch over the right side of his body impede his motion, especially in the morning, but partially because he’s in no hurry to get this over and done with. He towels her hair dry gently, taking his time with each section. Lumine watches him in the mirror with surprising patience.
Once her hair is as dry as he can get it, he holds his hand out to her and she retrieves her hairbrush from her vanity drawer. Her fingers brush against the calluses on his palm as she hands it to him.
He sweeps her hair towards him and cards his fingers through it, working through the worst of the tangles before he sets to brushing it. The rhythmic motion of the brush is soothing; he sees Lumine’s eyes flutter shut before she wrenches them open again.
“Excited for today?” she asks, in a clear effort to keep herself awake.
He hums noncommittally. “Gods, I don’t know. It’s been forever since I’ve been to a wedding—I’m not even sure what to expect.”
“You can expect me to cry a lot,” she says. “I don’t even think I’ll be able to walk Aether down the aisle without bursting into tears.”
“You don’t cry that easily,” he says. “You didn’t even cry when we watched The Iron Giant.”
She laughs. “That’s a little different from watching my brother get married.”
“Fair,” he concedes. “Maybe forgo the mascara, then.”
The brush catches in a knot in her bangs. He draws his fingers lightly down her temple as he untangles the knot, and she leans into his touch.
“Have you decided what tie I’m wearing?” he asks, finishing the last brushstrokes.
She frowns. “I like the gold—but I know you’re not part of the wedding party, so maybe it’s weird for you to wear gold?”
“I don’t put much stock in wedding etiquette,” he says. He reaches over her shoulder to set the brush on the vanity, and she takes the opportunity to press a kiss to the crook of his elbow. “I don’t think Aether does either.”
“I know, but the blue brings out your eyes.” She tips her head back to look at him upside down, squinting contemplatively. “But if you wore the gold, we’d be matching.”
“I like the gold,” he decides.
She stands and makes for the closet where their outfits for the day are hanging, but he slots a hand into the dip at her waist, his palm meeting warm bare skin, and hauls her back. She squeaks and stumbles into his arms, crashing into him face-first and filling the air around him with the sweet smell of lilies.
“Come back to bed,” he wheedles again, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and burying his face in her hair.
She swats at his butt. “You’re terrible.”
He hums, not denying it.
“We don’t have time for this,” she reminds him. But she leans into him anyway, the little hypocrite, and runs her hands up his sides.
He stiffens as her fingers meet the scarring along his ribcage. It’s just– she’s the only person he’s let touch him like this since the fire—and it doesn’t matter how long they’ve been together, sometimes it still feels weird to let someone this close again.
But she flattens her palm against his side where smooth skin meets scarring, and doesn’t move or flinch or comment on it, and he takes a deep breath and manages to relax into the warmth of her presence.
She indulges him for a few precious moments before disentangling herself reluctantly from his arms. She retrieves his suit and the gold tie and holds them up in front of him to see the effect, tilting her head before nodding decisively. “It’ll do,” she says.
Then she hangs them back up and shoos him towards the bathroom. “Go brush your teeth and get ready!”
He grumbles but complies. By the time he’s finished his morning rituals and re-emerged from the bathroom, she’s already putting the finishing touches on her makeup.
He pauses by the bathroom door to watch as she rests her pinkie on her cheekbone and flicks her eyeliner over and out. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and stares into the mirror, repeating the action on the other eyelid.
He strides forward when she reaches for her lipstick. “Wait,” he says, catching her wrist.
She looks up at him and blinks—and he swoops down to drop a kiss on her mouth. She laughs into his mouth, snaking a hand around to the nape of his neck. “Insufferable,” she murmurs, and pulls him closer.
He releases her only when his breath runs short and her cheeks are flushed a deep pink. She swipes her tongue over kiss-bruised lips and he contemplates kissing her again.
As if intuiting his next move, she uncaps her lipstick and brandishes it at him like a sword. “No more!”
He pouts and curls over her from the back, caging her in and wrapping his arms around her ribcage. “I can’t be late for my brother’s wedding,” she chides, as he buries his face in the crook of her neck.
“You were late for your own wedding,” he reminds her, his words half muffled, and she laughs and swats at him.
“Was not,” she protests. She frees one of her arms, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as she parts her lips and draws the lipstick carefully across the bow.
“There I was,” he says, in the tone of one about to orate a tall tale by a campfire, “all dressed up in the world’s most uncomfortable tuxedo–”
Lumine pulls the lipstick away from her mouth. “It was not that uncomfortable. We had it tailored!”
He props his chin on her shoulder and barrels on: “–waiting in the wings of the church, palms all sweaty, nervous beyond measure for the most important day of my life. And then I get a text from my beautiful bride, and it says–” here he draws out the next words for dramatic effect “‘–running late.’”
“But I wasn’t actually late!” she protests, the corner of her mouth twitching up.
“So there I am, rings in my pocket, half out of my mind with worry–”
“Okay, for the record,” she interjects, “I had a good reason.”
“–because I didn’t get any explanation, only ‘running late–’”
“It wasn’t like I could just leave that kid to drown!”
“–wondering how I’m going to explain this to the guests–”
“And I even took my dress off before jumping in so it wouldn’t get ruined.”
“–and when my bride finally shows up–”
“Right on schedule, might I add.”
“–she is sopping wet–”
“At least my dress was dry.”
“–with algae in her hair–”
“Lies and slander!”
“–and I can’t help but think,” he finishes, catching her eye in the mirror, “that this must be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life.”
The lines of mirth etched on her face give way to something softer as she registers his words, and she turns her head to brush a kiss to his temple. “Ditto, you big softie,” she says. “Now hold still—I got lipstick on your face.”
He disentangles himself from her once she’s wiped it off, standing and stretching and feeling his joints creak. He retrieves their outfits from the closet and gets dressed—with a short interlude during which he catches Lumine watching appreciatively as he fastens his suspenders, raises an eyebrow at her, and receives a mock-exasperated “Can’t a girl ogle her husband anymore?” for his pains.
He’s already finished doing up his shoelaces by the time Lumine manages to tear her eyes off him and wriggle into her dress. It’s gold, like her eyes and her hair, and if it had been up to him he would have chosen a blue or something—because in the gold she is almost too radiant to look at.
“Help me zip up?” she asks, spinning so her back is turned to him. He sets a hand at the small of her back to anchor the dress in place, thumb grazing her vertebrae through the fabric and fingertips almost brushing her hipbone. He grasps the zipper with his other hand and draws it up slowly—careful not to catch the fabric or her skin in the zipper’s teeth—and dips to press a kiss to the nape of her neck when he’s done.
She ties his tie in an attempt to be helpful. Then he reties his tie, because she’s never quite gotten the hang of tying it the right length for someone taller than herself.
Finally she helps him into his jacket, lifting it so he can slip his arms into the sleeves without straining his bad shoulder. He turns to face her, and she smooths her fingers down his lapels and tugs at them until they sit properly on his chest.
She leans back to take him in and smiles crookedly. “I married the world’s handsomest man. I can’t believe you’re mine.”
“Always and forever,” he vows. “Now, we should get going. We don’t want to be late—again.”
“I wasn’t even late the first time,” she grumbles, snagging her purse from the vanity counter.
“If we run into any drowning children, at least let me do the saving,” he says, heading for the bedroom door. “One of us can afford to show up to this wedding sopping wet, and it’s not you.”
“I make no promises,” she says primly. She follows him out, and lets the door close softly behind them.