Chapter Text
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Rhys blinked. He wasn’t really sure he was breathing right now.
His whole being—his entire attention and body and soul—was only focused on the person standing right in front of him.
She was wearing a dress he could have sworn had been carved around her, if the way it was hugging her every curve was any indication. She was smiling, a wide and delicate and delicious smile made even more perfect by the light lipstick he could see on her lips. And she seemed… content. Relaxed.
She seemed absolutely happy.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Distantly, he knew there were cheering and claps and whistles. He knew there was noise and movement.
He knew, but he didn’t notice.
And perhaps this meant he was the worst—the worst possible person, the worst possible brother, the worst possible best man.
But he couldn’t care about that right now. Couldn’t care about the kiss Cassian and Nesta were sharing and couldn’t care about the claps he should have been the loudest to give.
He simply… couldn’t.
Not when he was seeing Feyre for the first time in years.
Not when she was only a few steps away from him, perfectly happy, and he was…
What was he?
Miserable?
Lost?
Empty?
Certainly not happy.
Certainly not without her.
He finally managed to tear his gaze away from her when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t have to check to know it would be Azriel.
He didn’t have to look to know the expression he’d find on his brother’s face, either.
Rhys swallowed, and managed to clap for the remainder of the ceremony. For the few minutes they remained on the dais. For the few moments he was left standing right in front of her—and yet not able to touch her, smell her, kiss her.
It was probably a new kind of torture.
Only, he realized later that night, torture was coming at him in all shapes and forms.
Torture was testing his limits and his patience.
Torture was driving him purely insane.
Tall, broad arms, hair of golden blonde and eyes of emerald green.
Hugging, smiling, holding. Whispering, murmuring, kissing.
Rhys wasn’t sure he had ever hated anyone on sight before. Yet, he wasn’t sure there was anything about that man he could not hate.
“You’re brooding.”
“Am not.”
“You are,” he couldn’t see her from the spot she had taken next to him leaning on the wall, but Rhys knew his cousin was rolling her eyes. “What did you expect?”
He didn’t dignify her scolding tone with a response.
Mor sighed—a deep and long sigh.
The dance floor was buzzing and the guests were having the time of their lives, apparently.
Rhys was anything but.
“His name’s Tamlin,” Mor murmured eventually. “He’s a Real Estate Investor.” The snort that escaped Rhys was purely uncontrolled. “They’ve been together for a little over a year.”
Rhys’s tone was flat. Absolutely emotionless—so at odds with how he felt on the inside—when he said, “You knew about him.”
And it wasn’t a question, either. Yet, Mor said,
“Of course I knew about him.”
He didn’t know why it brought him such a feeling right in the middle of his chest. Why it left such a deep hole down in the pit of his stomach.
“Rhys,” Mor breathed, her voice soft. “You always—“
“I know.”
She paused, and he only then realized his cousin was looking at him. He, on the other hand, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the dance floor. From the midnight blue dress she was wearing—almost violet if he dared say.
From the tattoo around her wrist—the one he had known by heart, and had kissed every single inch of.
From the smile on her lips he had fallen in love with—even before he had fallen in love with every other single part of her.
And from her eyes—the pool of her irises.
Blue-grey and perfect. Deep and perfect. Beautiful and perfect.
But mainly—perfect.
He missed those blue-grey. Like he missed every single part of her.
Like he had missed every single part of her, for the last five years.
“You never want to talk about her,” Mor continued, her voice even quieter now. Softer, too. “You say you don’t want to—“
“I know.”
She fell silent beside him, and all Rhys could feel this time, was gratitude.
But it was still Mor, and so of course, she didn’t stay silent for long. She asked,
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“I could tell you about…”
“No, Mor,” Rhys repeated. “I really don’t.”
“But you—”
Rhys cut her off with a deep sigh, this time. Mor cleared her throat.
“You should at least talk to her.”
But there wasn’t really anything for him to tell her. Not anything that he could think of.
Or, rather… Not anything he thought she might want to hear from him.
He closed his eyes for a second, two. Just long enough for his heart to calm down, just the tiniest bit. Just enough for his thoughts to calm down, too.
It was useless, though. For when he opened them again, and when they went back to the dance floor, as if on instinct, they landed on her.
They landed on hers, and his heart was skyrocketing again.
“I might a—” he cleared his throat, straightening. “I think I might need some fresh air.”
“Rhy—”
He didn’t wait for Mor to finish calling his name before he was moving. Taking careful steps as he buried his hands deep inside his pockets.
He spent the rest of the evening in the backyard. Cassian and Nesta’s ceremony had been beautiful—just like the house they were in right now. Rhys had no idea where they were, exactly, and he didn’t care.
All that mattered, at the moment, was the swing he had found, and the bottle of champagne he had snatched away on his way here.
All that mattered, was that the sky was clear, that night, and it meant that he could keep his head upwards, and his eyes trained on the stars shining bright.
So he stayed there, and he knew—he didn’t even have to wonder—that his family wouldn’t blame him for it. He knew they’d all understand.
He wasn’t sure why he stayed there, instead of going back home. It’s not like he was enjoying his evening. It’s not, either, like he was spending it in the crowd of people, and celebrating his brother’s wedding like he should be.
But he thought staying close by meant he could at least pretend.
Pretend to be there, pretend to be happy, pretend he was okay.
“Finally!” Rhys froze. He was still on the swing, facing away from the house which meant he didn’t see who was approaching. But of course this one word was enough. “I’ve been looking for you all—” The footsteps stopped exactly when the voice did. “Oh.”
When he turned to glance over his shoulder, Rhys wasn’t sure he was prepared to see the expression on Feyre’s face. Her pretty, beautiful, gorgeous face. His eyes flickered down without even meaning to.
“You smoke?”
“I—” she frowned. “What?”
He nodded to the cigarette that she was holding in her hands, and she only then seemed to remember that she was, indeed, holding one. A lit one.
She cleared her throat, and when she shot him a smile, Rhys wasn’t sure it was supposed to make his heart stutter so violently in his chest. “Yeah,” she let out a small sound, almost a chuckle. “Most French people do. A bad habit I took while I was...” she shrugged, without finishing her sentence.
She brought the cigarettes to her lips after her last words, as if she didn’t mean them. She closed her eyes as she inhaled—seeming perfectly peaceful, just like that.
And it was funny, Rhys thought. For he felt like he was finally peaceful, too. All the tangling thoughts and buzzing mind and burning feelings inside of him seemed to settle down—his own kind of nicotine even when he wasn’t even bringing her to his lips.
He turned his head forward the minute the thought crossed his mind because he wasn’t sure he was allowed to feel like that. Wasn’t sure he was allowed to care for her like that, and let his heart beat for her like that.
When he heard her footsteps again—the soft sound of her shoes against the grass instead of the clicking of her heels he had heard earlier—he was surprised to see her taking a seat on the empty swing beside him.
“I was looking for Cassian,” she offered after a few moments of silence—breaking the emptiness of the night. “I didn’t even get to congratulate him, I—“ She huffed. “I thought you were him.”
Rhys fought a grimace.
He didn’t think she had meant her words to sting that much. He didn’t think he could help the feeling in his chest, either, upon hearing them.
Still, he turned his head toward her.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Slowly, Feyre turned her head to him, too. For a minute, she seemed alarmed, eyes a little worried, but then her lips twitched, and exactly like Rhys—she broke into laughter.
It wasn’t a heartfelt laugh. It wasn’t even an amused laugh—for nothing about this was exactly funny. And yet, it was true.
It was real.
When they both sobered up, they were enveloped by silence again, and somehow, it felt even worse, now. Now that he’d heard her laugh again—it was even worse to not hear it.
Beside him, Feyre brought the cigarette to her lips again, and inhaled. The smell should have bothered him. It would have bothered him, probably, if it was anybody else.
Strangely enough, he found himself enthralled by it. Captivated by it.
He couldn’t explain it.
“So,” Feyre said after a long time of sitting in silence. “What are you doing here alone?”
Rhys debated on what to answer.
He could tell her he had been here for merely a few minutes.
He could tell her he was waiting for someone.
He could tell her he was a little too drunk, and had thought the calm and quiet would do him good.
He knew she wouldn’t believe him.
So instead of all the lies he could come up with, and instead of the truth he didn’t want to share—I can’t stand the sight of you in his arms, wasn’t really appropriate, was it?—he said,
“The stars are beautiful, tonight.”
That, at least, was true.
Feyre hummed a response, her head trained upwards to, indeed, gaze at the stars.
An perhaps he shouldn’t. Perhaps he had no right to, and he was pushing his luck. He asked anyway,
“What are you?” He paused, only long enough for her to take another inhale of her cigarette. “Doing here?”
Feyre’s beautiful face contorted in a frown.
“I told you,” she answered, voice so soft it sent goosebumps to his skin. “I was looking for Ca—“
“No,” Rhys chuckle was very small, very subtle. “I meant, what are you doing here? I didn’t expect you to… come here at all. To the wedding.”
For a second, Feyre kept her eyes trained upwards. She kept looking at the stars, apparently absolutely captivated by every single one of them. And then, very slowly, she turned her head toward him until their eyes locked. Her blue-greys were as gorgeous as Rhys remembered—and maybe more. They were deep, grand, immersive. Feeding his soul like nothing else could.
“Cassian is my best friend,” she answered softly—like someone would offer an apology for something they’d done wrong. “And I wouldn’t miss my sister’s wedding for the world.”
Slowly, Rhys nodded.
It was weird. This… quietness, between them. This tension, that wasn’t exactly tense, but foreign all the same.
They’d never been shy around each other. Had never been distant. Had never been tip-toeing around anything.
So why did it start now?
“Do you mind?”
Her voice came in nothing more than a whisper—and when her breath reached him, it was in a mixture of cigarette and champagne and her that was almost too much for Rhys to bear.
He was shaking his head even before he answered,
“Of course I don’t.”
And it was the truth, too.
He didn’t mind.
He could never mind seeing her.
Seeing her with another man… that, he could admit was bothering him.
That, he could admit was worse than anything he had ever felt.
He blinked once, twice, in an attempt to clear his mind and offered her a smile—a small but genuine one.
She humored him—her lips excruciatingly slowly tugging up at the corners until they shot him the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. The most perfect smile he could ever find.
His own turned wider.
Just two idiots smiling back at each other—not needing words when they managed to express everything else.
I hope you’re doing okay.
I think I am.
It’s good to see you again.
I’ve missed you.
Rhys understood everything she wanted to say. And he guessed she did, too.
After a few minutes of nothing (no words and no noise and no movements) but of everything, too (understanding and warmth and sharing), Feyre’s cheeks seemed to slowly, slightly turn a little red. She cleared her throat, and turned her head forward, once more.
“So,” she said—breathed, really. “How have you been, Rhys?”
He didn’t know why, exactly, the inside of his chest seemed to burst so much at the sound of his name on her lips. He didn’t now how, either, he was supposed to keep his calm. To rein in his emotions when all he wanted was to—
To what exactly?
Touch her. Feel her. Smell her. Reach for her, pull her close, kiss her, devou—
“Mh?” She continued in a soft hum. “What happened to the famous Rhysand Knight in the last four—“
“Five,” he corrected quietly.
Feyre side-eyed him for a second, before she amended, “Five years.”
He cleared his throat, too, not exactly willing to admit he still remembered the exact month, the exact day they had said goodbye.
“I uh,” he cleared his throat again. “I’ve been good.”
Was it a lie?
Even he couldn’t really tell.
“I’ve been busy.”
Slowly, Feyre nodded.
“Good,” she murmured. “Busy is good.”
Rhys wanted to disagree.
He wanted to tell her busy meant he’d drown himself in work. He wanted to tell her busy meant he’d stopped going out, because every single place in this town reminded him of her. He wanted to tell her busy had been the only thing keeping him together, when her absence—and the emptiness in his heart he had felt ever since she’d left—had been so excruciatingly painful.
He wanted to tell her.
He didn’t.
“What about you?” He asked quietly. “How’s Paris?”
Again, she was looking at him with a side glance. And again, her smile seemed a little different. A little… sad?
“Paris is…” she huffed. She had gotten rid of her cigarette, by now, and was playing with a small box in her hands—a pack of cigarettes, he knew.
The sight was weird. It was her, but also… not.
It was familiar but also foreign.
It was as heartwarming (to see her, to talk to her, to be with her) as it was painful (to be so far away, to not be able to touch her, to feel like he didn’t even know her).
“Paris was something,” she said eventually. “You don’t want me to—“
“I do,” he countered before she could even finish. “I really do.” He paused, but only because he couldn‘t keep his thoughts straight when she turned her head to him again—eyes locking onto his again. “Do you think—“ when Rhys managed a half-smile, he could tell with certainty it was genuine. No matter how painful, no matter how disturbing—she was here, and he could only smile, looking at her. “Do you think you can tell me everything?”
He almost wanted to add, darling.
He almost wanted to add, please leave out the parts about him.
But perhaps Feyre knew him better than he cared to acknowledge. Maybe she knew him better than he wanted to admit.
Maybe she knew him better than anyone, still.
For she did.
She told him everything.
She told him about the city and she told him about her art school. She told him about the dreamy first weeks and she told him about the struggles that came after. She told him about her life in a tiny and crooked apartment and she told him about her shitty teachers.
She told him about the one friend she had made there (Alice, she told him, is the worst. She‘s so French you’d make fun of her.), and she told him about her daily calls with Cassian, or Mor, or both.
She told him about so many parcels of her life he would have loved to share with her.
But she didn’t tell him about him. She didn’t tell him about the man who had spent one year of his life (but one year too long) with her. She didn’t tell him about the man who had placed his hand a little too low, or placed his mouth a little too close. She didn’t tell him about him and Rhys could only be grateful.
He didn’t want to know.
He wasn’t sure he would have been able to take it.
Halfway through her retelling, Rhys had handed her the champagne, and she’d taken it without a word. She’d drank right out of the bottle, and had giggled in it—making her laugh echo all around them in a melody prettier than any kind of music he had ever heard.
At her fourth cigarette—not that he was exactly counting, but he was very much aware of every single one of her movements—she offered it to him, half-smoked. Rhys had only ever smoked once in his entire life. He had hated it so much, at the time, that he’d swore he would never do it again.
And yet, he didn’t refuse her. He took the cigarette from her hands, very aware that the feeling of their hands brushing each other had sent goosebumps and shivers all throughout his body, and brought it to his lips. He was aware, too—very aware—that her lips had been around the cigarette, just a few seconds ago. He couldn’t keep the thought away from his mind as he inhaled—kissed?—the cigarette as well.
His heart was beating a little too erratically, perhaps.
“No,” Feyre giggled, a few cigarettes and many smiles later, “I cannot—” she trailed off, giggling even more now, “—believe that you—”
Rhys joined her in laughter when she didn’t finish her sentence.
Their subjects had shifted, in the long moments they had spent together. Rhys couldn’t say exactly how long they’d been sitting here.
He didn’t care.
All he cared about was for this to last forever.
“Show me,” Feyre ordered, voice a little wobbly with the champagne.
“No,” Rhys snorted. “I’m not…”
He trailed off when she stood, coming to stand just before him and putting both her hands on her hips. Her face was beautiful, and her dress was beautiful, and her body was—
Rhys shut his eyes tight to keep his thoughts (his heart, too?) in check.
He was getting a little carried away with the sight of her, and he couldn’t exactly have that.
But even shutting his eyes tight did nothing to erase the image of her.
She was inside of him—in his every thought and his every breath and neatly tucked and locked into his heart. But she was also just here. She was here, at arm’s reach, and he was scared of the things he might do with the mixture of vices he had indulged in for a few hours—nicotine, alcohol… her.
Even with his eyes closed, Rhys could still see her pretty face, covered in light make up. He could still see her freckles, small and perfectly shaped. He could still see her dress and its pretty color, and its even prettier cleavage.
He was almost glad her voice cut through his thoughts before he let them wander a little too far.
“Show me,” she repeated. “Rhys, show me.”
He opened his eyes then, finding hers. She had sobered up slightly, but her face was still as gorgeous as ever. Her smile was a little softer, and her eyes dancing with amusement, and… happiness?
Rhys wasn’t sure he had any strength in himself to speak, anymore. She was dragging all the air away from him—stealing his every single word.
“You’re telling me,” she continued, taking a step toward him. “That you’ve taken dance lessons with Mor,” she asked. Rhys could only nod, somehow. “You,” she lifted an eyebrow. “Have taken dance lessons?”
This time, Rhys swallowed and made a pointed effort to answer, “I did. Mor made me.”
“Then show me,” Feyre asked, her voice a little softer now. She outstretched a hand his way, and for a minute, Rhys wondered if she knew exactly what she was doing.
If she knew he could do nothing, except take her hand—hold it in his, and accept whatever the hell she was offering.
She could ask him to run away and take her anywhere. She could ask him to quit his job and sleep on the street. Hell, she could ask him to fly, and he’d probably find a way to grow wings.
So he took her hand, slowly.
Slowly, because the touch was burning him. Slowly, because he wanted to make sure this was okay—she was in a relationship after all, and he was only just holding her hand, really, but it felt a little more intimate than that, too.
He got up, towering over her in only a few seconds, and when Feyre glanced up toward him—her blue-grey eyes boring into his and almost shining under the stars—he wondered, too, if she realized how much this had just become… not casual. Not casual at all.
At least to him.
To him, it was a throwback. A tangle of memories. A jump in the past. It was every single time he had held her and every single kiss he had shared with her. It was every single confession they’d shared and every single admission they hadn’t even had to voice.
It was every single ones of her I love you and every single ones of his I’ll always love you.
He cleared his throat, and was about to tell her—to ask her, really, if his touch was okay—but she smiled wider and beat him to it,
“I can’t believe Mor managed to drag you to a dance class.”
Her words should have been teasing, amused. Her tone, instead, had come out in a breath. Almost a secret she had not even dared to share.
Rhys dragged her their joined hands upwards, and slid his other hand to her waist. He brought her a little closer, hoping, with all that he had, that she wouldn’t hear his heart thundering in his chest when it was all he could hear—all he could feel.
“She insisted,” he murmured, starting to swing her slowly—probably slower than he should have.
Feyre’s eyes were still trained on him—still inspecting his very soul—and he realized it took her a little too long to answer, too.
“Why?” She asked eventually, “Why did she want you to learn how to dance?”
For a moment, Rhys debated saying the truth. He debated admitting exactly what Mor had told him, that day she had insisted to take him to a dance class.
He debated it, and eventually, thought better of it.
Instead, he offered,
“She wanted me to be able to give her her first dance when she finally asks Emerie to marry her.”
He wondered if Feyre knew how much of a liar he was. If she knew he was remodeling the truth to avoid giving her a real answer—to avoid admitting something he wouldn’t have been able to say in front of her.
If she did, she didn’t let on.
“That’s nice,” Feyre murmured eventually. “It’s nice that she’d want you to be her first dance.”
Rhys nodded, slowly. And again, he was left wondering.
Wondering if she was thinking about her first dance.
Wondering if she knew he’d want her to be his. His first, and his last, and his every in-between, too.
When he didn’t answer, she gently leaned in, until her head rested on his shoulder. Rhys didn’t dare to breathe. He didn’t dare to move too much, for he didn’t want to scare her. He didn’t want her to move—ever.
And perhaps if he closed his eyes, he could make this moment last forever. He could keep her right there—in his arms and nestled against his chest.
He could drown in her scent and he could bathe in her warmth and he could live in her body, for all he cared.
For a long time, they were silent. And they were half-dancing, too, because neither of them cared about dancing anymore, yet neither of them was ready to let go.
At least, that’s what Rhys told himself. He knew that’s what he was feeling. He only guessed—hoped—she was feeling the exact same thing.
Eventually though, she broke the silence. Her voice was soft, and sending waves of warm air on the skin of his neck, and Rhys wasn’t sure he was supposed to feel so much at the sensation. He wasn’t sure he was supposed to close his eyes in an attempt to calm his heart. He wasn’t sure, either, that he was supposed to tighten his hold around her; just because he wasn’t sure he could survive if she were to pull away.
She said,
“I’ve missed you, Rhys.”
And again, he wasn’t sure if his heart was supposed to catch in his chest.
If it was supposed to burst so much it physically hurt.
Both in pain and in bliss, too.
His first—instinctive—response was to hold her a little tighter yet. And he didn’t even hesitate—didn’t even wonder if it would be okay, or weird, or out of place—he bend down and buried his head in the crook of her neck, too.
He had smelled her perfume earlier.
Now, it was just ten times stronger. Ten times more intoxicating.
Ten times worse than the champagne and the cigarettes and any other substance he would ever find on this planet, he was sure.
He murmured, “Me too.”
They had stopped dancing, by now—were only just holding each other close, her head resting on his shoulder and his deep inside her neck.
And Rhys thought, if he had to die, this was probably the perfect way to go. No other place could ever feel better.
He didn’t know how long they stayed like that.
But he knew that when Feyre pulled away—slowly, as if she was trying to convince herself to do it, even when her body refused—her eyes were a little wet with emotion.
She offered him a half-smile, that Rhys couldn’t even manage to reciprocate.
She said,
“Do you think I’ll see you around?”
Rhys’s hand were still hovering over her hips as he countered,
“When do you go back to Paris?”
Slowly, he watched as her brows knitted together. She searched his eyes for a minute, and answered,
“I’m not going back,” she paused, and when Rhys didn’t respond, she said, “I moved back here, Rhys. I live here.”
Oh.
Oh.
Rhys couldn’t tell why it was making the feeling in his chest so, so fucking much more painful.
Without even meaning to, he dropped his hands, and said, out loud this time,
“Oh.“
“I came back in Prythian a little less than a year ago.”
Why did his heart only hammered more violently in his chest?
“Oh.”
“I’m living…” she nodded toward the house behind them, “here. This is my house.”
Oh.
Oh fucking oh.
Rhys thought he might be sick.
He swallowed, but it only deepened the feeling and the hammering and the uneasiness inside of him.
And it was ridiculous, too.
It was fucking ridiculous.
But somehow, thinking of her living on the other side of the planet… it was a little comforting.
It was a little soothing, for his heart.
It was calming his mind.
For there was a reason they had broken up, all those days and nights ago.
There was a reason, and if she was back in here, back living in Prythian, then it could only mean one thing.
The reason had changed.
They were no longer broken up because of her moving away to chase after her dream, or because of the unbearable distance between them, or because of… well, life.
They were broken up because she didn’t want him anymore.
Because she didn’t love him anymore.
Because, even after coming here again—and after her promise, five years ago—she hadn’t come find him when she returned.
Rhys blinked.
“Right.”
Feyre tried to smile, but her brows were still furrowed and of course, Rhys knew it wasn’t a real smile. He knew it all too well.
“Rhys,” she breathed—her voice soft but so fucking painful.
And maybe, it was this. Maybe it was the pain Rhys could see splattered on her face—smudged between her light makeup and her gorgeous freckles—and the pain he could see in her eyes—taming the light he had always known shining bright into her orbs—that he forced a smile on his face.
As he did, he wondered if she could tell it was fake, too.
“In that case,” Rhys said with a smile. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
When he took a step away from her, Rhys dipped his head in a small nod and—left. He just left.
He didn’t even try to pretend to go back inside, didn’t even try to find his cousin or his brothers, he only walked around the house—freaking huge. Freaking gorgeous. Freaking hers.
Hers and his, he guessed.
And when he sat down behind the steering wheel of his car—and perhaps he shouldn’t be driving, in the state he was in, but he really couldn’t care about that—there was only one lingering thought on his mind.
There had been a swing, in the backyard.
A swing.
A freaking swing.
In her backyard.
He could only think of a single reason why someone would have a swing in their backyard.
Nesta and Cassian had just gotten one.
He had to take a few deep breaths before finally being able to start his car and drive away—from the ceremony, from the house. From her.