Two Princes

11. A Match Made In Heaven

Meliodas narrows his eyes, a shade of emerald darkened by emotion, at his reflection in the golden liquid that froths in a wooden tankard before him.

"You idiot," he mutters. "You love dancing."

And wouldn't he like nothing more than to spin Elizabeth elegantly around a dance floor by the hand, watch her sapphire eyes sparkle under dim light, admire the flash of white skin beneath a skirt whirling about her legs.

Yes. The word slices through his alcoholic fog so clearly it's as though it's been shouted in an empty room, and he winces. Clenching one hand into a fist, he lifts the mug of ale in his other hand and guzzles it down.

❤︎

Okay, Elizabeth. Focus. You can do this. Elizabeth paces around her bedroom, alternately wringing her hands together and twisting a strand of silver hair come loose from her braid. Just...tell him the truth. No, that might be too much; he doesn't HAVE to know everything. But tell him you don't want to be with him. No, too harsh. You've found somebody else. Maybe, but that might start something... She shudders at the thought of Arthur and Meliodas possibly coming to blows over her. If Meliodas would even be interested in her at all, after the fact.

Okay. Tell him you don't want to go to the dance with him. Yes, that's simple enough, and if he asks why not... She stops short. What then? What could she say to diffuse any conflict, to dissuade any hope of a reconciliation, but to also be amicable? And then, even if she is successful in all of that, what if she arrives at the dance with Meliodas, and Arthur is there, and a fight ensues, anyway?

She plops down on the rug, drawing her knees to her chest, and rests her head in her hands. Her temples are beginning to pound. Love is such a complicated thing.

Love. Her head snaps up, startled at the turn her thoughts have taken. Does she...love one of them? Both of them? Could she?

Arthur hasn't questioned why she hasn't returned his sentiment yet, even though he reminds her every day. Perhaps he doesn't want to put any pressure on her; perhaps it doesn't matter to him whether she loves him or not, so long as they are together and happy.

Happy. She's always been happy with Arthur, even when they were only good friends. He makes her smile, always remembers her birthday, always walks on the outer edge of the sidewalk so she may be safe from any stray cars, never belittles her opinion or feelings. They rarely disagree. "A match made in heaven," their fathers used to tease.

A match made in heaven, indeed.

What of heaven, anyway? If the goddesses of the Britannian myths were real, what might they have to say about either match? And...for that matter...what of her mother?

"Mom," Elizabeth moans. "What would you tell me to do?"

"What do you think she would tell you to do, Elizabeth?"

Her eyes fly to the doorway and she lets out a startled cry. Smiling sweetly as ever, Arthur walks into the room and offers a hand to help Elizabeth to her feet. They sit down together on the window seat. "What is it, Ellie?"

"N-n-nothing," she stammers out, staring at her mint green pedicure.

"Come on, Ellie. I know you better than that." He softens his voice. "You'd be going to your sisters for advice if it weren't so important. Not asking for your mom."

"They already gave me advice," she mumbles, and picks at a thread of embroidery on the cushion. She knows it's a weak excuse.

"Well. Whenever you're ready to talk about it, then, I'll be ready to listen. Okay?" He pulls her to him in a one-armed hug.