He squirms, despite the fact that he's over 700 years old and the moonlight is really not all that bright. No, these are the actions of a nervous man. Nervous, anxious, frustrated, mad, and more than anything, confused. Not emotions that one would usually confront during the wedding of one's best friend.
Silvery white light drips steadily into his carefully combed black hair, polishing it to a faint beacon shining in the midst of an ink-splattered night. He has to restrict himself from wiping his sweaty palms—a rather un-princely attribute—on his tailored slacks like a common plebeian as he watches a tall, elegant figure whirl around the dance floor in a blur of scarlet silk and ebony hair. He sighs, watches a tiny puff of white issue from his cold lips.
"You could go and talk to her."
He turns, scowling, to face a rather impudent-looking girl with blonde waves of hair looking at him—condescendingly, almost. The nerve. "I'd prefer not to, at the moment."
"Why not?"
He gives a loud huff of exasperation. "For reasons that rather do not concern you."
"What happened to the Billy Charming that gave this speech about finding and—and cherishing love and y'know, stopping to smell the roses once in a while?"
"He was rightfully squashed back into his corner of sappy irrationality."
The girl rolls her eyes—how incredibly rude of her; who does she think she is? "You should still talk to her or at least go dance."
"Don't tell me what to do."
"Fine," she says coolly. "I won't." She walks off confidently, picks up Little Boy Blue's hand, and spins him round in a circle. If only she knew the difficulties of love, he reflects bitterly.
The melody of the music mocks him. Cheerful jazz, saxophones and trumpets singing in their rich, deep tenor and their raucous squeals. Oh, it seems so easy, but yet, he cannot bring his leg muscles to unlock in the chair he's sitting in. So he stays there, tense and emotionless as a boulder, letting the music wash over him like whitewater rapids, but not being moved.
The tune changes to something smooth and slow. It's classical music, he notes, Chopin, maybe? Unexpectedly, the notes gently coax a dormant memory from the recesses of his mind.
Full-skirted gowns frothy with lace. Gold embroidery. Chalky pale faces and powdered wigs, elaborate ringlets and silken bows. The soft, mournful mockingbird cry of violins. Gold chandeliers dripping with crystals.
"May I have this dance?" Blue eyes twinkled up at his inquiry. Sapphire was not the right word to describe them. Too deep of a blue. More like…aquamarine. Not the blindingly bright shade, but an actual aquamarine stone.
She looked at him, questioning almost. Ebony curls, piled high upon a face as pale as the snow she was named for.
"I suppose…Yes."
Much to his surprise, his legs unstiffen and his feet robotically shuffle him over to the woman in the red dress. She tilts her chin, looks at him—almost as if she's sizing him up—and asks in her eyes what her mouth does not dare say.
He addresses the elegantly black high heels on her dainty feet. "May I have this dance?" His hand trembles slightly as he extends it and slowly looks up from his black loafers.
Plump ruby lips part smoothly, and the owner of said lips utters three crisp words. "I suppose…Yes." She puts her small white hands on his shoulders, and he puts his hands in the gentle curves of her waist. Half the neurons in his brain are screaming about what a fool and an idiot he is for doing it, and the other half are exploding in joy. Get a grip, he thinks.
Her pale eyes pierce his very flesh as he gazes down at her. Blue fire, heated with the infernos of rage and pain and suffering.
"Billy, I know why you're here."
He tenses, and his shoulder muscles turn into hard knots of tendon.
"I know what you're going to say, and I'm going to make it quick. I'm not a doll. I'm not some object you need to protect. I am Snow White, and I'm a woman who can kick butt as well as any other man alive," she says simply. "I understand your intentions, but sometimes Billy, I'm tired of being treated like I'm some valuable antique, you know? I want to see the world. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And I want to see it for myself."
He tries to argue. "I've been in love with you for four hundred years, you can't possibly—"
She cuts him off quickly. "Billy, if you really loved me, you would let me explore my boundaries. You can't just let your hero complex take over and swoop in to save the day."
He hangs his head, in shame, in regret. "But—"
"There are no buts, Billy! I'm an independent woman," she snaps. He has to admit that she does intimidate him at times. "What part of that don't you understand? I'll ask for your help when I need it. I'm not infallible, but I'm not a porcelain doll either."
He moistens his lips, flicks his tongue nervously over them. "Right. I'm…I…"
She raises her eyebrows. "You're what?"
"I'm sorry," he mumbles quickly. The corners of her mouth quirk up; she suspects it's the one of the rare times Billy swallows his pride long enough to apologize. "I just want to be sure you're safe."
"I know."
"Sometimes I'm a little pushy."
"I know." His voice is sober; quiet, repentant. He has to fight down the urge to say that he has good reason to be pushy and worried, but something tells him it's not the right thing to say; not here, not now.
"Let's not argue," Snow says gently. "It's a wedding. We should be happy, not arguing. Besides, I miss not arguing," she adds.
They stand in one place on the floor, just silently swaying to the music. She presses a chaste kiss to his cheek, and all of a sudden, he's back in that Victorian ballroom all over again.
Rich forest green skirts. Black hair against milky skin. A ruffle of lace, the sharp crease of brown breeches, a shining top hat. Pianoforte notes sailing through the stifling air. The clink of teacups. A whirl of black hair, sharp blue eyes tracking his every move. Some airy feeling whistling through his veins. Happy, even.
It's all coming back to him in fragments, this blast from the past, as he turns his arm around and catches Snow in a cascade of scarlet silk. White pinpricks of stars glow from a puddle of India ink strewn with wisps of cloud, his gold-and-crystal chandelier. Instead of a quadrille playing, a waltz. Instead of the Queen's ballroom, patches of linoleum pieced across a dirt floor. Instead of a fun invitation, a raging war.
He's not sure what he's doing, but the exhilaration of the dance muddles his brain and represses all thoughts of stopping. This is war, he thinks as his lips part in a heedless grin, twirling—indeed, twirling—in Snow's arms. I shouldn't be having this much fun. I should be inside, planning our next attack. He decides he doesn't care.
"I love you, Snow," he murmurs, his breath smelling lightly of champagne.
She looks at him. Her eyelashes, thick and dark, frame rounds of blue ice. Her skin is palest ivory. Every inch of her is perfect, reminiscent of Aphrodite herself. "I love you, Billy."
She is a doll, but not a porcelain one. She is a doll, but she won't shatter.
finis