He wants to rage and scream and hurt. It's taking all of his concentration to keep his cheeks from flushing a blotchy half-dried-out-nail-polish red-as-the-blood-that-ran-cold-through-his-veins-when-he-first-realized-she-chose-him. He can't stop his hands from clenching, carefully manicured nails ripping deeper into the soft flesh of his palms, one uncontrollable spasm at a time.

There's some sort of sick feeling in his chest, some restless bitter-firefly-dancing-on-a-late-summer's-night-green lump that coils in his throat before sinking deep, deep down, leaving a trace of it's poisonous hate wherever it goes.

His new heart is burning so hot in his chest, it might as well still be trapped inside Calcifer. He can feel it rage against his ribs with each new injustice, flickering from poison-apple-red to so-hot-it-burns-cold lightening-meets-water blue.

Stop him it screams itself hoarse against his cowardly silent mouth. Stop him now before it's too late.

Except it's already too late. He can name a million little things about her. He knows how she takes his tea, how to cook her breakfast in the morning so at the first taste of those fluffy-as-a-basketful-of-static-charged-kittens eggs she moans, her voice so decadently desperate and needy he occasionally forgets where they are.

Which is here. Standing with her hand on his arm while he's too scared to breathe for fear of what words might come out.

The fire is screaming again, shattered-glass-sparks flaring up and out with each beat of his oft-cursed heart. Stop it screams, but at her this time. He can't help but laugh as his lips twist up in some paint-pealing-misspelled-knockoff of a real smile.

The whole setup simply reeks of irony. He, the thief of hearts, the man who had crushed hundreds of the most beautiful women's dreams of matrimony, the hollow-even-with-a-heart wizard-fast-enough-to-catch-a-falling-star struck completely dumb at the sight of the love of his life.

Standing next to his soon to be king.

With a smile on her face.

Hand in hand.

With him.

He's so far gone he can't even consider calling upon the spirits of darkness. There will be no dark lights and green slime, not for this. He's new to having a heart, but even he can tell that this isn't the sort of pain that's able to be made up with flashy magic and a new hair color.

No, this feeling, this undercooked-egg-white-in-your-egg-salad, this squished-snail-and-shell-between-your-bare-toes, this the-love-of-my-life-picked-him-over-me-

Breathe.

In.

Out.

And now smile.

Because she's right there, looking at you (you) with those big (beautiful) eyes of hers, and you've never wanted to look better for anyone, ever, in your entire life.

So he forces his face into a you-forgot-the-sugar-in-the-pie-but-I-love-you-anyway kind of smile as he bows his head ever so slightly as she walks up to him.

And then past him.

As he leads her.

Down.

The.

Aisle.