Denim Dilemma

A flash of washed-out blue immediately caught Battler's eyes. He was sitting at his desk, steam rising from his coffee. He held a ballpoint pen in one hand, but Battler was distracted from jotting down additional ideas for his latest mystery. His grip faltered. The pen slipped onto the notebook page, rolling to the side and into his assortment of colored highlighters.

Beato had strolled into the room. She was munching on a croissant while she read the daily witch's newspaper. She flipped to the gossip section and popped in the rest of her breakfast treat, licking flaky crumbs off her bare lips. A dry chuckle rose from her, her eyes lighting up naturally without her mascara and eye shadow.

Her hair was up in a loose bun. Ginger blonde tresses curled behind her ears. Other stray hairs fell past the nape of her neck, and longer locks reached her mid-back. She lacked her usual rose and other accessories, which prompted him to realize how her hair seemed windswept rather than neatly brushed.

But it wasn't Beato's lack of makeup or change in her hairstyle that surprised him. She was without her traditional dress. Instead of her flowing, deep brown gown with golden trim and frills, she wore a bubblegum pink collared shirt. Buttoned to her clavicle, it had faint, wet patches on her shoulders, a sign she had tossed it on after her shower.

Her sandals slapping on the floor with every step, she declined onto the leather loveseat across from him. She paid Battler no mind, conjuring up a cup of tea with a lazy wave. Looping her finger around the silver handle, she sipped and continued reading, her eyes darting across the page.

As she crossed her legs, he marveled at them. Beato's form-fitting denim jeans in the shade of slate stupefied him. To his recollection, he had never seen Beato wearing pants. She preferred short skirts and finely designed dresses. For her to don an ensemble that was the antithesis to her regal attire, fitting for a casual Friday at an office, had Battler's heart hammering.

When she took another sip of tea, Beato finally noticed him. Surprise etched on her features. She arched an eyebrow, asking, "Why are you sweating, Battler? Your study has air conditioning."

"Huh?" He dragged his hand across his brow. He was surprised to find the fabric slightly wet. Clearing his throat, he tucked his hand behind him and said, "Oh, it's, uh, when you've been sitting in the same place for so long, you got hot."

She narrowed her eyes, her lips forming a pout. "Is that so? When I asked Ronove where you were, he told me you've only been writing for a half hour here."

"And - and I get hot easily."

She snorted, mumbling into her tea, "Oh, yes, I know that very well."

Frowning, Battler stood. He stretched his sore knees, his bones popping. Matching her motion, he finished his coffee, the bitter taste sweetened by two melted sugar cubes. He collected his thoughts as he drank, soothing his sore throat, wondering why she had chosen to wear something informal.

In peaceful times, sporting gowns and capes every day was excessive. They had won their happy ending and enjoyed their days in the Golden Land. Beato must have felt it was acceptable to shrug off her fantastical attire. She didn't need to impress hostile, harassing theatergoers, who loitered above the game board and laughed at their misfortunes.

Perhaps, it was a sign of Beato accepting herself. She didn't need to hide behind the personification of a malicious, wicked witch. Always sneering, always calculating twenty steps ahead of her opponents, always maintaining her composure even when on the verge of blasphemy in the witches' courtroom, Beato hoped someone would accept her.

And Battler had. He respected every inch of her body, soul, and heart. If she wished to shed herself of her magical image, wearing the clothing of an ordinary woman, he understood why.

But the part of him that leaned toward mystery needed to ascertain his theory.

Drawing a slow breath, he asked, "So, where's your dress?"

Wrinkles formed on her brow. She leered at Battler with a blase look. "Why are you asking such an unsophisticated question, Battler?"

"It means something, doesn't it?" he challenged, smirking and jabbing his index finger at her.

Her irritation was a possible ruse. He had played her game well. The meaning behind her collared shirt and jeans was waiting to be announced by the man she married.

"You wanted to show your regular side, so you wore something ordinary! By wearing those jeans, you decided - huh?"

Beato's mouth suddenly shot upward in an exhaustive sneer. It crinkled the corners of her eyes. A puff of disbelief escaped her as she dragged her hand down her cheek, stretching the already tight skin. She sank in her seat, her legs sliding toward the floor, as a deep groan rolled out of her mouth.

Battler grimaced. Sweat returned to his forehead, the beads gathering at his temples. "Wh-what? Am I wrong? You didn't let me finish my blue truth."

Beato ceased her commotion. She stared at him, her pupils as small as pinpricks, before clicking her tongue. She levitated her cup and tossed her newspaper on the couch cushion. With a sigh, she pushed herself to stand, peering up at Battler with the same incredulity she had expressed in their earlier games.

"You moron," she jeered, grabbing her hips. "That's not it at all."

He sputtered. His refutation tried leaping off his tongue, but he swallowed it back. Suddenly dizzy, he vaguely gestured at Beato's jeans. "B-but-! Denim! You're wearing denim!"

Cackling, she seized his tie. She dragged him closer, their foreheads almost touching. As she howled, her cool breath smelled of mint and lemon. "It's because I look good in these clothes, simpleton! Nothing more, nothing less!"

Another peel of shrill laughter exploded out of her. She shoved Battler back into his desk, knocking aside his pens and highlighters. They clattered to the floor next to him, her playful shove much rougher than he expected. Beato grinned at him, showing off her teeth and fangs, appearing to take in the flustered sight of her hapless husband gawking at her.

"This is why I wear the pants in this relationship," she said, and she swiped her cup out of the air, downing the rest of her tea in a single gulp.

Battler blinked, but he shook off his shock. She was right, as usual. The austerest answer, as he once advocated, was the best, and she showed it off proudly. Sharing in her amusement and laughing at himself, he admired her style and said as much.

"Well, finally! It only took an embarrassingly long spell for you to compliment your gorgeous wife," she huffed, crossing her arms. She launched her cup aside, letting it turn into golden butterflies. Giggling quietly, she stroked his face, her thumbs slowly caressing his cheeks. "Come, come, praise my name already. Don't keep me waiting, Battler."

He wreathed his arms around her, murmuring the red truth from the bottom of his heart, Beato's pure smile her finest attribute.