Disclaimer: Don't own Seto but Mel is my baby. ^^
Lady-Like
Lady-like. He'd always held a certain contempt for that phrase. All his life, he'd been subjected to the fraudulent world of the elite. Lady-like women abounded in such a world, women who wore designer brands and fake nails, women who made days out of lunch, and to whom one mishandled engagement could mean the collapse of their social reputation. He had no respect for such 'ladies.'
Melody wasn't any of those things. He'd met her in a dojo, her hair mussed, her clothes sweaty from working out. That day, he'd first felt the strength in her hands. Callused hands, he noticed, not the fine, silky-smooth hands of a lady. This woman had seen work, knew what sacrifice was, knew how to take care of herself. From her blunt, unhindered language and her almost flamboyant way of dressing, he was certain 'lady-like' was not even in her vocabulary.
Then they went to the London Gala. That was the first time he'd seen her in something other than jeans or the school uniform. And as much flak as he gave her—they were settling a bet, after all—he had to admit, she looked gorgeous. He also had to admit he didn't expect her to pull it off. These were his people, as it were, full of tittering women and blustering gentlemen. What did she know of being a lady-like?
More than he thought apparently. Only once did she ever look out of place in this glittering world of bought titles and weird food, and that was when someone said the American government had the right idea about reversing the mutant gene. He'd seen anger that night, deeper than any emotion she'd shown so far, and it was then he realized she was just playing a part. This was a game to her. School was a game. Even their bantering at the house when she came to help Mokuba had been a game. Later, she accused him of merely being the chess master to some existential board but he knew he wasn't the only one with issues. That much was right, he supposed. At least she could fake it lady-like.
He didn't see her dressed up again until Cambridge, three years later. A lot had happened in the meantime. Too much. Life wasn't a game anymore. She could no longer don a pretty dress and play the part. Mokuba took her shopping one day to get her mind off Vishan and Briciu and who knew what else. Later his brother told him how cute she looked, getting excited about the clothes. But lady-like women weren't cute. They were beautiful, as a rule, but they were never cute. They never had to force themselves to feel pretty. They just were.
Again, Melody didn't fit. War had hardened her eyes, stripped her soul of the lady-like prettiness she was raised with. She fought now, she killed, she swore enough to cow a gangster into a corner. Suddenly the elitist world he'd drowned in since childhood looked even more superficial. It was exhausting to keep up with the banter, the power plays. He didn't think she could handle it after dealing with things so serious.
Again, he was proven wrong. When she emerged from her room, dressed in a gown of purple silk, her dark hair soft around her shoulders, he'd felt his heart skip a few beats. She walked with the easy grace of one raised in heels, holding her head high, her shoulders back as if she'd done this her entire life. The other women paled in comparison, even Katie, who he knew could flirt and play the board with the best of them. It was her strength that made her stand out. Somehow, that woman could fight a war, have buildings fall on her, watch the love-of-her-life turn into a basketcase then train said basketcase along with his angsty brother, and still manage to look breathtaking. She owned that ballroom. She wasn't just an ornament on his arm to reflect the lady-like socialites across the table.
He only wished he could be that strong. Maybe someday he would be. Maybe someday he could match the steel—the mithril, he thought with a grin—that ran through her veins. That was the power he truly craved. Not this penny-ante monetary junk, but true power, power that could only come from within. His dragon possessed that strength. He guessed in some ways, she represented his Blue Eyes more than he did. But she wasn't lady-like. She was polite, she could dance, she could walk in three inch death-traps…but she was not lady-like. He knew now she never had been. She was the lady; the other women were just trying to imitate her. A satisfied smirk crossed his lips.
Good luck with that.