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It's hard not to feel your inferiority when you're around Sylus. Not because of anything he does - he's the best partner you've ever had and you couldn't be happier to have him look at you the way he does. But because he has an image he upholds; powerful and lean and tall.
And you're not contributing to that in any way. In fact, you feel like you're detracting from it.
You feel it strongest when you're in his world. Not the half containing chases and gunfire and explosions, but the half that exists in silk and velvet and opulence. Auctions and galas and the one masquerade you still gush to him about despite it happening almost a year ago.
No matter how many tailored outfits he has custom ordered for you, you stick out like a sore thumb.
You've seen the people that exist in his world. Slim with high cheekbones and cinched waists and long legs. You can't compare; chubby with round cheeks and a muffin top and thick legs. You're short, draped in fabrics that accentuate curves. The last time you wore blue, you felt like the girl in Willy Wonka that blew up into a giant blueberry.
You can see it when they talk to Sylus, too. The way their eyes gleam with admiration and respect, as though they would kneel before him and kiss his shoes at the slightest provocation. And then their eyes slip to you... The respect fades away. The smile becomes forced, almost pitying or even confused, wondering how you got to be the one holding onto his arm.
You tried not to let it get to you. But over time, as you kept showing up, as you watched that respect shift, it grew under your skin on the foundation of your soul.
Which is why you are trying really, really hard not to cry right now.
You look up at the ceiling despite the lights burning into your retinas, head tilted back to fight off the tears you can feel coming. You are not going to break down crying in this changing room, god dammit!
Knock knock knock.
"Y/N?" Tara calls. "Do you need help putting it on? I can act surprised when you step out after!"
You take a breath. Two. Swallow around the lump in your throat. "I've got it," you call back, forcing your voice to stay steady. You swallow again, and breathe out. "I just need a minute."
She pauses at the door, waiting for any explanation, before stepping away. "Okay, well, let me know if you need anything, 'kay?"
"Mhm!"
You listen to her footsteps retreat. Back to the private room with your friends and one of Sylus's tailors, all waiting for you to come back in in another pretty dress, deciding what you like and don't like while the tailor makes notes so he can have one specially designed for you. The idea of them all waiting. Sitting in chairs and making idle conversation, wondering how much longer you're going to take. It eats away at you.
All of it eats away at you.
And your attempts at fighting not to cry aren't working.
Tears pool at the outer corners of your eyes and slip down your cheeks, trailing down your neck or dripping onto the dress you've squeezed into. And once one falls, the rest follow. In no time at all, you're covering your mouth to muffle your sounds as you retrieve your phone from the plush chair in the corner and collapse into a sit on the edge of the dais. Your reflection across several mirrors keeping you company as they cry with you.
You feel like a teenager as you unlock your phone and helplessly find Sylus's contact. Staring at the keyboard, trying to convince yourself not to text him, until you cave and type in a message before you can back out of it. The second the question mark is typed, you send it.
"Are you sure you want to marry me?"
He's calling barely a breath later. You stare at his face on the screen, an image you took when he was distracted trying to catch a plushie in the claw machine, wearing his leather jacket and a serious look on his face that screams "Don't mess with me". Your heart spikes with fear. You consider letting it ring out. Cancelling it and saying you're not somewhere to take a call.
But, despite your anxiety, you hit accept and bring the phone up to your ear.
"Care to ask me that question again, sweetie?" he says. It's sharp. Not angry, but direct. Firm.
You bite your lip to stop it from trembling and muffle another shuddering sob that lurks heavily in your chest. You take a breath, trying to steady yourself. "Are you sure you want to marry me?" you get out on a quiet whisper, terrified to ask any louder.
He doesn't answer right away. The silence only allows you to hear the pounding of your heart in your ears, straining, waiting for his answer. "... Where are you?"
"Sylus," you urge. "Please."
"Yes. I'm sure."
It does little to soothe your worries. The cruel parts of your mind that see your reflection and respond with doubt. You have never had a reason not to believe him. He has never had a reason to lie to you. So why can't you trust that he's telling the truth?
"Tell me where you are, kitten. Let's continue this talk face to face, alright?"
You sniffle, barely able to choke out a weak laugh. "I'm dress shopping," you murmur. "It'll be bad luck if you see me."
He huffs, half-amused by your attempt to dissuade him. "I'll take my chances."
-
Knock knock knock.
"Skye is here! Did you call him? Is it alright if he comes in?" Tara calls through the door.
Your heart leaps into your throat. He got here way faster than you expected. No doubt he was ignoring Linkon traffic laws again. "Yeah," you call back, doing your best to keep your voice steady.
You watch as the door opens from over your shoulder and the tall, familiar figure of your fiancee steps through. He closes the door behind himself. You turn your face away to wipe at your eyes.
The heat of his body warms you up as he sits beside you on the dais, long legs stretching out in front of him. You can feel the weight of his eyes on you.
"I like this dress," he says, giving you a moment away from the darkness of your fears, but you know he means it. He ghosts his hand over the lace trailing down your arm in a sleeve. It's soft, with floral motifs all throughout. "You look beautiful."
Your heart clenches at the praise, painful and aching. You sniff, watching his hand so you don't have to see his face.
"Talk to me, sweetie."
His hand trails down your wrist, fingers slipping into your palm and worming their way between your digits to hold on tightly, bleeding reassurance through to you, to give you the strength to tell him everything.
"Are you still sure you wanna marry me?" you ask again.
"My answer won't ever change. You know that."
You sigh quietly. You don't know if you're relieved.
"Do you..." His fingers loosen, uncertain. "Are you having second thoughts?"
You finally look up at him. The crease between his brow, the pain in his eyes. Pain you caused him. You squeeze his hand tightly so he can't let go. "No! No, I just..." His expression remains guarded, searching for answers, for truth. You let out another shaky breath. "I don't... look good by your side."
He frowns deeper. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, I look like me, and- and I've seen the people that live in your world and you could have any of them and they'd look great with you! You know? I'm not- I don't look like I belong with you. People look at me when I'm with you and I see the way their faces change. The disbelief and disgust because how could I have possibly pulled someone as gorgeous and perfect as you? And I just... I don't want people to see you as less than you are because you chose to get married to someone like me..."
The whole spiel has tears falling again, your voice choking up despite the way you fight it. You must look like a complete mess. You refuse to look in the mirror to confirm it, but you feel the way the moisture clings to your round cheeks and the burning of the soft skin around your eyes. Your nose is starting to run, too. You feel like such an idiot.
But however you must look, it doesn't deter Sylus in the slightest. He cradles your face in his large hands, brushing away your tears. "My beloved..." he breathes, seeing the cracks you've hidden from him for so long, falling apart in his hold. "The last thing I care about is being conventional. I don't care who would look good at my side; I care about having you by my side. Name names and I'll deal with anyone who sees you as lesser than me in a heartbeat."
You sniffle. "You'd have to kill just about everyone in the world."
He smirks, tinged with something dark. "I'd do it. Just say the word."
You smack him weakly and he chuckles, kissing your forehead. "You belong by my side, sweetie. I don't care what anyone else thinks - they don't matter. I love you. That's what matters."
He pulls back to see your face, searching for any lingering doubt. But for the first time since your engagement, you allow yourself to believe that you really do belong by his side, and that he really does want you there.
You crack a shaky smile up at him. "I love you, too."
He leans down, capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. Once that lingers. One that pours out a mere fraction of his adoration for you into the sweet caress of his lips over yours. "I can't wait to marry you," he breathes, yearning.
And when he says it like that, why the hell would you ever give a damn what someone else thinks?