Groomsmen and Bridesmaids Aesthetic

We were in a thick Relaysian jungle once.

It was a situation we had been in for days. It begun in the desert, on the run from local rebels. I lead my squad of fourteen behind me; Jack had my back, Lief and Dalton were bringing up the rear.

In order to get into a safer zone we had to wade through this swamp. I went first, holding both of my guns above my head. The others followed, quietly so they wouldn't find us.

I could feel sludge beneath my boots and with every step the slime rose an inch.

When Dalton was shot in the back of the head the level was at my chin. There, we were surrounded and it was a gunfight. No one else died on that day, but three of us were shot, including Jack and Heather.

It was the worst walk of my life. My best friend and my boyfriend shot, a squad member killed, disease-ridden water infecting our injuries.

I was dressed in black and camo then.

Here, now, in white mulberry silk with shoes coated in diamonds, I wade through a purple forest. Bullets are the eyes of the audience seated in their violet thrones. The guns in my hand is my father's arm. The destination of my walk as I wear a glass smile is the altar. He stands there, surrounded by his groomsmen, the celebrant, my bridesmaids.

We are both plastic in every way in that moment. When my father 'hands me over' as we reach the altar, honestly that material nearly melts from pure rage as he kisses my cheek.

You did this to me. 

Grayson and I share a smile built on pity for each other, paired with mild distrust.

This isn't going to be fun for either of us.

In my other hand is a bouquet of purple-shaded flowers. I want to drive the stems through someone's eyes. The celebrant, Grayson, dad, even Fantasia as I hand them to her.

Our hands join. Both of us have that rough, calloused quality to our skin that I noticed earlier. It entirely deflects every other thing in the room. Everything is so clean, flawless and soft despite the harsh colours.

We're not.

Not Nightwing, protector of Blüdhaven, member of the Batfamily, and Amethyst, the Purple Serpent, Major of the Rainbow of Death.

Through the jovial and secular ceremony I stare just beside his face. On the right, so that I'm not looking at his line of groomsmen but rather the far wall.

I don't really hear anything. I'm too numb to the whole thing; when he's saying his vows it sounds muffled like the music did when I walked in.

When I say my own I know I'm smiling, putting on a show as he smiles back, but I'm not feeling them. It's like reading off of a drilling manual with emotion. I know the words like the back of my hand. Mai made sure.

The one part which I hear clearly is the whole 'Speak now or forever hold your peace'. My eyes meet Mai's and she glares.

God, do I want to. I could shove Richard backwards and topple his friends like dominos. I'll grab those flowers back; one stem in my dad's eye should do. Maybe one for Grayson's asshole brother as well. Then my team can pull out their guns and we can fire this shit up.

You may now kiss the bride catches my attention more than anything, for sure. I finally look at him and his stupid, perfect face.

We meet half way. Whatever defines short and sweet probably doesn't classify here. It goes on a little longer because at the same time I'm trying to pull myself out of the trance I was drowning in the whole time.

Slowly, audio comes back to me in the form of people roaring. Automatically we join hands and Fantasia hands me the bouquet back with a false kiss on the cheek.

"It's over," she shouts in my ear, but only I would have heard over the claps and cheers. At least she's trying to help.

I look back at Grayson with a tight smile, lean forward and shout let's get the fuck out of here. 

Linked, we descend the three steps onto the aisle. I should probably be smiling at this fake-ass crowd, but I decide to stare at him. Luckily, he does the same to me.

It's false and enough, meaning the audience is convinced but we aren't.

The hotel servers usher us away, hidden from everyone. Neither of us speak and neither of us let go of each other as we follow them to the room we'll be preparing for the reception in.

However, when we reach the room, to my horror, there is a full set happening for photos.

So Grayson and I are forced to sit on this ugly purple sofa, gold-plated and probably equipped with some ancient material.

There are three different photographers; two of them are from media and the third belongs to my mother.

Only after I start to notice my makeup is rubbing off on Richard's head, because these positions have us bumping faces, are we allowed to leave to the next room to get changed.

Finally, we're alone. Note the sarcasm, because it's immediately awkward and I have no idea what to say. 

I feel nothing about the past few hours. I was simply watching them pass by. My body was on autopilot. We both stare in the opposite direction of each other. He's still in my peripheral vision. I kind of wish he wasn't. I wish we were separated for a while.

There is a knock on the door which makes both of us jump. I was reaching for the (unfortunate) silk and diamond embroided dress hanging from the clothing rack meant for me, when the door creaks open.

Once I take note of the time I realise who it is. Grayson doesn't say anything as I cross the room and pull it open. I hold my hand out and Mai places my medication there with some extras. Second is a bottle of water before she pulls the door closed.

He takes the polite initiative to wander over to the window and stare out at the ocean whilst I put the handful in all at once and follow it up with the bottle.

Feeling dehydrated I drink all of it in seconds.

"Is that your Grandma?"

Those are the first direct words I hear my husband say to me. I walk up beside him and look down into the sand where the groups are scattering, slowly moving into the venue for the reception.

Richard is pointing to a far off group, separated for fear of mixing with peasants.

"The one in the green hat? Yeah. The others are my great aunts and uncles, couple of my dad's cousins."

"Am I going to have to meet them? What are they like?" He asks.

"No," I respond, "My extended family are, well, a little terrified of me. They'll keep their distance."

I grin, remembering the first time my Grandmother, Satan's pet, decided to visit after the Elite Marines. I had always hated her because she was a cruel old bag, so when I was still pretty war-torn after a month at home, I came flailing down the stairs with two guns and destroyed my mothers dinner set in front of her.

My siblings loved me for it. Even my father laughed.

"Dad's parents are a little nicer. Less eccentric. They're kind," I tell him, backing away from the glass and retrieving the silver disaster and its matching shoes. "I'll just be a minute."

I don't wait for an answer before I'm shutting the white-gold plated door of the bathroom. Without a second thought I drop on the edge of the bathtub and tip my head back, breathing deeply in an attempt to clear my mind.

Well, Cleopatra Xanthe, you are married.

Unlike your culturally-appropriated-by-your-clueless-mother 'name-sake', you did not marry your brother. You skipped Ptolemy and hell- skipped Julius too. You went straight for Marc Antony.

Maybe you'll both die too.

The silk and diamonds feel too over-the-top when I feel it in my hands. Annoyed, I throw it to the tiles and stand up, raising my arms to look around the sides for a zipper.

Not on the left, not on the right.

I arch my head back slightly when I catch my reflection in the mirror behind me. I stare into it where my eyes meet the top of some sort of latch.

I remember how the dress actually went on.

Fuck. 

At least five minutes is spent trying to do it on my own and avoiding the inevitable. At first I was glad Fantasia didn't come to help me take it off. Because I thought Grayson and I needed time alone.

I really have no other choice. No amount of trained contortion is going to get me there.

Defeated, I slump towards the bathroom door.

"Hey." 

My statement is sharp when I pull the door open and peak out at him twiddling his thumbs.

"You okay?" He frowns.

I nearly choke on the words, "I...need your help."

Thank Goddess, he gets it almost immediately. He stands up and rigidly walks over. I push the door open and turn around, impatient.

"The dress has an extra layer of fabric hiding the zip. On the top right you should see a clasp. You just need to unhook it and pull it away, then pull down the zip," I explain.

I can barely feel him touch me. There's just a gentle pressure on my shoulder as he searches for the clasp. When he unhooks it, it falls away to the second layer.

"Do you see the zip?" I ask. My nails are burying themselves in my palms.

"Yeah."

His hands move up to the back of my neck. He grips the material and tugs it, I assume to find the actual zip.

"Do I..." he begins awkwardly.

"What, is this the first time you've undressed a girl?" I respond automatically, wincing at the harshness of my tone. Without another word which, believe me, makes things even more uncomfortable, he pulls the zipper down.

It's cold. It always is in rooms by the beach. It's not like I haven't been scarcely dressed in front of him before, since I've come out of the water in bikini's when he has been there.

Yet, there's something new and almost intimate about it.

When the zip is at its end, at my lower-back, he steps away.

"Thanks," I say, moving back into the bathroom. He says you're welcome but I'm already shutting the door. 

The dress might rip when I tear it off, shoving it down my legs and kicking it away like trash. Ugh.

Believe me when I say that the second dress is easier to put on and handle, but in no way is it more my style or any less restricting.

A silver and diamond embroidered cocktail dress by Fantasia's favourite designer Monique Lhuillier, worth around five grand.

I feel like an ice skater- not in a good way. The sparkles make me physically nervous. If these bathrooms weren't ventilated I would look a mess as I step back out into the livingroom. His eyes linger for a moment and I ignore it, lazily throwing the other dress on the sofa. 

"You like nice," he says with a small smile as I shove the shoes on.

"Thanks."

We're fake news, I swear.

"Ready?" He asks, holding his hand out. 

"Nope," I answer.

Our fingers lock and it's just a little bit comforting knowing we are going through the same hell. When we open the door, Mai is standing there waiting.

If I had known that, I would have got her help with the dress.

Maybe.

"Come on," she says, leading us back down the maze of hallways. "The announcer will introduce you as Mr and Mrs-"

"Woah, wait, what? Announcer? I know this whole think is a hoax but it's not a football game," I argue, because honestly I can't think of anything worse than being welcomed like the Queen of fucking England.

"That just seems, well, silly," Grayson agrees, "People are probably already exasperated at all the extravagance. We'll be a joke if we let people welcome us like the King and Queen of England."

Shit, we were thinking the same thing.

At first Mai doesn't say anything. She just glares straight ahead. The closer we get to the venue hall, the louder the guests seem to be before we're standing outside the double doors.

Mai takes out her phone and calls someone. Whoever answers gets strict instructions not to introduce us. Good, I've already been made a fool of enough today.

I look up at Richard- or do I call him Dick now? -who seems equally as reluctant to go out there.

"Could be a great story if we run off before the reception," I murmur. Mai doesn't turn around but she tenses up.

"'Graysons run off to Honeymoon early'? That'll be a popular article," He suggests.

I shudder, Graysons. 

The doors open suddenly and my reaction is to tighten my hand around his, nearly to the point of breaking it. He doesn't even flinch which is not a surprise, he just squeezes back equally as tight.

My eyes are nearly blinded by the offensive purple mess hanging from the roof and off the walls. The cheers as we step over the threshold are deafening and the air is warm with smelly people.

I smile, at least I think I do, around the room at everyone as we move towards the bridal table. It's long and lined with our parent(s) and other wedding party members.

On the way, I briefly meet eyes with Chris and remember our plan for the bouquet.

This is going to be an interesting night.