Summary: AU. Her eyes are suddenly wet. She doesn't care. She's been this way all day. They understand. It's a big change for her, a moment that cannot be duplicated. Lit.

A/N: I got this idea when I was writing something on my wall today. Not sure where it came from, really.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. It's depressing, really.

--

Glaze. White taffeta: securing her in one solitary place for fear of movement. A gasp; porcelain skin nearly falling out of her dress: a corset forcing her to take shallow breaths. Pure white fishnets covering the silky skin of her legs, cascading down into low white heels. Beautiful. An understatement, and yet no other word comes to mind.

Her eyes are suddenly wet. She doesn't care. She's been this way all day. They understand. It's a big change for her, a moment that cannot be duplicated.

Imperceptible cerulean: her preferred color. Dreamt about since she was a small child; replaced by his overwhelming need to twist tradition, hence the Victorian dress with just a hint of modern times. He wanted it; he got it.

Things didn't work that way for her.

She was the perfect bride, the girl that everyone envied. Cerulean framed by porcelain and golden brown.

A marionette. Invisible strings. At least to most.

--

"I'm surprised you're breathing."

Taffeta scratches the floor as she turns, the only sound in the small room. A smile, the wetness of her eyes coming back into play.

"Me too."

Quiet. Warm.

The atmosphere in the room has changed. No longer is it loud and busy.

She thinks she shouldn't be talking to him. But he's never been one to read minds.

"Are you nervous?"

She shivers when she sees how close he is. Framed by the mirror, now, she sees that he is only a couple of inches behind her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. A whisper.

"Now I am."

--

Blue begins the desperate search for brown. The masses make it difficult, forcing her to strain her delicate eyes. Hands are touching. Cold. Precise. Measured.

She thinks it should be different.

Warm. Passionate. Perfect.

A breath struggles in her throat. Vision is blurry. Wait. Brown. Blue on brown; brown on blue. He's there; he has not left. A shiver. His voice.

"I object."

Hands are no longer touching. Voices fill the air; an uproar from the groom's family. Another from the bride's.

Brown still on blue; blue still on brown.

Warm. Passionate. Perfect.

White scratches purple. Taffeta meets velvet. Hands are touching. Different, now.

Brown. Blue. Locked.

Silence. Noises fade into the background, olive meets porcelain.

Moist. He tastes like promise. She tastes like freedom.

Hand on her shoulder; taffeta scratches velvet. The uproar returns, she meets her mother's frantic eyes. A nod. Eyelids flutter closed; a sigh. Another nod. The hand leaves her shoulder.

A flash of brown; different: precise, measured. Teeth meet the innocent skin of her bottom lip. He nods. She mouths the words he doesn't need to hear.

"I'm sorry."

Chocolate meets cerulean again. A smile, reciprocated by both parties. A shiver as promise tangles with freedom.

Imperceptible cerulean can still happen. The strings are cut. His promises haven't been empty for years. She smiles. Foreheads touch. Whisper.

"I waited."

He shivers, now. Blue expresses curiosity. Brown expresses regret. Whisper.

"Sorry I kept you waiting."

Their lips meet again: warm. Passionate. Perfect.

She thinks he was worth it. Lack of contact; breathe.

"I love you."

Her face presses against his neck. Small soft hands tangle with rough olive skin. A muffled response.

"I love you too."