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You hate wearing dresses.
Your sister fills out her rose colored ball gown with ease, lips curved upwards in the most angelic smile as her hair falls in rich waves over her lightly tanned shoulders. Her perfectly manicured nails clink softly against her glass of champagne, and every time she shifts, the necklace about her throat catches the light and twinkles in a way that should only be possible in Disney films.
She takes after her father, and you take after your mother. Your dress is so deep pink it's almost red, with a corset-style top to create the illusion that you have more figure than just two parallel lines. Your hair is too thin to curl, too long to wrap up in a single bun, so you braided it back into pigtails like usual, only to pin them up in a pair of double loops on each side of your head. Your face feels too thin without your glasses to hide behind, and your nails are still stained faintly black about the edges from the polish you keep caked on.
You're standing awkwardly near the punch table, trying not to glower at the back of your mother's head. She knows how much you hate coming to events like this; Feferi is the one taking over the company, not you, so it shouldn't matter whether or not you show up to the annual Christmas Gala. But apparently, you have to pay your pound of flesh in the form of pinched high heels that make you even taller and more stalk-like than usual and force you to remain stationary or else risk falling into some well-to-do woman's cleavage.
You try not to slouch, which you’re accustomed to doing to hide your ridiculous height, and are so focused on the way your mother's claw-like fingers wrap around the stem of her glass that you nearly hit the roof when a hand rests on your shoulder. "Fuck, what do you want?" you hiss, heart in your throat.
The figure behind you laughs airily, and your braids would have whipped you across the face if they were down, because you turn so fast your earrings tinkle and your dress swishes most dramatically. The man is shorter than you, with a well-fitting tuxedo and hair that's been slicked back out of his face into a respectably small ponytail, sapphire blue eyes twinkling mischievously-
You're gawping in a decidedly unladylike fashion, and after several botched attempts you croak, "Aranea?"
She titters in that subdued, scholarly way that is usually accompanied by a pale hand pressed to her lips, eyes squinting in the most freakin' adorable way and what is she doing here? Your best friend's mother and little sister have practically bullied your own family out of the limelight, earning the three ladies a firm position at the top of the Peixes shit list. You don't get too much shit for hanging out with her at school, but to show up at the Company Gala is like waltzing into the lion's cage wearing Gaga's meat dress.
Not that anyone would recognize her. If you weren't so stupid in love with those eye crinkles and librarian laugh, you wouldn't have guessed it was her. Porrim must have spent hours shading her cheekbones and painting her usually full lips to a more masculine thinness. Her favorite spider earrings are nowhere to be found, and you have to stop yourself from checking to see if she's still wearing her friendship bracelet under the neatly pressed cuff of her shirt.
"I know how much you hate these things," she says, her hand falling to your elbow to steady you (because you weren't wobbly enough before she waltzed in here). "And your mother can hardly protest you being swept away by a handsome suitor, can she?"
You want to make a snarky comeback. You want to say something crass and crude to make her eyes somersault in her head while her fingertips press at her forehead, but instead you say, "Th' handsome part is certainly right."
She smiles, softer than before, and slides your hand to rest at her elbow, and easily supporting your slight weight as you make your way slowly across the seemingly endless ballroom. The orchestra is playing Carol of the Bells, and the way Aranea slips you through the crowds with ease is almost like a dance, especially given how close your bodies are pressed together at points. Your already rampant crush on your friend is starting to grow to uncontainable sizes as she nods curtly to the couples who meet her eye and smiles charmingly at the women who blush behind their napkins.
Aranea is nothing short of stunning when dressed as a woman, and although she prefers to sit back and watch when you're getting into the thick of things, you know that she's capable of being just as much a force of nature as you are, especially when she's angered. Something about the delicate pale sweep of her neck, framed by wisps of black hair and the dark fabric of her suit jacket, the strong accents to her cheekbones and eyes unhidden by her glasses, feels like a punch to the gut.
You're so nearly free that you can count the buttons on the footman's coat, when Feferi suddenly sweeps up from the side, all bouncing curls and glimmering crystals. For a horrifying instant, you think she's recognized your escort, but she just smiles, flashing a hint of the kind of good-natured malice sisters always have for each other, and points to the doorway you've hesitated under.
Mistletoe.
You're lucky you chose to forgo the flavored body glitter (why do you even have flavored body glitter, fucking Porrim) because otherwise Aranea would be covered from the way you keep ending up slouched against her. But instead of helping you regain your balance, she wraps her other arm around your waist, her fingers tracing the boning of your corset as she all but grins at your flabbergasted expression.
"Milady," she murmurs, and although she doesn't look the same, she still smells like lilacs and old books. Her lips are cold against yours (she must have arrived and honed in on you like a basset hound) and you can taste the concealer, but the moist part of her mouth and caress of her tongue is enough to effectively drive any complaints about the makeup from your mind.
Feferi is grinning, arms crossed over her ample bosom with clear glee, and fuck, she knows, but god bless her, she just turns around and goes back into the crowd. Aranea is balancing you back on your feet, but her fingers are lingering on the corset, rubbing absently at your side, sending shivers down your spine.
"That was more than a cover-up, Serket," you say, scowling with as much hatred as you can (which around her is almost none).
"I know," she replies, brushing a kiss against your bare shoulder. "Have you a coat? You'll freeze out there without one."
"Who fuckin' cares," you grin, showing all your teeth in a way that you know makes her smile back. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."
You kiss her again in the snow outside next to her Prius, even though you can't feel your fingers or toes, and neither the threat of pneumonia nor possible amputation from frostbite can clear the haze of euphoria that's settled across you like a warm blanket.
Best fuckin' Christmas ever.