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“You don’t understand,” he pleads. “They will eat you alive.”
You’re staring at Elliott and that cursed letter in his hands. It’s on stationary far more expensive than you’ve ever seen; a hint of rosewater filling the air when he first opened it, his entire demeanour changing from relaxed to stressed in the time it took for him to scan the page.
“I’m not sending you back there alone.”
The there in question is back to his family for a ‘long overdue’ meeting; and the letter, while not quite a summons, has familial guilt tucked so neatly between every passage, that you can practically reach out and touch it… or strangle it. That’s what you’d like to do, anyways.
…Family obligation…
…We haven’t even been introduced to her…
…If she is attempting to part you from us, we will be forced to make the trip to ensure you are of sound mind…
This is the last thing you know he wants – his parents descending upon Pelican Town like a plague to pass judgement – as he silently caves to their demands.
Instead, you watch with sadness as he relinquishes to the request. Can see it in real time, how the set of his shoulders straightens, how he holds himself differently. More resigned. His eyes look tired as he blinks up at you, taking a moment before he realizes you’ve continued one, not taking no for an answer.
“I don’t care. You don’t have to face them alone any more.”
The letter drops from his hands to the floor as you crawl into his lap and hold him, folding yourself around his body like a shield. He looks lost, tired in a way you rarely see these days, and you long to take that burden from him.
“They’ll hone in on any perceived weakness. Use it against you,” he begins, resting his head against your shoulder.
“Good thing I don’t care what they think. I’m going for you, not them.”
He chuckles at that, hands rising up from his sides to wrap around your back.
“Stars, it’s been far too long since I’ve had to play their games. I’m terribly out of practice.”
“You can practice on me,” you say, grinning wickedly at him. “Here. Let me pretend I’m your mother,” you clear your throat and straighten your posture to mimic his, trying to embody a stern poshness you very much do not feel.
“Elliott March. I’m terribly disappointed that you’re not living at home any longer. There is a laundry list of things that need doing and—”
He stops you with a kiss. It’s urgent, hungry, and takes your breath away.
“No! Not that. Anything but that. Never pretend you’re them. I don’t want to see it even in jest.”
“Good, because I don’t think kissing your mother is the right way to get her to shut up,” you say before devolving into a fit of giggles against his lips. Elliott resets his forehead against yours and sighs in defeat. It does, however, have the desired effect. He’s calmer now. Smiling again, as you carry on.
“Then how about you help me prepare. Tell me all the right things to say until they can’t find fault.”
He hums, completely content in your arms, nosing along the sensitive skin of your neck, seeking further access.
“They will start by disarming and disorienting you with politeness before going in for the kill. They’ll hone in on meaningless things like hair and clothes… as if anything so superficial could ever encompass the entirety of a person. They’ll fight dirty, despite your perfection.”
“Then I guess I’ll need to wear my best dress. It’s not designer, but it’s served me well over the years,” you muse. “Maybe Emily can do something with my hair before we leave too.”
He stills, looks up at you like he’s snagged on an idea and is currently reeling it in.
“Would you permit me to arm you for war?”
“War? Is it truly so drastic, my bard?”
Elliott nods solemnly. “I would not give them any opening if it can be helped. I have a few contacts; old acquaintances who owe me a few favours I have never had the need to cash in on.”
He lets his fingers run up and down your arms as you think it over. You trust his judgment. Would be willing to do this if it put his mind at ease.
“But Elliott… the cost… I couldn’t. We don’t have the money.”
He just shakes his head. “I don’t believe that will be an issue with the people I’m thinking of contacting. If you trust my judgment, I shall set something up presently.”
The thought of getting a full makeover to meet parents would be funny with anyone else, but you know his history. Know the world he comes from. The more it sinks in, the more his earlier assessment starts to make sense.
“You really are arming me for war,” you murmur, your eyes trailing down to the hands resting on his chest.
Elliott’s fingers trace up your neck, tilt your jaw so you’re forced to look into his eyes.
“Make no mistake. There is not a thing I would change about you, my muse. I merely want to provide you with the trappings of that world. Armour to fight off their hardest of barbs.”
You let your gaze linger on the sea-glass storm raging in his eyes. He means every word. You know beyond a shadow of a doubt that if you said you wanted to show up in your work boots and overalls, he would still hold his head high and be proud of the person on his arm.
But you’re not going so you can shock them. You’re going to support him, and if you can ease his worries in any way, you’ll take it.
“Call in your favours. Your family won’t know what hit them.”
Elliott breathes a sigh of relief, pulling you in for another kiss.
~*~
A few weeks later, you find yourself in Zuzu City. An innocuous country club has been selected for today’s judgment meeting, and Elliott looks like he’s being forced to sacrifice you to a pit of vipers.
Offers had been made that were politely declined.
“Come, stay at the estate. You could spend the weekend with the family. Bring your… plus one.”
Never significant other. Never love, or cherished one, or any of the dozens of other names you would put on this relationship. Just a cold, sterile, plus one.
It sounds more like denial than acceptance. Like they’re trying to erase a person.
“It will be all right, my bard,” you reassure him, the two of you coming to a stop in front of a discrete, unassuming building.
You don’t have a clue where he’s brought you. From the street, it looks more like an office space than a high-end boutique, but you trust Elliott to navigate this world for the both of you.
He presses a call button on a speaker you hadn’t noticed, an excited voice echoing into the street.
“Elliott March? Is that really you?”
You’re surprised at how cheerful it sounds on the other end, and at how Elliott slips so seamlessly into a more polished, aristocratic version of himself in response.
“I do hope you’re planning on letting us in off the streets, Claude.” It’s said warm, smooth. Still your Elliott, but not. This version feels like he’s all surface charm with none of the heart of the man you know underneath. For the first time, you’re truly getting your first real glimpse into just how much he puts on an act for these people. Just complete, utter ease and emotional detachment.
Elliott guides you up a set of stairs, hand resting against your lower back. It’s more to remind him you’re really here than for your comfort, because you’re far too intrigued to be nervous just yet.
The stairs open up to a whitewashed, sterile looking boutique. Large bouquets of flowers tastefully adorn pillars placed around the room, drawing the eye to the real stars of the show: the clothes.
An overly formal attendant in an expensive looking suit is waiting to welcome the two of you. Elliott and – you’re assuming – Claude, shake hands, clasping each other on the back the way old friends would do, as your eyes trail over the fabrics, noting the very obvious absence of price tags.
Stars, you do not want to know how much these things cost, you think, not only truly understanding the gravity of the favours he’s cashing in, but the world he walked away from that dealt in this type of lavishness regularly. One of these outfits alone would be worth more than the entirety of what you made on your spring harvest this year.
Claude’s eyes trail from Elliott to you in surprise. You see it in his expression for a split-second before a mask of neutrality falls over him. Can almost pretend you imagined the tick of his jaw, the subtle raise of his eyebrows, the way his professional demeanour snaps firmly back into place.
“And this must be the plus one we will be adorning today!” Claude reaches out to shake your hand as Elliott corrects him.
“She is more than a plus one, my friend. She is my everything.”
Claude quickly amends his previous statement, “well, then I promise that she will be in the best of hands, Mr. March,” he says before you’re whisked away and deposited in a changing room that you suspect is larger than your entire bedroom.
An attendant brings you champagne and – as they put it – divests you of your garments. Neatly folds and tucks them away in a discrete cloth bag. You get the impression that they don’t see many ‘off the rack’ outfits in this store, as you’re led in your bra and panties to a small podium and measured within an inch of your life.
“Oh, I can just give you my sizes,” you try to say, but they just wave a hand dismissively, so you shrug and continue sipping your drink.
You’re impressed at the assembly-line efficiency of the boutique, because no sooner does one associate finish measuring you, than another comes in with outfits. They have you stepping into a white wrap gown faster than you can say Is there a zipper on this thing?
It’s lovely. Creamy silk cinching at the waist where a large bow pulls everything in. They direct you to a pair of matching heels with ruby red bottoms, the only pop of colour on the outfit, as you slide your feet in, and step out of the change room on legs much more accustomed to sturdy boots than wobbly stilts. Still, you manage. You have been known to rock a pair of heels before moving to the valley… just not this high.
The façade of cool detachment fades as Elliott’s eyes land on you. He crosses the room and takes your hands in sheer delight.
“You look radiant, my muse. But how do you feel in it?”
Stopping, you reflect for a moment, not wanting to be a bother, but…
“It’s white and we’re going to brunch. What if I spill?” you whisper sheepishly, not wanting to ruin something so beautiful, especially not in front of his parents. Elliott pays your not wanting to be a bother no mind.
“Then we try another,” he says simply, signalling for Claude.
So, you try again.
And again…
And again.
After the seventh outfit you’re starting to wonder if it’s the clothes or if it is you.
Fabric this fine seems almost too nice resting against your skin. Cuts this dramatic make you feel like you’re playing dress-up; as all that easy confidence from earlier starts to turn, souring in your stomach until you feel like more of a burden than a customer.
Were you really, truly a customer though if this was all a favour?
Though strained, Claude remains professional as he gets you into the eighth outfit: a belted knee-length Burberry skirt and ivory silk blouse. You slip into yet another pair of heels – this time a burnt sugar brown – and make your way out of the fitting room.
Elliott, is just as captivated at the eighth outfit as he was with the first, pulling you into his arms with a playful twirl before looking at you with that same questioning gaze.
“You’re absolutely enchanting,” he murmurs, despite the fact that you’re visibly starting to wilt, worrying if you can actually pull this off, or if you’ve made a terrible mistake… because if you can’t even manage to choose an outfit, how will you fare in front of his parents?
Elliott catches it – of course, he does – looking up at Claude, requesting a moment’s privacy.
It still amazes you, how your quiet, unassuming writer can command an entire room with just a few polite words and a smile, but everything about this trip has surprised you so far.
“Now,” he begins, pulling you against his chest, tipping your chin up to meet his eyes. “What is truly bothering you, my muse?”
With a sigh, you search for the words. “I feel like an imposter. I didn’t think I would,” you amend quickly. “A makeover like this should be Cinderella levels of bliss, but somehow…”
You trail off as Elliott leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
“Somehow you feel like a fraud?” he supplies as you nod, trying to bite back the shame.
“Do you want to be let in on a secret, my heart?” He says, hugging you tighter.
You nod, resting your head against his chest, willing him to go on.
“Every single one of them is putting on a performance. The sales associates. Everyone we will interact with at the country club later. My entire family included.” He sighs. “One of the many reasons why I love you so much is that you don’t. You’re just simply, wonderfully, refreshingly you.”
“Is that why I feel so weird wearing clothes like this?”
He hums in thought. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve them. I suspect you are letting the clothes wear you instead of the other way around… but the truth is, you’ve always had control, my love. You just have to believe it.”
That gives you pause. Everything you’ve tried on today has been lovely. Different, sure, but fit to perfection. Perhaps the small taste you’ve gotten of this world has rattled you more than you realized.
“You know what? I like this outfit. I think we have a winner.”
“Ahh excellent. I was hoping you’d choose this one.” He grins impishly.
“Is that so?” you question, taking the bait. “Why is that? Tired of watching me try on outfits?”
He chuckles. “I would be delighted if I skipped lunch altogether and did nothing but watch you try on clothes all day, my muse,” he says with a cheeky pause. “No, the real reason is because I saw an exquisite matching suit. Not only will you be radiant, but it will be obvious to anyone who looks at us that we are together... and,” he admits, rather guiltily, “it will truly vex my parents.”
You’re laughing now too. “Utterly diabolical of us, really. Showing off how much we love each other.”
“And looking absolutely stunning while doing so, I might add.”
By the time you leave the store, you feel refreshed. The ‘favour’ Elliott called in means the outfits were complimentary. You try to play it cool, but swear you can feel the world shift ever so slightly on its axis, as people on the streets subconsciously treat you differently.
“Elliott… how did any of that just happen?” you whisper as the two of you walk arm in arm down the street.
“Ahh yes. Well, when Claude was first starting out, the March family provided him with access to some very niche circles. I find bragging distasteful, but can say beyond the shadow of a doubt that we are quite literally the reason he’s so sought after today. Claude has been waiting for a chance to repay us all for years. I have been the only holdout in the family.”
Your next stop is hair and makeup and nails. It hadn’t even occurred to you to worry about your nails, but you must admit, the end result is staggering. By the time you arrive at the country club and glance in the mirror at the reception area, you barely recognize yourself.
“Oh goodness,” is all you can manage as you openly stare. Your makeup is flawless. Your hair, glossy and healthier than its ever looked in your life. Elliott walks up behind you, his long hair tied back in a ribbon that matches the red woven into the Burberry plaid of his tan suit. That soft, genuine warmth in his eyes evident on his face when he catches your eyes.
“I second that sentiment, and were this any other situation, I would not be able to keep my hands off of you,” he whispers low and longing in your ear before he sighs. “Instead, I have done my best to fully armour you for battle, because - and I cannot stress this enough – they will be truly horrible at every opportunity they can get.”
Chuckling, you turn, resisting the urge to kiss him, opting instead to keep your makeup flawless for the initial meeting. “Good thing I’m here for you, not them,” you reassure him.
He goes quiet, looking down at you a moment longer before softening. “And I am thankful every day that you didn’t let me talk you into staying home. I need you by my side,” he admits. “I don’t want to do this alone any more. Not when I draw so much strength from you.”
You lace your fingers with his, giving his hand a little squeeze, and a soft, murmured “you’ll never have to be alone again, my bard.”
Elliott can’t resist the urge to pull your hand to his lips, pressing one more kiss to your knuckles before leading you inside.
If you had been asked to select Eleanor and Reginald March from the crowd before ever having met them, you would have easily been able to do so the moment you entered the room. He currently has the same rigid posture of his father. The same crown of ginger hair sitting atop his face – though his father’s is mostly white by now – only a few dying embers of colour catching fire in the early afternoon light.
He has his mother’s striking green eyes, though Elliott’s are far kinder. You’re in awe at the way smile lines vs frown lines have carved two completely different maps across their features over time.
Her smile is flat, missing that little crinkle at the corners that just might be your favourite thing about the way Elliott looks at you. It’s no wonder though, as you don’t think her smile is actually capable of reaching her eyes, even if she had been genuinely pleased to meet you. She watches intensely as Elliott pulls out your chair and helps you sit.
“Mother. Father. I trust you are well.”
It’s said politely, if not a little forced. You’ve read greeting cards with more emotion than what passes between Elliott and his parents.
“I assume you must be the significant other?” She says, letting her eyes linger on your frame, taking in your armour, looking for other cracks to exploit.
Ouch, you think. Wasted no time going right for the emotional jugular.
You’re about to answer when Elliott cuts in, unrolling his cloth napkin with a loud snap, far more forcefully than actually needed.
“Are you referring to the love of my life? If so, then yes. This is she.”
His mother simply rolls her eyes, while his father finally decides to engage in the conversation with a dismissive scoff and a bored “you were always so dramatic, Elliott.”
“I think your son just understands the importance of words and how they’re used,” you say, demurely unrolling your napkin as the first course of brunch is delivered. “That is why he was asked to speech write for his brother, was it not?”
Elliott warned you of the set menu, the multiple courses as you nod decorously to the wait staff, acknowledging the high-end charcuterie board placed in front of you. Your gaze catches for a split-second on the way the corner of Elliott’s mouth ticks up into a small, pleased smile before your attention falls back to his parents.
“Yes. Quite.” is all his father says, reaching for the cup of coffee in front of him.
“You neglected to mention your partner was so… charming,” his mother adds disparagingly, selecting a small sampling of meats and cheeses from the shared board before you. “So, what is it you do again? Farm someone’s land?”
“I own the farm, actually. I’m certain Elliott mentioned that,” you say, selecting a thin cut of ham. You place it on a piece of bread, pairing it with some of the best-looking cheese you’ve ever seen, and honest to goodness piece of honeycomb meant to compliment.
Even if the company is lacking, you will not waste this opportunity to eat, you decide.
The meal progresses about as well as you expected it would. An endless assault of questions and assumptions meant to cut and lessen you somehow in his eyes. To remind him of family duty and the perceived importance of the March name.
“To be a March is to be born into privilege. Elliott, the name must be given the respect it deserves,” his mother says. Her tone having lost all of its former politeness – however small it was – as the meal progressed. Slowly turning from honied to venomous over the course of an hour. The clothing, you realize with growing certainty, has thrown them. You would have been so easy to unravel, like pulling a loose thread had you come in your regular attire. They do not know what to make of you and your quiet, dignified retorts.
“I’ve always been a fan of Amy, but I suppose Jo would be the fan favourite, don’t you think?”
His mother stalls, stuck on yet another point she was about to make about the great honour of the March name, or some other such nonsense and instead turns to you, exasperated.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh,” you smile, picking up your tea and taking a long sip, enjoying the silence from his parents and the awestruck way Elliott is staring at you. “Well, you were talking about legacy and names and respecting their meaning and all that wonderful stuff,” you say, waving a hand dismissively, “and I just thought: wouldn’t March be an excellent name for a writer? Carrying on the legacy of classic characters like the sisters from Little Women? It’s almost as if Elliott was born into that heritage by virtue of his moniker alone.”
Elliott laughs. Bright and bold. It sounds like rain falling through dappled sunlight, effectively brightening up the table and space around him.
His parents remain speechless.
You suspect they’re growing tired of every single argument they lob at him being met with calm volley of polite rebuttal. This brunch is not going the way they indented. Though, how could it have? Without you, would they have simply kept chipping away at him, like waves crashing against cliffs, relentlessly eroding his will over time?
At that, his mother tosses her napkin down on her plate, a silent signal for Reginald to stand along with her. He gives you a curt nod and flashes a look of disappointment at his son.
“We’ll be in touch,” is all he says, while Eleanor waves a hand superficially, clearly wanting to say more, but they’re in public and decorum must be maintained at all costs.
You focus on the rest of your tea as they leave, the chatter of the club continuing all around you as Elliott reaches out and squeezes your hand.
“My muse,” he beings, at a complete loss for words.
“Yes, March?” you quip back playfully.
He melts at that, guard dropping for the first time since you arrived here. “Yours are the only lips I’ve ever enjoyed hearing that name from.”
“It’s yours to do what you want with. Never forget that, my heart.”
Nodding, he stands, extending his hand to you. “You seem to have afforded us an entire weekend to ourselves. This would… not have happened had I come alone.”
Taking his hand, your rise. “I’d like to think I just have a way with words, but you see, I’m in love with this absolutely wonderful writer and he’s taught me a few tricks for using my words effectively.”
Elliott tucks your arm into his, walking you out of the dining room and into the afternoon light. “He sounds like a pretty spectacular gentleman. What do you think he would do if he suddenly found himself with an abundance of free time and the love of his life at his side?”
You smile, looking down at your outfits and shrug. “He’d probably want to show her all the places in that were actually special to him growing up. That, and show her off to as many people as possible because they both look absolutely spectacular,” you add coyly.
Elliott chuckles, finally pulling you in for that kiss you abstained from earlier. “That sounds like an excellent idea, my muse. Shall we?”
Nodding, you take his hand, relishing in the fact that the two of you now get to spend an evening turning heads on your own terms.
You couldn’t be happier.