Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Now halfway through his summer of weddings, Yuri’s sure that his arrangement with Bernadetta has turned out to be a good idea.

He doesn’t have to look far for examples. It’s been nice to have someone familiar at his side during all the boring and awkward moments of a wedding, someone to share sideways glances with. After two or so months of regular conversation, Yuri thinks he’s found a rhythm with Bernadetta again.

But still, that doesn’t mean that this arrangement was a smart idea.

Because with every text she sends, every inside joke shyly whispered under her breath, and every cup of coffee they meet up for under the guise of forming a “strategy,” Yuri finds himself growing more and more—

Confused, is how he’ll put it. 

It’s not an all-consuming feeling; in fact, it had been so subtle that he hadn’t noticed it at first. Even now, he can barely name it. Yuri’s mastered the art of avoiding difficult subjects—the fact that his confronter is his own brain doesn’t change that. The feeling he gets around Bernadetta is stomach-curdling yet not wholly unpleasant, and it’s easy enough to put out of mind. 

For the most part. 

For a long time, Bernadetta’s been wholly in his past. And now, Yuri’s grown used to her being a part of his present, and that critical, over-thinking part of his mind wonders if that has any implications for his future—

But he always slams the gate closed before he can ever go down that road. There’s no use wasting precious waking energy on nonsense hypotheticals. Nothing Yuri can conjure is real, and he’s never had an especially vivid imagination anyways. 

Especially not compared to Bernadetta von Varley. 

“...I’ll lose the third sheet of my speech,” the purple-haired woman rambles, bouncing her knee against the seat in a way Yuri would find endearing if Bernadetta wasn't currently disturbing his already limited airplane legroom. “And then I just stop talking because, hello, I’ve forgotten what I was going to say? And while everyone is looking for the paper, Dorothea will start crying, and then Petra will start crying too, and then they'll beat me up, and then I’ll start choking because it turns out I accidentally swallowed the paper in my sleep— ”

Bernadetta pauses, shuddering, which is only enough to make Yuri glance up from his magazine for the briefest of moments. He’d say he hadn’t been expecting this when he’d asked Bernadetta what her wedding speech plan was, but then he’d be lying. 

“And then?” Yuri prods.

“And then I die,” Bernadetta declares. Yuri thinks the story she’s telling is supposed to be horrifying, but Bernadetta delivers her words with such relish that she seems almost excited. “Right there on the beach. You leave me there for the sand to wash over me, like sea glass.” 

She pauses to take a sip from the plastic cup of water on her tray table. 

“And that’s what’s going to happen when I give my speech.” 

“Fascinating,” Yuri says. “I mean, I would have appreciated a heads up, if you already knew how it was going to go. I would have brought a beach shovel.” 

Bernadetta groans and drapes herself across her seat. It’s meant to be a scene of anguish, but the bright yellow blanket around Bernadetta’s shoulders and the flower-patterned notebook she’s despairing over—both brought from home, of course—clash terribly. They’re honestly lucky that they have the aisle to themselves, considering how Bernadetta’s things have a habit of spilling out of their designated places. 

(The corgi-shaped pencil case currently taking up a third of Yuri’s tray table is enough proof of that.)

The first half of their eight hour flight to Brigid had been calm enough. Yuri had gotten the window seat, but the view’s nothing but ocean and the occasional island. Bernadetta had fallen asleep the second they’d gotten to their seats, given the early hour and how airports exhaust her, and Yuri had spent most of that time watching the first half of various free movies. He’d woken her up during the meal service, though, and watched her pick through soggy green beans and sweaty rice for the better part of lunch before she’d finally said what was on her mind.

As the maid of honor for not just one bride, but both,  Bernadetta’s expected to stand up front during the ceremony and give a speech afterwards. And even though Yuri would never say this out loud, he has no idea in hell why Dorothea and Petra thought that would be a good idea. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in Bernadetta—it’s more that Yuri can’t fathom why their friends would put that kind of pressure on her in the first place. 

“Bernadetta,” Yuri says, trying to phrase his next question with some delicacy. “Dorothea and Petra must really adore you. You know, I’d say that most weddings have two people of honor—”

“It’s just because Edelgard couldn’t make it!” Bernadetta says, cutting through Yuri’s wordy machinations with a whine. “Edelgard couldn’t make it, so they made me maid of honor for both of them. I can’t believe Edelgard would abandon me for no reason.” 

“Isn’t she arguing against deforestation legislation in Enbarr right now?” Yuri asks, trying to recall this morning’s headline. Yuri’s only seen Edelgard—or as most people would know her as, Congresswoman von Hresvelg—in person once, at Dimitri’s wedding.

Bernadetta sulks. “...Yes.” 

“Ah. How unspeakably cruel and evil of her,” Yuri says dryly, which makes Bernadetta frown more. 

“Hey! It’s not that I don’t know her job is important, or something like that! I just...I wanted Edelgard to be able to make it, you know? And I can’t make speeches like she can. And I know that Edelgard not being able to attend made Dorothea and Petra really sad, even though she sent them a grand piano as a wedding present and paid for their honeymoon.”

“Goddess. Did she really? Remind me to invite her if I ever get married,” Yuri says. 

Bernadetta’ mouth quirks up at his quip, but her expression quickly falls again, so Yuri tucks away his sarcasm for a later time. He sets his magazine down and snatches a pen from Bernadetta’s pencil case instead, nodding in the direction of her notebook.

“If you’re nervous about your speech, I’ll help you practice it. Let’s hear what you have so far,” Yuri says, doing his best to be as encouraging as possible. It’s not in his nature to be particularly accommodating, but Bernadetta’s hesitancy doesn’t annoy him the way others’ do. 

Maybe it’s because he trusts her to meet him halfway. 

Bernadetta gathers up her courage just at the moment that thought occurs, sparing Yuri from having to dig any deeper into his feelings. 

“Um, okay. If you’re sure. But no laughing, and you can’t share it with anyone at the wedding! Not even as a joke!” Bernadetta says. Yuri raises his left hand in a mock salute.

“Scout’s honor.” 

Bernadetta wrinkles her nose. “You weren’t a scout.” 

“Do you want me to swear on my honor?” Yuri says, then nudges Bernadetta with his elbow. “Bernadetta, please, I’m dying to hear your speech.” 

It takes her a minute or two for Bernadetta to steady herself. There’s soft, unintelligible chatter from further down the plane, and there’s the occasional chime from the overhead, but their aisle is otherwise quiet. When she’s ready, Bernadetta opens the notebook, angles it so that Yuri can’t see the page, and then starts reading. 

“Er, welcome dear guests. My name is Bernadetta von Varley. I’m the maid of honor for the brides. Uh, I’ve known Dorothea for a long time. I met Dorothea when I was fourteen and I played in the orchestra for the spring musical, and she was singing. In the musical. And then I met Petra after that, in university,” Bernadetta says. Her voice is stiff and unemotive, and while she doesn’t stammer on any of the words, she hesitates a great deal between them. Yuri gives Bernadetta his best motivating smile, but she keeps her eyes rigidly on the notebook. 

“Petra and I were roommates in university, and then Dorothea came to Enbarr and then they got together. And they’re still together right now, which is great!” Bernadetta says, and her voice goes up in what Yuri thinks is supposed to be enthusiasm, but her strained tone makes it sound more like a question. “Then they got engaged and I was asked to be their maid of honor. Now here I am. Congratulations on being married!”

She gives a little half-hearted fist pump, which is the only indicator Yuri gets that her speech is over. 

“Well, that was...short,” Yuri says.

Bernadetta groans. 

“It’s really bad! It’s really, really bad!” she says. Yuri wants to say something kind (what it would be, he isn’t really sure), but Bernadetta clamps her hand over his face. “Don’t give me fake compliments to make me feel better, Yuri.” 

Gingerly, Yuri pries Bernadetta’s small, surprisingly-strong fingers off of his jaw. “Fine. It’s bad. You sound like you’re reciting a very shitty abbreviated autobiography at gunpoint.” 

Bernadetta doesn’t seem hurt by his blunt tone; if anything, she seems vindicated. “See! You agree with me. You know, if I hide in our room, you can catch Petra before the ceremony and tell her I drowned in the ocean. She’ll be sad, maybe, but then I won’t have to give the speech!” 

“Bernadetta, that idea is terrible. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to at least try it out. But if Dorothea even caught wind of that, she’d murder me. So let’s not, hm?” Yuri says, leaning over Bernadetta’s shoulder to get a closer look at the notebook. Most of her hair’s been tied back, but a few stray strands of it still tickle his face at this close proximity.

Yuri nudges Bernadetta again. “I didn’t know you and Petra were roommates,” he says, trying to draw her into a more productive conversation. 

“Just for a little bit, in our third year of university. It was really stupid—there was some issue with her student visa and she couldn’t get housing, so she stayed with me until they sorted it out,” Bernadetta says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It was pretty fun, though! Petra taught me all sorts of recipes from Brigid, and we played a lot of poker.” 

“Hm. And then she met Dorothea when she came to visit?” Yuri asks. He knows this part of the story more or less; he’d gone to the same college as Dorothea for his bachelor’s and had heard snippets about her history with Petra, but he’s mostly asking to hear Bernadetta talk.

“Yeah, it was a lucky coincidence! I was going to the theater with Thea, but I got a really bad cold and Petra went with her instead,” Bernadetta says, fiddling with the pages of her notebook. “It was really sweet, actually—they came home, and they were so happy they looked like they were glowing.”

“Bernadetta, you’re a dirty liar,” Yuri says. “You tell me you don't know what to say about them, and then you come out with all this sentiment.” 

She scrunches her face up in confusion, and Yuri pokes her on the nose, which makes her wrinkle her face up more and bat his hand away. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re all good friends. Why don’t you just write down everything you just told me and use that? Just jot down anything sweet and sappy about Petra and Dorothea in that notebook of yours and be yourself,” Yuri says. 

Bernadetta’s ridiculous blanket is wrapped around her like thick, fluffy armor, but Yuri manages to prop his chin on her shoulder anyways, watching as she writes down her memories: her handwriting is shaky at first, but her confidence grows with every line until she’s managed to fill up eleven whole pages.

Yuri takes the notebook from her once she’s finished, thumbing through the heavily-inked pages. They’ll have to cut some of this down so the speech doesn’t end up lasting longer than the wedding ceremony itself, but he thinks they’re off to a great start. 

“Petra, look, it’s our favorite guest!” 

Dorothea Arnault sprints forward—impressive, considering the height of her heels—her satin skirt flashing in the artificial lights of the hotel lobby as she barrels towards Bernadetta. The purple-haired woman barely has enough time to exchange a startled glance with Yuri before she's nearly knocked off of her feet by the force of Dorothea’s hug. 

“Oh, Bern, you look so pretty! Your hair’s so long now, I don’t think I’ve seen it this long since—ever, maybe. You have to let me braid it when we have some free time,” Dorothea says, her arms still tightly bundled around Bernadetta’s shoulders. “And your skin is glowing ! It hasn’t been the same around Enbarr since you moved back to Garreg Mach.”

“I missed you too, Dorothea,” Bernadetta says, sounding a little suffocated, but happy all the same.

“I’m just dying to hear about your new studio, it looks so cute in the photos you sent me. I’m so happy you’re here! I’ve just missed you so much, Bern,” Dorothea says, kissing Bernadetta twice on both cheeks before releasing her. 

“Hello,” Yuri says helpfully from where he’s still standing with their luggage. “I’m here as well.” 

“Oh, hi Yuri,” Dorothea says, her eyes barely leaving Bernadetta’s face. Yuri sighs, exasperated, but takes a few steps closer towards where Dorothea and Bernadetta are lingering. Petra is still a couple of paces behind Dorothea, and she gives Yuri a look somewhere between sympathetic and amused.

“You never fail to make a man feel appreciated, ladybird,” Yuri says dryly, even as Dorothea flits away from Bernadetta to kiss Yuri as well. 

She laughs. “I’d hope not, actually.” 

Dorothea steps back to lace her fingers in with Petra’s. They’re both dressed in simple but breezy clothing, Dorothea in a shimmering slip dress and Petra in a linen jumpsuit. Yuri’s desperate to go up to his room and change; Brigid has a tropical climate, and between the flight and the boat ride to outer island, Yuri’s been in this outfit for fourteen hours.

The bright yellow blanket from the plane is still draped over Bernadetta’s shoulders like a cape, and Yuri has no idea how she hasn’t passed out from heat stroke yet. 

“I am glad to see that both of you have arrived safely, and even happier than you could make it to our celebrations. Has the resort been alright so far?” Petra asks, a small smile gracing her face as she greets them. She’s usually more stoic than her fiance, but it’s clear that the pre-wedding excitement has gotten to her as well. 

“It’s so pretty, Petra! I feel like I’ve stepped into a picture book—I can’t believe this place is real!” Bernadetta says. 

“It’s really spectacular,” Yuri agrees. It’s his first time in Brigid, having never had the means or time to travel abroad in his youth, and he’s almost embarrassed by how much the natural beauty of the island moves him. 

Meanwhile, Bernadetta seems to take in the resort’s ridiculously gorgeous scenery in stride—Yuri remembers stories of her summer vacations in Dagda or her family trips to Sreng from their childhood, but he doesn’t remember her enjoying them all too much. 

“Thank you! The piña wall hanging was made by my great-aunts, and the baston over there belonged to my great-grandfather—although, I did try and use it once when I was little,” Petra says, smiling. “My family is very proud of what we have made here, and so I’m so happy to hear you two enjoy it as well.” 

Her tone is casual, but it’s only then that Yuri remembers the extreme wealth and power of Petra’s family—the reason why his stay is free, after all, is because the Macnearys own the resort. Petra’s remarkably down-to-earth, however, and doesn’t tend to flaunt the fact.

“Petra’s family is the nicest. Her grandfather is so sweet. He was so excited that he bought a chuppah for the wedding, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’m not really religious,” Dorothea says, beaming, while Petra covers her own face in embarrassment. 

“I told him not to do that. Our officiant is secular, and my vows are from our tribe’s traditional beliefs. It will be a...situation,” she says, and then shakes her head. “Dorothea had a much better term for it.” 

Dorothea pats Petra’s hand sympathetically. “I believe I called it a religious clusterfuck, but you really shouldn’t worry about it, dear. It was very kind of your grandfather, and I did want to throw a lot of glass on the floor anyways. Maybe our Yurikins can sing a hymn for the Goddess, and we can try for a full traditions bingo.” 

“Very funny,” Yuri drawls. “But after the last wedding I went to, I’ve had enough of hymns for a damn lifetime.” 

“They were much longer than I thought they would be, but we fudged them well,” Bernadetta agrees. The corners of Yuri’s mouth quirk up at that. He’s grown to be quite fond of the memory, but the pleasant feeling is killed when he notices the appraising look in Dorothea’s eyes.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Yurikins, Bern, but does that mean you two have been to another wedding together?” Dorothea asks. Her smile is wide and pearlescent and entirely too knowing. 

Bernadetta seems to catch on to the implication behind Dorothea’s words, but only half of it. “Not like that! We’ve just gone to a few weddings together as friends, you know, to make everything easier.” 

“A few weddings? More than just ours and the other one?” Dorothea asks, gripping onto Petra’s hand tightly and looking towards Bernadetta as if the woman is telling some sort of epic tale.

“Um, I think it’s been three so far, if you include Dimitri’s…” Bernadetta says, furrowing her brow as she tries to remember back through the summer. “Four, including this one? So, uh, three-and-a-half?”

Dorothea flicks a long strand of chestnut brown hair over her shoulder. “Well, Bern, that’s quite the strategy! I’m almost jealous, you know, Goddess knows I’ve sat through some really dull weddings where some eye candy would have helped.” 

She winks at Yuri then, a little flirtatious, but mostly just to get a reaction from him. Yuri’s smile tightens. Petra seems to be intrigued a normal amount—that is, listening politely with no real investment in the story, but Yuri wishes Petra would stop her fiance because Dorothea knows too much.

And unlike Hapi, Dorothea’s knowledge is all first-hand. 

“It was actually Yuri’s good idea,” Bernadetta says, her face so earnest that Yuri can’t be upset with her, even as she keeps unknowingly digging Yuri’s grave deeper and deeper. Dorothea’s expression slips for the briefest of moments into surprise, but her smile is quickly set back into place. 

“Oh, well, that makes sense,” Dorothea says, turning her smile towards him. “He’s always been our little smartie. You know, sometimes I wish I could get a good look into that brain of yours, Yurikins. Figure what makes you tick.” 

“You’re a relentless flatterer as always, Dorothea. If you did find out, would you be kind enough to let me know?” Yuri asks. 

That, at least, makes Dorothea laugh. “Of course. You’ll be among the first.” 

Petra nudges Dorothea’s shoulder. “I forgot how long you have all known each other. I speak to my own friends from secondary school often, and it is nice to have that unique dynamic.” 

“It can be,” Yuri says, and even though Petra’s referring to all three of them, his instinct is to look to Bernadetta for her reaction. She doesn’t seem to be anything other than happy and a little jet-lagged, which makes sense, because there’s nothing off about Petra’s remark whatsoever. 

Nothing intentional, at least. 

“Well, I believe that Dorothea and I have kept you here for long enough. Why don’t you go and settle into your suite and freshen up however you need to?” Petra says, removing her hand from Dorothea’s to smooth down her collar. “Dorothea, I have to introduce you to those cousins of mine that arrived early, but Yuri, Bernadetta, we will meet you down here in the evening for dinner. Does that sound alright?”

“If it won’t be a bother for you guys—sure! That sounds fun!” Bernadetta says. “Yuri, what do you think?”

One look at Dorothea’s sharp eyes tells him that she has no intention of letting him leave the island without giving her some answers, which is enough to make Yuri want to pull a Bernadetta and make an excuse to stay in his room. He opens his mouth, intending to do just that, but—

Maybe it’s a hallucination brought on by the fact that Yuri’s slept a total of four hours in the past day, or by the vivid sun filtering in through the windows, but Bernadetta beams like she’s glowing, and he can’t say no to her.

“Why not?” Yuri says, and he meets Dorothea’s gaze steadily. She smiles, genuinely this time. 

“I can’t wait to see you both at dinner,” Dorothea says as they turn to leave, fluttering her fingers towards them. “I feel like we have so much to catch up on.”    

The afternoon passes quickly; Yuri more or less collapses the second they unlock their room, folding himself up on the sofa to take a nap. He manages to mutter something about waking him up before dinner, but he can’t be entirely sure because of how jetlagged his mind is. Vaguely, he hears the sound of Bernadetta rustling around the room as he drifts off to sleep, and perhaps voices from the television, but he’s too exhausted to make any sense of the noises. 

His sleep is dreamless; Bernadetta carefully nudges him awake when it’s time to get ready for dinner, and Yuri sits up with a yawn. 

His neck hurts from the awkward angle he had slept at, and his eyes are incredibly dry, but he manages to squeeze in a shower, makeup, and a change of clothes before they have to leave for dinner. Bernadetta is waiting for him when he joins her in the hall; she must have gotten ready while he was asleep, because her hair has been freshly washed and straightened, and she’s exchanged her travel clothes for a neatly-ironed dress. 

“Did you sleep okay?” Bernadetta asks, her hands nervously darting against his shirtsleeves, as if she can’t decide whether or not to hold onto his arm. “Sorry, I didn’t know if I was being loud or something. You looked so tired, I didn’t want to bother you—”

“Ha, nothing to worry about. I slept fine. Well, about as soundly as you’d expect on a couch that big,” Yuri says, waving his right hand dismissively. The hallway between suites is made out of a polished, gleaming stone, and their voices echo around the space as they make their way towards the elevator.

“There was a bed in the bedroom, you know,” Bernadetta says. From anyone else, stating the obvious would sound condescending at best, but Bernadetta looks genuinely concerned for him. 

“I hadn’t known. No, I didn’t want to get into the bed while I was all covered in molecules and bits of Goddess-knows-what from the plane,” Yuri says. His skin prickles slightly just at the thought of it, and he brushes nonexistent dust off of his shirt. “What were you up to?” 

Bernadetta watches his hands as he fidgets, before catching herself and quickly looking away. “I unpacked some of my stuff and hung my dress for the wedding up—you’re supposed to let fancy clothes breathe, right? But dresses don’t —um, anyways. I watched some TV in the room, but I couldn’t find any channels that weren’t in Brigadese, so I made some coffee and reread my speech instead. Then I showered and got ready. It was pretty boring.” 

They arrive at the elevators, and Yuri pushes the down button. Bernadetta gives him a sideways glance and leans over to press the button after him, despite the fact that the button’s already been lit up and the elevator’s already been called for. Yuri rolls his eyes and tucks his hand into his trousers pocket, half-amused. 

“What’s that for?” Yuri asks. “Did I not push it well enough for you?” 

Bernadetta ducks her head, looking flustered but unashamed. “My uncle and I—the fun one, not the pretentious one, if you remember him—used to make a game out of seeing who could go for the button first.”

“Ah. And you couldn’t stand to see me win,” Yuri nods, partially out of understanding, and mostly just to get a rise out of her. 

“You—You didn’t win! It doesn’t count as a win if you didn’t know you were playing,” Bernadetta says, every bit as petulant as Yuri remembers her being whenever he’d forget some detail about their fictional playground world. She seems to realize it as well, and tries to school her features into an aloof expression, which only makes her pout more pronounced.

Yuri laughs. “Relax, Bee. I don’t care about about winning games like that—” 

The soft chime of an elevator arriving cuts him off, and Yuri only gets the briefest of moments to exchange a look with Bernadetta before they’re running through the open door and into the (blessedly empty) elevator, both scrabbling to hit the lobby button first. 

They’re still out of breath when they meet up with Petra and Dorothea, but the women are, respectively, polite and calculating enough to not bring up Yuri’s flyaways or Bernadetta’s very obvious expression of triumph. 

Dinner is a pleasant, if slightly dull affair. The restaurant is located on property and serves cuisine that Yuri thinks is more or less authentic, give or take a few decorative flourishes and the steep upcharge. Despite all of Yuri’s expectations, conversation flows smoothly between the four of them; Petra asks about Yuri’s line of work, Dorothea talks about their plans for the honeymoon, and no topic brought up is uncomfortable or strained. 

That only makes Yuri more tense. He hides it well throughout dinner—he always does—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s about to be made to confront something he has no interest in acknowledging. Dorothea isn’t familiar with him in the comfortable way that Bernadetta is; Dorothea knows him through sheer, impressive force of will. He understands her much in the same way, which is why Yuri spends most of dinner trying to send her a silent message as subtly and desperately as possible. 

Don’t say anything, Yuri not-begs with his eyes, smoothly brushing his fingers over the stem of his wine glass. Don’t ask me about anything, because it’s not anything.

But Dorothea doesn’t say a thing. Not when Bernadetta excitedly details their time sharing a cabin together, not when Yuri instinctively takes the asparagus off of Bernadetta’s place, and not even when Bernadetta stumbles around the topic of high school before quickly redirecting. 

The days are long in Brigid this time of year; the stars are just coming out as Petra and Dorothea wish them a good night and depart. It’s incredibly peaceful here on the resort, with only the distant sound of waves crashing against the white sand on the beach, and the occasional murmurs of other guests breaking the mellow quiet. Yuri walks with his jacket draped over one arm, an exhausted, caffeine-crashed Bernadetta clinging to the other. 

He pulls her back from walking into a wall, yet again. “Watch where you’re going. I know you failed swim class, and I barely passed, so I can’t save you if you fall into the ocean,” Yuri warns.

Bernadetta sleepily blinks back at him. “I’m not going to fall into the ocean, Yuri.” 

“Because I’m here,” Yuri points out. “Here to keep absentminded young women from tripping into fountains and running off of staircases.” 

They reach the elevators. Yuri pushes the button, and Bernadetta lets out an unhappy grumble but doesn’t seem to have enough energy to fight him on it. He’s glad that Bernadetta’s not ill-mannered when she’s tired, at least, unlike Hapi or Constance. Bernadetta’s more clingy and a little helpless when exhausted, if anything, and Yuri is well aware that all he’s doing is indulging her. 

Still, he lets her rest her face against his shoulder as he half-walks, half-drags them towards their room. 

“When you were twelve, for instance,” Yuri continues, even though he’s not entirely sure Bernadetta is listening to him, “you were so excited to see me after class you ran towards me and forgot you were wearing those stupid wheeled shoes.” 

“Heelies,” Bernadetta mutters into his arm as Yuri unlocks their door. 

“You slid down the hallway like a bowling ball,” Yuri said, amused at the memory only because she had emerged unharmed. “You could have bowled a strike.” 

She pokes him in the side. “You’re so unfair.” 

“If you’ve only just realized that after twenty years, I feel very sorry for you,” Yuri says. Despite the fact that he knows she isn’t looking at him, he smiles. 

Yuri closes the door of the suite behind them, takes off his shoes, and lets Bernadetta hold onto him for balance as she kicks hers off as well. Yuri insists that Bernadetta use the bathroom first, because he knows that she’s more tired than he is, and he’ll be damned if any friend of his ever sleeps in their makeup. After they’re both done washing up, Yuri drags his suitcase into the room and begins getting ready for bed. 

There’s an obvious, immediate problem: 

They seem to be missing a bed. 

The one that has been provided for them is ridiculously big, one that looks like it could sleep a full family of four and still have room to spare, but a single bed all the same. Its crisp white sheets are neatly made (although Bernadetta, who’s knocking off pillows and pulling up the tucked-in duvet is making quick work of undoing that), and an elaborately woven blanket is laid into a tidy square. Yuri stands in place as Bernadetta tiptoes around the room in her This is Dorte t-shirt and pajama shorts, a pillow tucked under each arm. 

“I’ll call the front desk and ask if we can switch rooms,” Yuri says, making towards the phone on the nightstand. 

“Wh—” Bernadetta cuts herself with a shuddering yawn and crawls into the bed, still clutching the pillows. “Why?” 

“Bernadetta, we’re missing a bed.” 

“Oh.” She looks around the room as if she’s just realized where they are, and then shakes her head. “Do we have to? I just want to sleep. But I can take some pillows and go to the couch—” 

Bernadetta sits up, but Yuri pushes her back down; it doesn’t take a lot of strength to do so, since Bernadetta doesn’t seem to have the energy or conviction in her to really protest. 

“Like hell you are,” Yuri says, and Bernadetta closes her eyes, frowning slightly even as she tips back against the pillows. “What kind of bastard do you think I am? I’ll go.” 

“Yuri, today’s been so long and I’m tired. I don’t know, I don’t really care if we both sleep here for the night. We can fix it tomorrow when we’re more...awake, or something. I’m too cozy now,” Bernadetta says. 

Yuri relents and makes a rather dramatic show out of complying, flourishing one of the many, many pillows on his side of the bed as he settles in. The mattress is wide enough that Yuri fits comfortably without touching Bernadetta, but he’s still hyper aware of the warmth of her presence only a couple of inches away. 

It reminds him of being in the cabin, and Yuri very consciously does not look towards her as he turns off the bedside light. A comfortable, sea breeze-cooled darkness envelopes the room, and that almost makes everything easier.

“Seriously,” Yuri says, rolling onto his side to face Bernadetta. He wouldn’t usually be so inclined to overthink sharing a bed with another person, but this isn’t any one person —it’s Bernadetta, and he’d rather triple-check than allow the possibility of hurting her. “Are you sure? I don’t particularly care—”

A lie. 

“—But I don’t want you to have second thoughts. I’d just feel very sorry if you woke up in the middle of the night to get some water, switched the light on, and turned to my gorgeous, shirtless chest and fell instantaneously and maddeningly in love. Like that story of Eros and the candle girl,” Yuri says, and his joking tone doesn’t mask the cocktail of emotions within him as well as he’d like.

He hears Bernadetta shift against the duvet. “Oh, you’re not wearing a shirt,” she says faintly. If she’s scandalized, she’s far too tired to express it, instead sounding seconds away from falling asleep. “If you’re cold, I brought you your sweatshirt.”

It takes Yuri a moment to remember what sweatshirt she’s talking about, exactly, and when he lands on it, he can feel his heart pang bittersweetly within his chest. He wants to remind her that it isn’t his, and that he’d only borrowed it for that one evening, but Yuri selfishly doesn’t want her to stop associating it with him.

Goddess help him, he likes that Bernadetta’s thinking of their lives as shared.

But Yuri would rather choke on the decorative tassels of the blanket than admit that out loud to himself, let alone anyone else, let alone her. He’s selfish enough to linger on, to live in moments like these, but he’s a better man than who he was ten years ago. Yuri’s not letting himself hurt her.

Not again. 

So he turns back away from her, his arms stiffly at his side, like a fence between them, and stubbornly keeps his eyes trained onto the dark nothingness of the ceiling.

“No, I’m fine,” Yuri murmurs. “Good night, Bernadetta.” 

All of his steadfastness ends up being a complete and utter waste of time, it turns out, because when Yuri wakes up the next morning, Bernadetta is more or less on top of him in the world’s most ridiculous interpretation of cuddling, with her face pressed against his collarbones, and his arm draped around her waist. The entirety of the duvet’s wrapped around Bernadetta so tightly that she looks like a sausage bun. 

That, plus the fact that Yuri is simultaneously very hot (because of Bernadetta) and very cold (because of Bernadetta’s blanket thievery), at least manages to take some sentimentality out of this intimate distance. 

Yuri untangles himself away from Bernadetta as gently as he can, careful not to disturb her. He strides into the bathroom the moment he’s free, rapidly splashing cold water onto his face in an attempt to snap him into a more manageable lucidity. It means that his bangs stick rather miserably onto his face, but it more-or-less works. By the time Bernadetta manages to drag herself out of bed, Yuri’s sitting prettily by the hotel room desk, already changed and made up. 

It’s a busy day for Bernadetta, whose duties as the maid of honor mean that final rehearsals and logistics will be taking up most of her schedule. Yuri, who’s a lower priority on the guest hierarchy, doesn’t have much planned beyond ironing his shirt and maybe checking out the resort’s beach.

They share a quick breakfast of hot tea, banana muffin, and airplane pretzels before Bernadetta has to go meet up with Petra. After she leaves, Yuri spends most of the morning wandering aimlessly around the resort, browsing through the boutiques on the ground level and getting a coffee at the cafe just for the hell of it. The area is all very beautiful and well-maintained, but Yuri finds it desperately boring; the resort has been closed off to any guests not attending the wedding (one of the advantages of being related to its owner, Yuri supposes), which means that the grounds are sparsely populated.

Beauty, it turns out, is rather boring when experienced alone. 

He slinks back to the hotel room without having gained much, aside from the souvenir keychain he’d purchased for Ashe, worn out from the walk and intensity of the sun. The first thing Yuri does after throwing himself onto the sofa is check his phone, which practically ignites with the force of the notifications for his unread emails, alerts, and messages. 

Yuri scrolls past the work emails—ABYSS knows that he has the week off, and he’s not doing any work he isn’t being paid for, and taps instead on the unread texts from his friends. 

And regrets it instantly. 

Oh, sure, there are a few pleasant texts from Ashe about his honeymoon, and his mom’s regular chatty messages about her favorite reality TV show, but the texts from Yuri’s closest friends are outrageously irritating. 

He groans and rolls over to his side (not the best idea, maybe, considering how his neck still aches from falling asleep on this exact same couch just the night before), bracing himself before clicking on Constance’s message. 

Why does Constance type like a grandmother? Yuri chooses to fixate on that, rather than on the actual contents of his friend’s message; she’s always been well-meaning, but nosy, with a penchant for offering up random, unasked for advice. He hadn’t even known she knew who Bernadetta was. Still, Constance is disorganized. Yuri doesn’t respond to her, with the hopes that she’ll forget all about her messages by the next time they talk in person.  

He scrolls away from Balthus and taps on the name of his friend/roommate/enemy for life now. 

Hapi’s a lucky bird, because she does get a message back from Yuri. 

Yuri sucks in air through his teeth, more than a little annoyed, and checks the time difference on his phone. Figures that Hapi would take advantage of a night out to spread the word to the other two members of their shitty little trivia team. Yuri can picture the scene so vividly he’s practically there: Balthus’ fingers mashing inelegantly against his phone, Constance, wine drunk after one glass, and Hapi, stone-cold sober as she gleefully bullies Yuri from a continent away. 

Perhaps Yuri’s a bit of a masochist, because he misses it. 

It helps to know that for all of her antagonizing, Hapi’s doing this partially out of concern. Goddess knows the bad dates Hapi’s been witness to in the years that they’ve lived together, and all the times she’s had to deal with Yuri’s messy break ups and incensed ex-lovers climbing up the balcony. Hapi wants him to be in a healthy relationship for once—and not only because then he might move out of their apartment. It’s oddly touching. 

But Yuri would genuinely rather eat the stuffing of the sofa he’s sitting on than admit that to Hapi. 

He’s still mulling over the messages from his friends, eyes stinging slightly from staring at his phone for so long, when there’s a sudden and sharp knock on his hotel door. 

Yuri tenses instinctively—he can’t think of any reason for someone to knock on the door, barring Bernadetta forgetting her room key—and the fear is not misplaced, because the melodious voice that comes muffled through the wood belongs to none other than Dorothea. 

“Yurikins? Hello, are you in there?” 

With a breathy sigh, Yuri slinks off the sofa and opens the door.

“No, he’s not,” he says. “Yuri is dead, I’m sorry.” 

Dorothea laughs, and the sound of it is only somewhat sarcastic. “Funny. Anyways, I’ve been thinking about what a shame it was that you and I still haven’t had that drink! I mean, I would have asked you after our dinner, but poor Bernadetta seemed very worn out.” 

Yuri’s mouth thins at the implications behind Dorothea’s words, and he positions himself so that his body is more or less wedged between the door and its frame, barring Dorothea from looking any further into the room. “Dorothea, I already told you—” 

She waves him off. “Oh, no. We’re not having this conversation here, Yurikins. I’ve been up since six in the morning trying to get Petra’s aunts to like me—which they do, of course—and I’ve decided that I deserve champagne. There’s a lovely little bar near the water. Care to join me?” 

“You’re incredibly difficult to outrun,” Yuri says, and Dorothea smiles at him. 

The bar is rather lovely, situated on its own pier over the ocean. There aren’t any walls, which unnerves Yuri slightly, but there is enough fencing around the edge of the building that Yuri isn’t too concerned about falling into the water, and the weather is pleasant. The sun is only just starting to set; as Yuri and Dorothea take their seats, a server comes by to light the taper candles on their table. 

The first few minutes are passed with the usual drivel of looking over the menu and discussing each other's orders, and then finally ordering, and then thanking the server after he brings them their drinks. Dorothea gets them both champagne and a platter of mini tarts, and she waits until after Yuri’s had his first bite to pounce. 

“What are you doing with Bernadetta?” 

Yuri nearly chokes on the tart, hacking and coughing for a good few seconds before reaching for his glass and washing his embarrassment down with champagne. “Fucking hell, Dorothea—what?” 

Dorothea perches her chin on her folded hands, her bright eyes observing Yuri with an analytical interest. “You heard me, Yurikins. You know I want what’s best for you. But I love and care for Bern as well, and well...I’m worried.” 

Yuri and Dorothea have always been kindred spirits, both beautiful, flighty, and clever, and Yuri has always known that they have another similarity: that they are at their most terrifying and most vulnerable when completely serious.

And maybe it’s because of that knowledge, or maybe it’s because Yuri can see so clearly that Dorothea (for all of her dramatic declarations and teasing threats), is just as fraught around this subject as he is, that Yuri can’t manage to be indignant at her question. 

Below, the waves break against the sand, and across the bar, Yuri can see the gleam of the sun shine quietly against the clean wine glasses hanging above the kitchen. And it’s a reversal of all the nerves Yuri has ever experienced, because his heart has slowed down to a steady and even tempo inside his chest, but he has no idea what to say. 

“I don’t know,” Yuri says finally, setting his glass back down onto the table. “I don’t know what I’m doing with Bernadetta.” 

Dorothea gives him a sympathetic gaze. “That’s what I guessed. And you know, that’s why I’m so worried for you.”    

Honesty makes him feel vaguely sick, Yuri realizes, a dull hum buzzing inside stomach, but he pushes on. “You shouldn’t have to be,” he says, his voice pitched low. “Everything between me and Bernadetta is complicated, and it has been for so long—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dorothea repeats, brushing a long strand of dark hair out of her eyes. “I remember what happened.” 

Yuri looks down to their hands on the table—his own hands smooth and pale, sheer nail polish chipping off his fingers, and Dorothea’s elegant manicure and engagement rings, and feels the past wash over him.

It had been the last year of high school, and the air had been crisp, and Yuri had made some new friends and at a time where anything seemed possible for his peers, Yuri had felt like for the first time in his life he was more than himself. 

Bernadetta was there, of course. It was always him and her, those two, from third grade on. They might have made some more friends with other outsiders over the years—Dorothea being one of them—but in the end, Yuri and Bernadetta remained a constant. She would stay after school for marching band practice, and Yuri would wait for her by the bleachers until she was done. He would arrive at school without breakfast, and Bernadetta would hand him an oatmeal bar without asking, because he was hungry and she had never stopped sharing her snacks. 

And he had been in love with her. 

“What do you remember exactly?” Yuri says. His tone is smooth, because rather the ocean would dry up and the sky collapse than Yuri let his voice crack with emotion. 

“Only what I heard from other people. I wasn’t there when it happened, you know, and I didn’t talk to any of those morons you started hanging out with,” Dorothea says. “But I know enough. You asked her out, didn’t you?”

“I asked her to prom,” Yuri corrects. It had been after school and spur of the moment, the words tumbling from his lips before he could take it back. 

“Romantically?” 

“Hell if I know,” Yuri says, folding his arms across his chest, craving the protection of feeling guarded—as if his forearms could protect from anything Dorothea could hurl at him. “We didn’t really get far enough into the process to find out.” 

Because it was the last year of high school, and he was eighteen, and Yuri had grown up from being the short, poor kid who no one invited to their birthday parties to being gorgeous and charming and still poor, but even that was considered exciting and novel to the classmates that would have rather died than talk to him even three years prior.

And they talked to him, and they offered him their expensive hard liquors and artisanal drugs, vices scooped out of porcelain bowls that cost more than Yuri’s apartment, and how was he to resist?

Yuri bites his tongue at that thought. It’s been years, and it seems like his teenage self is still somewhere within him, still defensive even with the benefit of experience and hindsight. He could have resisted, he knows that now. Dorothea was just as gorgeous and desperate as Yuri was in high school, but Dorothea hadn’t done what he had. 

“I was spending less time with her, but I still asked her to the dance. That was...fine, I suppose. It was very casual, because I’d always assumed I would go with Bernadetta, and Bee had always assumed she wouldn’t go in the first place,” Yuri said. It’s the first time he’s told this story out loud and sober, and it’s not something he’s clamoring to make a regular habit. “But she said yes, and I guess it was exciting—my mother managed to get me a decent suit, I don’t know where from, and Bernadetta and I had this whole complicated-as-fuck plan to sneak her out of her house, but—” 

He cuts himself off, his jaw stiffly set, and turns to look over the ocean. Yuri is keenly aware of what happens next in the story, in his story, but he doesn’t want to say it out loud. It’s completely illogical, but Yuri almost feels cheated, almost as if the story’s end should have turned out differently now that he was reciting it.

Instead, all that it’s left him with is the square and immovable truth. 

“My other friends thought I was an idiot. I let myself believe that the whole event was beneath me, because that’s what they said. They said things about Bernadetta to me, how she was—” Yuri says, and cuts himself off again. He can’t stand to repeat what the others had said about Bernadetta, as untrue in its cruelty the words were, because he hates the memory enough with just the knowledge that he had been frightened by them, and he would hate himself more if he parroted them now. 

“It wasn’t just that I wanted them to like me,” Yuri says, voice bland. “I knew they fucking adored me, their little project from the bad side of town. But I wanted to feel powerful, I guess, or maybe I was just desperate so I listened to the assholes. The day of prom, I went to one of their houses, called Bernadetta to tell her I wasn’t going, and took enough random shit to black out.” 

Yuri remembers that night as if peering at it through the bottom of a glass; the gleam of his classmates’ designer watch in the half-light, the waxy feeling of eyeliner streaked down his cheek, the way he was too strung up to even feel guilty until the next morning. 

When he really wants to pick at the wound, he thinks about how that night was for Bernadetta. He wonders if she could hear the others through the phone, hear the way he was ruining his own life. 

Dorothea considers him. Her expression is more contemplative than sad, with neither pity nor anger on her face. 

“The last part was mostly what I heard around school, you know. How you started messing around with the wrong kind of stuff and stabbed Bernadetta in the back,” Dorothea says. “But I can’t imagine it ended there, because you’re still speaking, and you’re both here together now.” 

Yuri digs his fingers into the fabric of his sleeve. “I regretted it the morning after—not just the call, but everything leading up to it as well. I mean, it would have been better if I had regretted it all a day earlier.” 

Dorothea’s mouth twists into a wry smile. “Yeah.” 

“I told the other group I didn’t want to be a part of their shit anymore. It turned into a screaming fight, and then a bit of an actual fight—but those spoiled brats didn’t know how to throw a punch,” Yuri says, but the quip lacks the casual detachment of his usual tone, and he hates it. “They told everyone what happened, which made my reputation worse off than before. Ironic, right? I wrote Bernadetta an email and told her I was sorry, and that she didn’t have to forgive me. And I floundered for the rest of that last semester.” 

“Email. Wow.” 

Despite himself, Yuri laughs. “Simpler times, ladybird.” 

Yuri drops his arms into his lap, feeling a little less like he needs to hold up a barrier against Dorothea. There isn’t anything else left to hide.

“And you know what Bernadetta did to get her revenge? She fucking forgave me,” Yuri says. “She found me before graduation and told me that she forgave me. That I was her first friend, no matter what, and that she was proud of me for leaving the group. She always believed I was better than I really was, and I still can’t wrap my head around it.” 

Dorothea hums. “And that’s why you had a crush on her?” 

Yuri stills for the briefest of seconds, but he makes himself slump back down. “Yeah. That’s why I was in love with her.” 

They both take a second to take a breather from the heaviness of the conversation; Yuri takes a sip of his now-flat champagne, and Dorothea finishes off another one of the mini tarts. Yuri glances back to the resort and wonders what Bernadetta is doing at this moment. Cheerfully chatting with Petra, he hopes, and blissfully unaware of the wallow down memory lane he and Dorothea have mutually dragged each other through.

Dorothea doesn’t need to be filled in with what happened after graduation. They’d gone to the same university, and she’d witnessed him claw his way out of suffocating discontent to find a passion for social work. Yuri likes to think he’s grown into a different person in the past ten years—if not a good man, then at least a better one.

“What are you doing now? Are you doing all of this to atone, Yuri? All of these—events, these wedding plus-one dates, or whatever you call them,” Dorothea says. Despite her quick words, Dorothea’s tone isn’t interrogative. 

Yuri shakes his head. “No. I’m not selfish to believe that any of this can make up for something years ago. This is just...This is just what’s happening now. I hadn’t planned it at all—honestly, I’ve been avoiding Bernadetta for the better part of the last ten years. But I ran into her at Dimitri’s wedding, and we started talking, and I didn’t want to stop.” 

He sits back against his seat, all of his metaphorical cards laid out on the table for Dorothea. Yuri feels—well, not better, really, or even relieved, but he does feel more like himself. Dorothea’s expression is inscrutable, and Yuri thinks he knows what’s coming next; a warning to stay away from Bernadetta, or perhaps to keep her at arms length and to let her move on with her life. They’re not things Yuri particularly wants to hear, but he’d bow out if Dorothea insisted.

Instead, however, Dorothea’s face widens into a luminous smile, as if Yuri’s just said something particularly clever, although he can’t imagine what it would be. “And what are you going to do after this summer?” 

“What?” 

“Oh, Yurikins. I know you’re smart. Sure, maybe you have a few more weddings to go to in the next few weeks—none as fun as mine, I’m sure—but what are you going to do after that ends? Come up with more excuses? It’s much easier to pretend this is all platonic when there’s a social obligation that comes with it,” Dorothea says. 

Yuri frowns. “I—” 

“And what if Bernadetta meets some nice new person between weddings and decides to take them as her date instead? It would be within her right to. How about then? You’re not really the suffer-in-silence type,” Dorothea says. 

It doesn’t take long for Yuri to sift through the meaning behind Dorothea’s words and this whole conversation, but it still gives him pause. “You’re not telling me to leave Bernadetta alone?”

Dorothea hums. “Yurkins, it doesn’t matter what I think about you and Bernadetta. She’s a grown woman, and she can make choices for herself. Besides, as fun as you are to tease, we are friends, and I like you. You’re honest and caring, when you want to be, and I think we’re all different people than who we were ten years ago.”

A trio of older women come into the bar, talking quietly amongst themselves. They all look vaguely like Petra—the aunts Dorothea had been talking about, Yuri presumes—but they only exchange a few words of greeting with Dorothea before heading over to their own chairs on the far side of the room. Yuri doesn’t register any of their words, busy trying to assemble his thoughts. It feels as if he’s been given all the pieces to a puzzle he has no clue how to solve. 

“It’s okay to not be... entirely different from who you used to be,” she says, still grinning at Yuri. Dorothea reaches across the table to pat Yuri’s hands. “There are parts of us we can’t ever shake off, and parts we don’t need to, you know?”

“What do you mean?” Yuri asks. 

Dorothea stretches her arms up with a satisfied sigh, as if she’s just accomplished a very long and difficult task—which, Yuri supposes, she has. He doesn’t think he’s seen her this happy with him for the entire trip. 

“Isn’t it obvious, Yurikins?” Dorothea says, and her tone is somehow condescending, kind, and exasperated all at once. “You should really stop talking about your feelings for Bernadetta in the past tense, because you’re clearly in love with her all over again.” 

Enough hours have passed that, by the time Bernadetta returns to their shared hotel room, Yuri has already comfortably slipped back into his usual facade of charming nonchalance, asking her questions and breezily telling Bernadetta about his day. His hard-fought composure doesn’t end up mattering much; Bernadetta is so tired from her long day that she ends up dozing off over the bathroom sink, and Yuri finds that he doesn’t feel particularly inclined to draw out a conversation from her anyways. 

They don’t get much more of a chance to talk the next day either. Bernadetta gets up early to help Dorothea with her preparations (being the maid of honor for both brides is, unsurprisingly, hard work), and Yuri spends most of the morning listlessly flipping through channels on the TV. Bernadetta comes back right before dinner, but she mutters something about wanting to practice her speech. She picks up her notebook, orders Yuri not to eavesdrop on her, and then shuts herself in the bedroom closet for four hours. 

By the time they wake up the next morning—the day of the wedding itself—the resort around them feels truly alive for the first time since their arrival. The other suites on their floor are no longer empty, the halls bustling with the friends and family of the soon-to-be-married couple, and Yuri can’t help but feel simultaneously annoyed and grateful for the commotion. It prevents him from being able to think about things—but at the same time, it prevents him from being able to think about things . 

His outfit for the wedding is simple but elegant: a linen suit in a light pink, a shade closer to blush than coral. For once, Yuri’s actually done with his makeup before Bernadetta is. He idly twists a small braid into his hair as he waits, and he likes his handiwork enough to secure it with a hair tie. 

When he’s finished getting ready Yuri walks out the balcony. The weather is gorgeous beyond all reason and absolutely perfect for an afternoon wedding: the sea is so blue it looks fake, and there are enough fluffy white clouds in the sky to keep the beach feeling cool. Yuri’s eyes drift over to the sand down below, where it glows in the light of the afternoon sun, and feels, not for the first time, like he can’t understand what he’s done to deserve this in the first place. 

Bernadetta comes out to join him with one of her sandals on, most of her hair clipped out of her face with a barette that’s entirely too large to be anything but pragmatic.

“Can you help me with my dress?” she asks. Bernadetta’s voice is faint, and her thoughts seem to be elsewhere; with her speech soon to come, Yuri isn’t surprised. He nods and steps away from the balcony to tend to her dress, gently smoothing out the fold of the fabric and adjusting the loose strands of her hair up and away from the possibility of being snagged. 

The zipper dangles just around her lower back, and Yuri feels himself exhale faintly as he pulls it closed. The fabric of the dress is thin enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin through it. Yuri is irritated that he’s even noticed such a thing. 

“How do I look?” Bernadetta asks, and the dazed quality of her voice is beginning to break again, the familiar edge of nervousness bleeding through.

“You look gorgeous,” Yuri says. There’s more he could say, but he’s not sure he’d be able to stop himself if he started, so it’s for the best that he keeps it simple. “You’re going to do great.” 

Bernadetta acknowledges his words with a soft noise, but she doesn’t seem to be much in the way of conversation, and Yuri has no desire to push her into a conversation she doesn’t want. Instead, he takes her hand and squeezes it gently, and doesn’t complain when she holds onto him. They keep their fingers interlocked even as they make their way down to the wedding. 

The wedding itself is surprisingly simple, especially when compared to Marianne and Ashe’s painfully long religious ceremony. The brides stand under a beautifully crafted silk chuppah —the one Petra’s grandfather purchased, Yuri surmises—and rows of elegantly carved wooden seats, all set out on a stone floor near the ocean. The officiant repeats his words in several languages, and to everyone’s surprise, the brides do as well, repeating their vows to each other in each other’s native languages. Rings are exchanged, they kiss, and Dorothea and Petra are declared wife and wife. 

It’s all very touching. 

The reception is immediately after, down on the beach, and Yuri gets caught up in the rush of guests migrating to their new venue. It’s low tide right now, and the ocean laps lazily against the shore, its waters tinted almost purple against the orange-blue sky. Several elaborately woven blankets are spread out over the sand in place of chairs, and the air is fragrant with the smell of fruit roasting over the bonfire. Yuri winces at the uncomfortable crunch of the sand grinding against his polished, closed-toe shoes. The sacrifice one makes for refusing to wear sandals, he supposes. 

Bernadetta’s seemingly disappeared, but conversation with Yuri’s fellow guests is pleasant enough. He feels vaguely embarrassed to only speak Faerghan, while Petra’s relatives all seem to speak four languages minimum, but they don’t seem to think anything of it. 

Bernadetta reappears right after the first round of drinks are served: she’s standing by where a microphone and speaker have been set up, a glass of some amber liquid clutched tightly in her hands.

Dorothea announces that it’s time for speeches. Yuri catches Bernadetta’s gaze from where he’s standing and raises his drink in what he hopes is an encouraging gesture; Bernadetta grimaces and briefly mimics the toast before tilting her head and draining her entire glass.

Petra has the sense to take Bernadetta’s empty glass out of her hands, and she gives her maid of honor a grateful hug before stepping aside to rejoin Dorothea. The guests around Yuri quiet down. Most of them remain standing as they turn their attention to Bernadetta, who freezes. The fire continues to merrily crackle, and the ocean lazily pushes and pulls against the sand, ambivalent to where Bernadetta stands stunned in front of the crowd. 

Her eyes dart from face to face, visibly uncertain, until she focuses on Yuri once more. He waves at her as subtly as he can, and despite everything, Bernadetta smiles. 

“Um, hi, everyone. I think I’ve met some of you all already, which is really nice, but if you don’t know me—my name is Bernadetta, and I’m Petra and Dorothea’s maid of honor. I know it’s unusual to have only one maid of honor between two brides, but um, marriage is all about sharing what you have, right?”

Bernadetta’s voice quiets to a mumble at the end of her sentence, unsure in her words, but the guests don’t seem to notice. Bolstered by this, Bernadetta takes in another deep breath and continues onward. 

“The truth is, we are lucky to have another friend in Edelgard von Hresvelg, who unfortunately couldn’t be here with us today.” Bernadetta says, and then she squeaks. “Oh, crap, that makes it sound like she’s dead. She’s not dead! She’s fine! A-Anyways, what I mean to say is that I’m very grateful that Petra and Dorothea trusted me with this role, and that it’s been really wonderful to see them pledge their love to each other. You know, when I was younger…” 

Bernadetta plays with the sleeves of her dress, and then stops herself, lacing her fingers together instead. “When I was younger, I used to, um, really like reading romance novels. The really cheap paperback ones, with the pulpy paper and the characters on the cover who always look like they’re about to faint?” 

She flushes, and for a second, Bernadetta reminds Yuri of the heroines she’s describing: the hem of her light blue column dress fluttering against the sand, her hair falling to her shoulders in its natural waves. All she would need to complete the image is a beautiful man to swoon against. 

(Not for the first time, Yuri wishes it were physically possible to punch himself in the face.)

Bernadetta, who is fortunately unable to read minds, doesn’t seem to catch Yuri’s train of thought. 

“Um, so I know it’s embarrassing to say out loud, but I read a lot of books like that. Some of them were historical, with kings and dukes and maids, and some of them were with aliens—but that’s not the point! My point is that when we’re younger, a lot of us think romance is this...love at first glance kind of thing, right? Maybe it’s not easy, but it always feels right, because you look at each other and you know exactly that your attraction can get you through anything. That’s why people in those kinds of stories have to struggle through all kinds of dramatic stuff to be together, like dragons, and evil dads who are also wizards, and robots. Because their dedication for the person they love is never in doubt.” 

“For a long time, that was my only view of romantic love,” Bernadetta says. She’s far enough into her speech that her hesitation has fallen away, replaced with her natural passion and expressiveness. She looks away from Yuri as she speaks now, but she still glances back at him at the end of her sentences. “But, in real life, love at first glance isn’t enough. Sometimes it’s not even love. Since I was there when Petra and Dorothea first got together, people ask me what it was like when they met. I think people expect me to say that there were instant sparks between them, especially since they’re two beautiful women.” 

“You’re the most beautiful!” Dorothea calls out from where she’s cuddling Petra, and several people laugh. Bernadetta turns pink. 

“I-I just mean that, the truth is that when Petra and Dorothea first met, it didn’t seem like they were soul mates or people that were meant to be together forever. I don’t think they even thought of that. Petra was busy trying to figure out university, and Dorothea had just gotten out of a relationship. When they met, they weren’t the right person for each other. It wasn’t a fairytale, life-changing moment, and when they did get together, I know that sometimes it didn’t feel like their relationship was a sure thing. But they grew past that together, and they stayed in contact as they changed and life changed and,” Bernadetta pauses, “eventually everything worked out.” 

People are starting to tear up. That’s probably a good sign, since it means that Bernadetta’s speech is getting to people, but Yuri would appreciate that fact a lot more if he didn’t feel slightly dizzy from the weight of it all.

“So in the stories I used to read—and, okay, still read sometimes—marriage is the happy ending. You get married, and then you live happily ever after, with all the evil dragons holding up your romance defeated. But here, in the real world, where there aren’t any dragons, I think a commitment like this is like a save point in a game. There still might be big boss battles, and you might not always know what’s happening next, but you have something secure and good on your side in case you struggle. You have a teammate. 

"I think Petra and Dorothea are a really great team. And more importantly than that, I know that they’re going to become an even better team a year from now, and a year from that, and—well, for forever,” Bernadetta says. “And basically—I am so, so happy for the two of you!” 

Bernadetta bursts into tears, which is a rather dramatic way to end a speech. She’s hardly the only one, however; Petra and Dorothea, both crying, enveloping Bernadetta in a hug so tight that she disappears between the two of them.

Yuri sets his glass down and leads in the applause, his heart surprisingly light in his chest, and he doesn't stop clapping until he sees Bernadetta walk up to him. He opens his mouth, ready to congratulate her, when she closes the rest of the distance between them in a sprint and throws her arms around him. 

“I did it,” she says. “Goddess, I actually did it.” 

She’s shaking against him, her voice tremulous, but when Bernadetta looks up to him, she’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen her. It lights up her entire face, her eyes shining in the half-light, and Yuri’s breath catches in his chest. He wiggles his arms out of her hold, but only to properly return her hug. 

“You’re such a nerd,” Yuri says, but his words are so fond that any bite behind the word is replaced with endearment. “I’ve never heard a wedding speech with that many mentions of dragons.” 

Bernadetta laughs near his ear, her face hidden in the crook of his neck. “You told me to be myself. And myself is a nerd. I can’t believe I pulled it off. Yuri, I feel like I could run a hundred miles. I need to go sleep for fourteen days.” 

Yuri pulls away from Bernadetta, and if his pride in her is embarrassingly obvious on his face, she doesn’t comment on it. “You could probably do either of those things and do them well,” he says. “Your speech was perfect.” 

“I couldn’t have done it without your advice. The entire time I was writing and practicing it I was thinking about you. You’ve really helped me more than I deserved,” Bernadetta says, painfully earnest. 

Glancing over Bernadetta’s shoulder, Yuri sees Dorothea, who returns the look as she exchanges a few words with one of her fellow singers. Dorothea’s eyes flit from Bernadetta to Yuri, just as they did when they had first arrived at the resort, but her expression is more encouraging than judgemental now. Still, it’s a strong reminder of their earlier conversation, and Yuri turns back to Bernadetta. 

“Always. If I’ve helped you at all, then it’d still be only a tiny percentage of what you deserve,” Yuri says, and for once, it takes no effort for him to match Bernadetta’s honesty. Her smile is sweet, and Yuri wants to believe that he’s a good enough man to kiss her. 

But instead, he takes her hand and lets her lead him to where they’re handing out plates of snacks by the bonfire, and leaves that thought for another day.