Fiyero clopped through the recession. The voices spilled over him. Diplomats, dignitaries, debutantes, a blur that buzzed meaningless in his ears. The best he could manage was silence in return, a blank page.

His father clapped a hand to his back, and Fiyero's shoulder ticked up.

"Almost there, son."

The train of well-wishers flooded, and he endured as long as he could. Three approached with those knowing, familiar eyes, and he stepped back without meaning to. "Please excuse me." He ducked into the bathroom without waiting for permission and sloshed water over his face.

What now? He stared at his reflection numbly. No answer came.

"Felicitations, Your Highness." The Scrow ambassador turned on the tap at the neighboring sink. "I believe His Majesty is searching for you to begin the banquet."

Fiyero tipped a nod.

He waded into the rush of voices and smiles. A harsh scent watered his eyes before he spied Master Jinul, the trader, locked in conversation with Three. Her eyes flashed and nostrils flared at whatever news he reported. Fiyero slowed. He ought not to care, particularly with all this bitterness and resentment whirling in sandstorms through him.

"There he is!"

They both looked up at the booming voice, and Fiyero had to turn, too, or arouse suspicion. Boisterous Master Bertylke, the Quadling ambassador waved an arm.

"Prince Fiyero, your lovely bride awaits our accolades. We can't toast without you." He punctuated the sentence with a swing of his glass.

"Apologies. I'm on my way now."

The man dropped an arm over his shoulders, the red skin amplifying that sharp scent now stuck in Fiyero's nose. "Maela-Naidheachd!" Bertylke cheered in native Quadling.

Fiyero tipped his head. "Tapadh leat," he said, the only thing he knew in Quadling that wasn't a profanity. 'Thank you,' or 'I agree,' he wasn't sure which.

Bertylke cheered again and shook his shoulders. "You're a good man, Prince Fiyero. A good man indeed."

Nothing felt farther from the truth.

Fiyero took each lying step up to join his liar wife while avoiding the gaze of all at the table. No sooner had he sat than his father began the formalities. Toasts, feasting, dancing, all of it to celebrate his misery. He played his part, walked his steps, spoke his lines, but he couldn't force a smile.

Nessa, aware of the source of his sorrow, twitched in frowns. He placed his arms around her to whirl their wedding dance, as far apart as two souls could find it in themselves to be.

The bouncy music ended, and he dipped a bow. The applause hid her hiss, "Can I go now?"

"Please."

Aruc swept up, a casual hand propped on the small of Elphaba's back, and Fiyero wanted to punch him and beg him not to leave all at once. "I know better than to ask if you're free to dance," Aruc teased with a nudge to her elbow. "No doubt Fiyero will have you monopolized until midnight."

Fiyero jerked back at the thought. No. He couldn't, shouldn't, not like this. After all that had been noticed last time? They had so much more to fear exposing now.

Still he tripped over the words, "She's all yours. I don't much feel like dancing."

"What?" Aruc covered his concern with overdramatic surprise. "Looks like whatever you had earlier is catching, Elphaba. In all our years together, I've never, ever known him to turn down dancing."

She turned to him with wide eyes, and an uncharacteristically bright grin. "He's just being polite to his fian-wife." Fiyero didn't hide the wince, and she gave a nervous laugh. "Once we start, I'm sure he won't stop until my feet fall off. You'll-"

"Go with Nessa?" Aruc grinned at her. "Of course. Though I expect at least one dance later." He pressed a kiss to her cheek with a charming wink. Then he popped up to steal a kiss on the other cheek with a roguish grin. He dodged away and disappeared before she could retaliate.

Alone together, though still in public, Fiyero traced his eyes over Elphaba with all his lost hopes and bitter regrets.

"Aren't we going to dance?" she quipped. "We look pretty silly just staring at each other."

He complied. What a fool. He knew it unwise, but never did he think to refuse her. Quite the trend in their relationship. He took her hand in his, and she stared at his wedding ring, the cool metal that chained him for eternity. Her face crumpled in, and she didn't even blink. "Elphaba-"

"Let's not talk," she rushed the words out. "I can't think of anything either of us could say that would make the other feel any better."

She shifted into him, and he sheltered her in his arms. The smell of her soothed away that tang still burning from the spicer. After a couple awkward songs swirling with the specter of their guilt between them, he stepped back.

"I can't do this. It feels like a lie, and," he swallowed. "Anyone could see, might be watching, and I can't hide it. I don't have the strength to-"

She stroked soft fingertips down his cheek, and he sucked in a breath. Oz, he hadn't meant to say all that. He had to get away before he gave up the charade altogether.

Elphaba spoke first, "Come with me."

She tipped a smile, slow and sweet, as if he wouldn't blindly follow her right off a cliff. She weaved through the crowds with casual grace, and for a heart-breaking moment, he worried she would drop him by her sister and command him to stay like a good doggy.

But she led him through the double doors and into the empty halls beyond. Already a weight lifted. No witnesses out here to his failed pretense of happiness. She went left, and he tilted his head. Where were they going? The private quarters were to the right.

Then she opened the door to the salon.

"I remember you saying that you preferred to dance here. Without an audience."

He swallowed back the emotion that flooded him. "Yes. I do." Sometimes he felt everyone in his life preferred him out in that ballroom, whether he did or not. Out on the stage, playing his part. In here, he could be a person and not a pawn.

He drew her tightly into his arms and buried his face in her hair. His shoulders finally dipped.

The music filtered through the shared wall, and he whirled them in a tender dance that said all he couldn't trust his words to. His fingers stroked over her back, and she frowned.

"Fiyero-"

"Sh," he croaked out over the lump in his throat. "Let us have this. We can't have much, but we can have this, at least. Can't we?"

She fell against him with her nose tickling his collarbone. Her arms wrapped tight around his waist, and he sighed as her warmth spread through his chest.

They took innocent comfort in each other.

The music sped up, but still he swayed gently with her. He dipped a kiss to her temple, and she shivered. Her lips ghosted over his jaw. How he longed to really kiss her, but now…impossible. Their fingers caressed in lingering circles, shoulders, arms, hands, tormenting each other with sweet yearning.

He wanted her. Loved her. Sacrificed for her. That was love. Love was not a duty. It was a gift.

Her fingernails scratched over his scalp, and he groaned. The temptation to kiss her swelled too close to the surface, so he slid around to embrace her from behind and unleashed that kiss on the nape of her neck instead. She sagged back against him. His fingers couldn't be still. They traced over her, and she shifted unendingly in response.

The air felt heated, the room too dark. What an image she made, her muscles loose, her eyes closed. They moved together languidly, less what could be called dancing by the moment.

She groaned low in her throat, "Yero."

He nosed lightly at her ear in response, and she arched back into him. This crossed into dangerous, but damn if he could stop. His wandering fingers grew bolder, daring pilgrimages beyond her arms to her waist, her neck, her hips. She twisted around, those big brown eyes so intense with pupils blown wide open. He dipped for a kiss, but she hid her face in his neck. Her nose traced over his jugular. Could she feel his pulse pounding there? Feel how much she affected him?

Lust settled over him like a drug, the world shrunk to the pair of them. His hazy mind tried to remind him…something.

"There you are." The bubble of dreamlike energy popped as Aruc strode in, and Fiyero rocketed away from her. "I looked everywhere for you two. Hiding out?"

He tried to catch his breath enough to even his voice, but Elphaba turned her wide eyes on him. Her hair tumbling loose about her, skin flushed and lips parted, she looked like temptation personified, and more practically like they done so much more than dance. He swallowed.

Aruc grinned. "I saw Three on the prowl with her fledglings. Figured you retreated for your own safety."

Fiyero palmed the back of his neck. "Ah."

"Well, she's cleared out now. In fact, the women came to get Nessa ready for the best part of a wedding." He nudged Fiyero with an elbow in the ribs. Elphaba wrapped her arms around herself, and Aruc stood taller. "Not to mention unmentionables in the presence of a lady, of course."

She rolled her eyes. "Why should now be any different? At least it's not me you're portraying." They flushed at that, both clearly doing just as she'd suggested. It made quite an attractive image, particularly so soon after his fingers trailing over her ribcage.

"Shall I escort you back?"

Fiyero shook his head. "I'll escort her." He'd hardly let Aruc near her with that image in his head. Elphaba tilted a frown, and Fiyero forced out a casual, "Lest you assault her with more of your crude humor."

"But you've been with her all night," Aruc protested. "And you've got a pretty wife waiting for you. I'm sure you'll want to hurry to her."

Of course his friend had no idea how painful that thought landed, but it struck all the same. Elphaba fell back to a quarrel and stalked out alone before he finally shook free of the barb.

Aruc stared after her, lovelorn. "Do you think I've made any progress in her esteem?"

Guilt and loss thudded through Fiyero. "Who knows? She makes her decisions, and we can only bob along in her wake."

"Are you alright?" Aruc lost his smile. "You seem less…"

"Compliant?"

"Happy."

Fiyero leaned back lest his mask crumble into dust. "You know me. I'm always happy." Aruc frowned at the misdirection, so Fiyero pasted a smile on and said, "If you'll excuse me, I believe it's about time to get to bed."

Aruc laughed. "Speaking of getting happy, I suppose so." Fiyero hid his wince in loosening his tie. "Come on, then. I'll defend you from Three on the way."

"No thanks. I'm going to make a quick stop." His friend lifted his eyebrows, but Fiyero didn't explain. How could he say he couldn't stomach the sight of his dearest darling wife, waiting in bed for him?

He bid goodnight to Aruc at the bathroom and snuck out into the right hallway. Before he could think, he stood outside Elphaba's door. She slammed a hand into the solid oak, and he stepped up beside her. "Allow me."

She squeaked and whirled. "What are you doing? Following me? What harm could I possibly find crossing a guarded castle?"

If anyone could…he imagined her accosting some foreign dignitary. Or slamming into his father as she had Frexspar. "I can think of plenty." He helped her open the door, but he toed in the way lest she slam it in his face for his troubles.

"That's because you share Aruc's dirty thoughts, then."

Hadn't he made that plain by now? He stalked toward her, letting his interest show. "Oh, I do. For you, I have all sorts of thoughts."

She studied her shawl with a carefully blank face. "Haven't you more pressing plans?"

Her reticence caught him off guard. He'd hardly said anything since she been molded so beautiful against him in the salon. What could he have done to upset her?

She set the shawl down, diligently smoothing away each wrinkle. "I mean Nessa. Isn't she waiting for you?"

His stomach flexed as if the punch had been physical. He glared at her. "No."

"Fiyero," she condescended, "you have obligations."

Like he hadn't done enough? How dare she even ask it.

But she did. She met his gaze, chin tipped up and eyes like steel.

"Are you honestly going to ask me to debase us all like that?" He pressed his eyes closed against the rising bile. "This is too far."

"Isn't that why you had to marry? To produce an heir." She twisted the recently smoothed shawl, then caught herself. She refolded it. "You should go to her."

"No." Must she kill him to please the girl? "I won't do that. Not even for you."

"It's your wedding night," she argued. "Nessa-"

He exploded, low and seething, "Knew exactly what it meant to have a loveless marriage. Isn't it enough that I married her for you? That I traded forever for her." He drew a ragged breath. "I won't. And that's final."

She stepped so close, and he vibrated from need and anger in equal measure. Her hands settled shyly on his shoulders and smoothed over the tense muscles of his chest. "But you could," she suggested, a lip tucked between her teeth. "One night."

"And what, think of you the whole time?" he returned in an icy tone. He tipped her chin so she had to look at him, couldn't pretend this was someone else she asked this of. "It's no substitute."

Her cheeks flooded with color. "But we can't ever…"

He sighed. "I know." Though every ounce of him denied it, rationally, he knew they couldn't be together in such a physical sense. "But I can't do that, Elphaba." He'd be celibate all his life, an irony to his former self. His heirship was a problem he'd face later, not this way.

"Can't?"

"Can't," he repeated. "Please, I beg you, don't ask me to. Ask me anything, anything, but that. Ask me to rip out my heart. It's yours. Ask me to throw myself off a mountain, and I'll leave the next instant. But don't tell me I have to love anyone but you. I can't even fathom it. And don't ask me to sell my soul so cheaply unless the one night is with you."

He hadn't meant for the histrionics, but Oz, didn't she understand what she was asking of him? How could she envision it? It felt so debasing. And she could expect him to do that? Be intimately inside her sister, and not feel sick at the thought? Use her sister's body for physical pleasure with the full knowledge that she meant nothing to him, would never mean anything to him? As if she wouldn't immediately be disgusted with him for complying with the act? As if he wouldn't be disgusted with himself?

He felt ill even at the thought, and from her expression, she finally accepted that she couldn't demand this of him. She nodded. Thank Oz.

"I refuse to spend my wedding night with anyone but the one I really spoke my vows to."

Her forehead bunched. "But…"

"Yes, Miss Thropp," he teased to distract himself from the lingering horror. He edged them toward the bed. She was the one for him. Elphaba. She was the one in his arms. She wanted to talk intimacy, it would be with her, only and ever.

"My sister," she swallowed hard, "your wife…"

"In name only. My heart is yours."

"But you are not." She pushed him back. "You should go."

He brushed her jaw, tilting her to look at him. "You want me to?" His breath caught. Would she send him away? Could she? Did he mean so little to the one person that meant everything to him?

She bit her lip. "We can't…"

Not an answer to his question, he wanted to protest. He doubted he could really face the answer either way. "Can't what?" he sighed, beaten down by the exhaustion of his heartbreak. "Can't marry you? Can't love you? Can't want you?"

She held her breath, and he knew if he kissed her, she'd let him. And he wanted to. How he wanted to. But moments ago she'd been in his arms begging him to bed her sister, and even the suggestion still made him feel dirty.

He sighed and pulled back. "I know. But surely I can be in the same room as you."

"We shouldn't," she breathed, more to herself than him.

"It's not so improper, is it? I'll stay on the floor." He collected a pillow and dropped it beside her bed. "Please, I just…I can't be without you tonight. I'll beg if I must." She rolled her eyes, but a half-smile peeked out at his nonsense. The relief at anything but tragedy sent him with comic enthusiasm to his knees. "Shall I grovel? Elphaba, I beseech thee…"

"Oh, get up." She laughed and tugged him up. "You're ridiculous."

He resisted, and the counterweight brought her crashing to him. Their limbs tangled together, and he pulled her close. "Have I persuaded you? Can I stay?"

She pressed her lips together. He waited, breathless. Her eyes traced his face. After a long moment, she climbed in her bed fully-clothed. "Turn off the light."

He traded lamplight for the beauty of the full moon, and admired the silvery cast it tinted her in. An odd joy thrilled through him in contrast to the uncomfortable floor. An idiotic request, he'd asked of her, but one she'd granted. He mattered to her, too.

She fussed with draping a blanket over him. "Are you sure you're alright down there?"

"If I say no, can I come up there?"

She huffed. Moments ticked by with the rustle of her bedsheets like sweet music to his ears. "I can't sleep like this."

He grinned. "Shall I help?"

"Fiyero-" she warned, but he laughed.

"A bedtime story, unless you're offering more. Would you like that?"

"I'm afraid to say yes."

He reached blindly up for her hand and kissed it softly. "I do love when you say that word." She rolled onto the edge to peer down at him, and he propped himself up on an elbow. "Have you heard of Orpheus?"

She shook her head, and he spun the tale with all the gusto of elder statesmen entertaining the children at festival. Another tragic wedding, he found the story so relatable that the emotion imbued easily in the words. She had to know he meant her in Eurydice's place, tragically parted from his love again and again.

Her breathing evened, deepened. Had she fallen asleep?

At last she sighed. "How sad."

'For them, or for us,' he wondered. It took death to reconcile the lovers, and he feared they faced as much. He pressed a kiss to her palm. "I would come to the underworld for you," he promised.

"I'd rather you didn't. Poor Orpheus."

"And yet, he still had a happier wedding than I," Fiyero succumbed to the melancholy. "At least he married his love."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and he found he couldn't face her shouldering the burden of his pain.

He gave him as bright a smile as he could manage. "But I am definitely having the better wedding night." He kissed her hand again, and she tugged their hands up to echo the gesture.

Then she tugged harder, so he sat up. Both her arms encircled him, and she pulled him up to the bed beside her.

He swallowed his surprise. "Yes, definitely better." His fingertips floated over her side. "Much, much better."

"Oh, hush." She blushed, and he narrowly bit back a retort that he could probably manage a lot very quietly.

"You are much more like a Fae than Orpheus's bride. I could never picture you so helpless."

"Oh? And what is a Fae?"

Her hand still rested in his, and he traced it with his other hand. "Mythical faery. Powerful and healing and quick-tempered."

"That last one sounds right."

Instead, he wrapped an arm tight around her. "Don't worry, no need for temper tonight. I promise to be a gentleman." She shifted, and he tipped his face down at her, "Unless you don't want me to…"

"Goodnight, Fiyero," she said firmly, and he nuzzled his nose into her hair.

"Goodnight, my love."