(prompt request: "a drunken kiss")
rules
She's not sure what she expected from a Rishi hotel, honestly.
They could have slept shipboard like they always did; that had been the plan, but their docking platform was on the opposite side of Raider's Cove and with everyone in the bar buying them congratulatory drinks neither she nor Theron were in any shape to make the long walk back at the end of the night. More to the point, he takes her hand as they step out into the street, pulling her toward the little hotel on the far side of the magistrate's office.
"Come on." When he lifts her up into his arms he wobbles a little and they both laugh at the simple stupid joy of it; for all their years of second-guessing this is right and they know it and that too, makes them laugh and cling harder to each other. "Let's do this properly."
The wreath of bright flowers tilts to one side, a dangling curl of vine brushing her ear, as she straightens the matching bloom pinned to the lapel of his red jacket. If not for the adornments it might have been any night at all, the two of them in their usual armor as the world keeps moving around them. "We might be a little late for that."
They sign the guest ledger, matching scrawls, because no one's going to read it and no one would believe them, anyway- Empress Nyriala of Zakuul, First of Her Name and Theron Shan, Consort to Her Imperial Majesty- and they take the key from the half-sleeping clerk and together stumble up the stairs.
Stars, this mattress is terrible.
She tips backward onto the bed regardless, laughing, reaching out for him, and when her head hits the pillow the room spins around her in dizzy circles.
"I think," she mutters, blinking, "I might be slightly drunk."
"Nope. Not possible." Theron falls over beside her, brushes a loose petal off the bridge of her nose. "You're perfect."
"Flatterer." Head turning, her mouth brushes across his still-outstretched hand, along the thin silver band still unfamiliar around his finger. In a few more weeks it'll be something different, the ones they'd already chosen for themselves waiting in carved boxes in their quarters; for now, it's there, a twin to her own, a tactile reminder of every promise they've ever made and most especially this one- you, forever-
He nods agreement, and if the motion makes him dizzy too he hides it well. "Always. I mean, you're my wife."
It hadn't really sunk in until that moment, she thinks.
(They'd made jokes about it for months, as the complications of the impending Zakuulan ceremony increased exponentially with every passing day; if her unwanted coronation made her sick with stress the damned wedding was giving her hives. She'd delegated much of the work, with Lana's help, to Senya- I never had a public ceremony, Senya said, but I know how it's meant to go- but still he'd peer over her shoulder at the pages and pages of arrangements and shake his head.
We could just elope, you know.
She rolls her eyes. We might be a little late for that. Chocolate cake, or vanilla?
But then they walk past the Rishi magistrate's office on their way back from the Trader's Guild and almost collide with a wedding party, two women in matching dresses hand in hand in the doorway dodging thrown flowers and a cascade of well-shaken champagne.
Now that looks like fun. She turns to Theron, who's got one eyebrow raised in an expression she knows to be a particularly dangerous one.
Are you thinking, he says, what I'm thinking?
As it turns out, she was.)
"I love you, you know." She rolls onto her side; they're nose to nose, almost, heads on the same pillow. "Did we really just get married? Or-"
"I love you, too. And I think so- I mean, I don't know how binding it is, but we both said I will at all the right times, right?" He grins when she nods, pulls her in even closer with one arm around her waist. "So I'm pretty sure it counts."
"Good," she says, and tries to wriggle out of her jacket. The bed's narrow, though, and with all her squirming she only succeeds in nearly falling off the edge before Theron hauls her back towards its center. "If we're proper now, then kiss me properly."
His mouth tastes of wine and whiskey and the sweet-frosted cakes they'd shared at the end of the night and-
"Not sure if that's allowed." He bites at her lip and as his forehead brushes hers the pressure sets the wreath askew again, petals falling, catching on her hair and on his eyelashes. "I hear there are rules against this kind of thing when you're married."
"Then you'd better go back downstairs and get us a divorce-" even mouth on mouth and half-undressed it takes him a second to realize she's teasing; she feels him go still and she kisses him again, harder, until the moment passes and he sighs, content, and eases into her touch- "because if I can't do this any more-"
"You know," he gasps, "I was never much for rules."