#not the MOST obiyuki content in this one i'll admit but like. it's their wedding

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward, Chapter 16

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2023, Day 2: Worship

Also written for @jj-carstairs for her birthday, which marks the FIRST TIME I've managed to get it out for her actual birthday, since it always falls right over obiyukiweek. Thankfully this year both her birthday request and the theme for the day overlapped nicely :3

After all his attempts to forge the Second Prince’s favorite dagger into a proper blade, Lata has managed to hammer one useful bit of information into Obi at least: protocol isn’t so much a rigid set of rules squatting between vellum margins, as old as the peerage itself, as an equation. A complicated one, the sort with letters instead of numbers and operations that take a room full of clerks the better part of a day to churn through. A system of fussy bookkeeping that would make Kazaha salivate if he was ever allowed to crack the spine on it.

He’s gleaned enough from his scattered lessons in knighthood to know that station and situation are two of its variables, but for how all that solves for precedence— well, that’s a mystery that’s best left to his betters. But what he does know is: His Majesty has a lot of it.

Not enough to declare primae noctis, the way they said the North’s High King once did— not that he suspects there’d be many complaints, should Elder Highness try to claim his due. But he's clearly got enough wiggle room to cut in for the primae dance-us or whatever the court liked to call it. No other reason for the royal mouth to take so satisfied a slant, for him to close that white gloved hand around Miss’s with such relish.

“Oh my,” His Majesty hums, those midnight eyes rounding to innocence. “I trust you will find no offense in my asking, my dear marquis?”

Obi doubts this man was innocent in the cradle, let alone now. But that's hardly His Majesty's angle. Oh no, he's more interested in Miss's attention-- or rather, directing it right to where Obi would like it least. She turns, concern etched into the space between her dainty brows. “Obi…?”

But it’s too late; Obi’s scuttled his stormy scowl to smiles and sunshine, letting only a hint of wryness break through. “None at all, Your Majesty. Simply wondering if you made it a habit to take pretty young brides on a tour around the ballroom.”

“Only when I am the one hosting their wedding,” he replies, one side of his perfect mouth tugging up into a smirk. “After all, is it not the host and the woman of highest rank who open the floor?”

If he were Master, all it would take was flutter of eyelashes and cock the head, and the royal personage would be halfway up the curtains, just from anticipation. But His Majesty is not just immune to that sort of game; he invented them. So Obi smiles wider, aiming at the only crack present in the royal armor. “I would have thought that would be your wife, sir.”

“Ah, I am afraid the blame for that lays squarely in my own court, my lord.”

Fingers perch on the back of his hand, a touch so light Obi would be tempted to call it the wind if he could not see the glove. One that is more lace than silk, baring enough skin from wrist to elbow that Mrs Carre would call it unseemly. Or at least she would if the style were not sure to sweep the next season by storm, since it is the queen consort that touts it.

“As much as I am loath to admit it...” The tilt of her head is demure, modest as would be expected of a consort, but the hand that curves over the round of her belly is not; no, that is as proud and protective as a lioness with her cubs. “At this juncture, it is recommended that I leave the dancing to much more…nimble young ladies.”

Obi covers her hand with his own, mouth slanting into his most charming smirk. “I could be nimble enough for the both of us, if milady wished.”

Her Majesty might play the retiring young queen well, but when Obi looks at her, steady and steely as her brother was on his walls, it’s not hard to remember that the ladies of the North had weathered sieges in their husbands’ stead, and waged wars in their absence.

And started more than a few of them, by the grin she smothers. “I do appreciate the offer, my lord marquis, but tongues would wag. I hardly think your wedding needs to spur on gossip.”

Any more than it already has, the twitch of her lips implies. A point he’d love to contest, at least on Miss’s behalf, but between the carefully composed timeline of their supposed courtship, and their lengthy disappearance between the ceremony and reception, they’ll be keeping the rumor mill churning well into next season. Perhaps even longer, provided no young lady made herself a hasty marriage, or a hot-headed buck put himself on the dueling piste.

Just the way His Majesty planned, if that smirk of his is anything to go by. “If my lady wife would like to cause a scandal, she need only say the word, and I would be happy to oblige.”

The offer rolls off his tongue with the ease of a born rake, but Obi’s not fool enough to miss the fierceness in his eyes, or the way his body turns toward her, like a bloom following the sun. Nor does it seem to escape Her Majesty either.

“You devotion honors me, my lord, but I think we both agree that there is no lady of higher rank than a bride on her wedding day. Now” —that sharp gaze cuts to him, smile honed to match— “it may be no grand dance, but perhaps you might escort me to my chair, my lord?”

*

The orchestra plucks nervously at their instruments as Her Majesty settles into her seat, waiting until her hands fold over the curve of her belly before the first bow slides over strings. His Majesty steps out, bow so graceful it could be a dance in itself, and Miss—

Well, she manages something like a curtsy. Late, of course, and begrudging every inch— deference to royals hardly comes easy to those born under Shenezard kings— but Elder Highness has long been accustomed to covering up unsightly blunders. It’s with something a little sharper than a smile that he sweeps her out onto the floor, the gold lace of her gown belling out into a shimmering spiral of starlight around her feet before she settles into his arms.

There is a brush of a hand against his sleeve, and Her Majesty’s smile meets his frown. “They make quite a pair, don’t they?”

Obi lets his gaze skirt back across the floor, watching Miss’s feet as the king of Clarines leads her through a waltz. The last soirée they attended in Lilias— a lifetime ago, it feels, though it can’t be more than nine months— she’d tripped right over his foot and nearly took out the punch. Careful, Miss, he’d hummed, struggling against a grin. They won’t ask us back if we break the good crystal.

She’d only considered the table, flushed and dewy, hair sticking to the back of her neck, and muttered, Maybe we should try again.

Lata would always harp on how a proper partner was the difference between a poor dancer and an unremarkable one— hear that Miss? Obi would sigh, he’s only asking us to be not bad— but Obi never quite believed him, not when six years of soirées and fraught night masques had only brought Miss up from active danger to potential disaster. But now, with His Majesty, she practically floats over the parquet, lighter than air, not a single stumble. And Obi—

Well, he doesn’t seethe with jealousy, not even a little. If there’s a little smolder in his chest, the barest simmer beneath his skin, well that’s just…heartburn. Got to avail himself of some of those little passed hors d’oeuvres going around.

“He knows how to handle her,” he admits, definitely not through his teeth. “You might not even have to ask them to bring the ice up, after all this.”

If Her Majesty were not the epitome of elegance and graciousness, then Obi would be half tempted to say she smirks. “She is much improved from the first time I saw you two dance. But that is not what I meant. Look.”

It’s an effort to scrape his gaze up from the floor, to let it linger over the scintillating sway of her skirt, to force it to rise up to where silk and lace give way to skin and see—

And see how her brow lies smooth, the corners of her eyes crinkled as even now she smiles. Not politely, not for show, but from joy, and she is— is—

Radiant.

“She would have made a pretty princess, wouldn’t she?” Her Majesty sighs, wistful. Obi watches Miss’s head tip back with a laugh, the long column of her neck exposed, and ah, he can’t disagree. “But not a happy one.”

Obi snaps his gaze down to stare, but the consort only smiles, watching her husband not so much dance as float across the floor. “What—?”

Miss might be the one who is the center of attention tonight, who is supposed to be the spectacle to which all noble eyes are drawn, but there’s quite a few that track the Countess of Yuris as she crosses the ballroom, dropping into a curtsy at the consort’s feet. Obi expects elbows and knees and feathers too, each inch ceded a battle Kihal refuses to be routed from, but instead—

Instead it’s so elegant she might well have been born to give them. A practiced motion, if not a sincere one. Which it isn’t, not when she straightens, head cocked, and demands, “And just what are you two whispering about?”

“What ifs.” Her Majesty’s mouth eases into a softer curve. “Could have beens.”

“You better not be having second thoughts.” If looks could kill, the one the newly-minted countess gives him would at least get him lost at sea. “Shirayuki is better than you deserve, no matter what fancy title they gussy you up with.”

Obi couldn’t agree more; even if he woke up tomorrow yoked by burden of a Your Highness, he’d still be a beggar in his mistress’s court, a interloper with no grace but what she deigned to give him. But to say so would spoil the sport; that arrogant little lift to Kihal’s chin would drop to something more earnest, her stormy eyes clearing to a gentler sea, and haah, death would be kinder than her pity.

Instead he cocks his head, an eyebrow following suite. “Now just how did you managed to sneak in here, your ladyship?”

“Sneak?” Her eyes flash, not like lightning or flame, but like a shadow cutting beneath the water. “I didn’t sneak in! I came through the door like everyone else, stupid fanfare and all!”

He hums, enjoying the way her fingers fist in flattering blue organza. “But I’d been under the impression you should be sweeping down the grand stair on Master’s arm, all eyes on you like the princess you will—?”

“Sh!” Kihal springs toward him, and oh, if they were not in front of the who’s-who of Wistal society, those hands would not be at her side. Too bad; it’s been ages since someone’s gagged him with any amount of intent. “The paperwork might be all signed and dried, but” —her voice drops down to little more than a hum above the music— “Izana thought it would be best not to announce our betrothal at a wedding that supposedly happened months ago.”

His grin stiffens, a dead thing collapsed across his face. “Well, that’s His Majesty for you. Always knows best.”

Her startled eyes try to catch his, but they’ve already skittered away, chasing after Miss’s skirts. Easy to find when the candles here set her alight, embers turning to flame as she turns in His Majesty’s arms.

“I can’t believe it.” Where Her Majesty alighted to the cushion that would serve as her throne for the evening, Kihal slumps, a round cheek dinted where it rests on her fist. “You really got her to go through with it.”

The consort’s polite smile takes a wicked edge. “You act as if it were any sort of challenge. I think you will find that Lady Shirayuki had few objections to how this particular arrangement unfolded.”

“I was hoping she’d come to her senses before paperwork got involved.” Kihal favors him with her most sour glare. “It’s bad enough I might have to listen to you as a peer, now she’s got to do it as your wife.”

“That so?” Obi leans in, letting his smile pull as wide as his patience. “You know what I heard? That—”

“Ah, is it over already?” Her Majesty sighs, so wistful he can’t help but trace her gaze out to the floor, to where the fire of Miss’s dress has banked, along with the music. “Ah, these first dances never last long enough. But at least that means you have opportunity enough to ask your wife to—”

“Too late,” he snorts, watching as Miss is flooded with partners, each more well-turned and -titled than the last. “I think my mistress’s dance card is full.”

The consort’s smile curls at a corner. “Well then, maybe if you ask Countess Yuris to oblige you, you might have the opportunity to cut in.”

He glances down at where Kihal lounges, her scowl conveying how unlikely a favor that is to be granted. But this is hardly Obi’s first time haggling at the market; he keeps his eyes fixed on her, stare as steady as his brow is arched, is that your final offer? implied.

With a sigh forceful enough to make waves, she relents. “Fine. But only because I know you’re more tolerable than an actual lord.”

*

It’s not until they’ve taken their places, the frantic beat of a a polka sweeping the floor, that Obi realizes: he has never danced with anyone but Miss. A natural fleetness of foot and years of learning to anticipate his mistress’s specific flavor of clumsiness has kept his toes from being bruises, but two gallops about the floor with the young countess in his arms, and—

Ah, well, she’s certainly not as graceful as the other ladies on the floor, but she doesn’t need his help. Insists on not taking it, really, nearly wresting the lead from him when he takes a hop too slow before a turn.

“I thought,” she grits out, “that a footpad would be lighter on his feet.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my lady.” He grins into the gale of her glare. “I was a thief, not a highwayman.”

And assassin, too, but he hardly thinks she’ll appreciate that detail. “Then you have even less of an excuse,” she huffs. “What did you do? Stomp around and pick pockets? Honestly.”

It’s not that Obi’s competitive. Well, he is, but that has nothing to do with the way he pulls himself straight, shoulders squaring until every inch could pass for a lord. His arm tightens around her waist, anchoring her to him, and with a smile that would make a shiver go down the spine of every guardsman in Wirant, Obi flings her into her next partner.

“Hey!” she gasps, on her return. “You could have warned me.”

“You wanted me to lead, didn’t you?” he hums, guiding them through their next bout of hops and turns. “So I led.”

There’s not a lot of extra breath to go around— the court loved to keep its waltzes lively, let alone their polkas— but she spares one to huff, “You might actually be fun, if you weren’t so obnoxious.”

He lets his mouth hook at a corner, parting for the barest flash of teeth. “Part of my charm, so I’m told.”

“Funny,” she grunts, obliging him to lift her— only a few inches, enough to guide her into the next turn. “I don’t think that’s how Zen put it.”

His grin hones sharp enough to gleam. “He wouldn’t.”

The dance separates them for a long moment; Kihal spins out with grace, footwork clean if not particularly inspired, before falling into him again, a frown marring the skin between her eyebrows.

“There’s not many of our neighbors here,” she remarks, the way the consort might on the weather or the cut of his coat. “Just the two of us.”

“And Lata,” he reminds her, grinning into her glare. Still, the observation sobers him. “A couple of nights ago our favorite traitor mentioned he didn’t see any northern lords in attendance either. Not besides Miss Kiki— and, I suppose, Sir.”

“Hisame Luigis.” It’s good to know there’s a name that can make her face darken quicker than his. “I hate to give anything he says any credence, but he’s right. I know Izana only wanted a guest list that would keep their mouths shut about the date, but…”

But if Obi were to write the list himself, there’s a bunch of friendly faces that would be here that he can’t help but notice are not.

Kihal heaves another sigh. “I can’t believe Izana’s shoving me into this whole thing with only you to back me up.”

“Oh? Is that so?” He lets his mouth hook into a grin. “That’s not what I heard.”

She blinks, passing around his back before she snaps, “What?”

“I heard…” He leans down, enjoying the way her nose wrinkles. “That you asked them to give me Conti.”

Her jaw drops. “E-excuse me?”

“His Majesty said you practically begged.”

Her cheeks flush, not the way Miss’s does, all pink and hot, but the way his does, just the subtle darkening of the flesh pulled taut across her cheekbones. “He did not.”

He didn’t, but it’s more fun to smirk as they sashay another step or two, to put a little more glee into his clap. “He told me that you made it a condition of your engagement. Because you trusted me.”

“I-I…” Oh, if he knew this was going to make her so left footed, he would have brought it up half a dozen turns ago. “I just thought you’d be an easy lord to throw over, if you made yourself too obnoxious. Can’t use any of your thief skills on a boat.”

“You know what I think?” He favors her with his smarmiest grin. “I think you like me! You might even find me tolera—”

A hand clamps down hard on his shoulder, holding him in place. Not for the first time, Obi curses Mister’s preternatural instinct when it comes to ruining his fun. “Ah, excuse me, Ki— er, my lady,” Sir says, a polite smile stretching his mouth. “But I’m afraid that I must—”

“Ooooh, are you cutting in, Sir?” Obi gasps, hand pressed to his cravat. “I knew I didn’t practice the lady’s part for nothing.”

“N-no!” Sir doesn’t scowl, but he comes close enough to give him a shiver. “I was only going to say that I was sorry I was going to have to steal you away. You’re needed elsewhere. Right now.”

“Please.” Her eyes roll, like a ship on a storm’s swell. “Don’t apologize, Sir Mitsuhide. You’re doing me a favor taking him off my hands.”

“Aw, now that’s not—”

Sir’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “I thought that might be the case. Come on, Obi, you’re needed…elsewhere.”