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xp_logsThe cousins are remarkably chill and incorporate the color-bombing into the wedding look.
It was a strangely uncharacteristic scene in Marie-Ange's room. For one, both Jean-Phillipe and his cousin were smiling, wide happy expressions on both of their faces. Jean-Phillipe was seated in front of a vanity mirror, his cousin behind him examining a large streak of orange running through his hair. His tuxedo was still safe in its garment bag to one side.
"I think I can pull it off, what do you think?" he asked, his eyes twinkling as he raised an eyebrow.
Marie-Ange had somehow - and in this case, the definition of somehow was having gone about half the morning with her hair wrapped in a towel - managed to limit her exposure to the colour powder to a dusting of sparkly magenta on one arm, and a streak of blue in her hair that she had carefully separated into it's own curl among the loose waves of her hair. "I think today you can pull of any colour you like." She fussed with his hair and flicked a few strands. "Do you want it neat and tidy, or the orange very... artfully messy?"
"Messy. We know I have always been a disaster, cousin." But it was said without any of the usual edge that Jean-Phillipe tended to put into even the most joking of comments. "Did you ever think this was...in the cards?" he asked curiously, his choice of words very conscious. "Me, semi-respectable and all."
"You have always been more romantic than I was." Marie-Ange said. "But you know I cannot predict anything for you really, so I was as happily surprised as anyone else." She patted her cousin's shoulder a few times, almost awkwardly and then returned to the much easier task of his hair. "Should we add orange to the flowers? Hope already texted to say she could call in a favour to add any extra colors."
Jean-Phillipe shrugged, then grinned. "We have a rainbow of colors, and a gay wedding, I say we embrace it. I trust Hope's judgment, what with her society background and all." He ran his fingers through the orange shock of hair. "I think let us keep to one color for my hair, though." As Marie-Ange went to work, her cousin met her eyes in the vanity's mirror. "I have absolutely no idea what I am going to say for vows," he admitted quietly.
"Is that, you have no idea, or you have written fifteen index cards and set them all on fire after hating what you wrote?" Marie-Ange asked, while tapping out a few texts to Hope on her phone. "I am not perhaps the person to ask about this, I do not do grand declarations of emotion. But you should say it in French. Angelo speaks it and it sounds more romantic, no matter what you say."
"See, this is why I am having you as my best...person, cousin," the Frenchman said, still smiling widely. They weren't exactly doing large wedding parties, it being such a small personal affair. "You are full of excellent advice. And fashion sense." It was reassuring, having her there to keep him steady in the face of nervousness he would not necessarily admit to.
"Also I am full of knives." Marie-Ange had a spring dress and a light airy shawl and makeup and sitting outside her bedroom was a pair of heeled sandals, and nowhere did it look like she could have hidden a knife. One did not even appear. But it was a truth all the same. "Perhaps just tell Angelo all the reasons he makes your life better. Make a list, stay it in French, everyone will think you wrote love poetry."
Jean-Phillipe made a thoughtful noise. "You have reason, cousin. Though there are a number of people here who speak French..." He shrugged. "Speaking from the heart is not exactly my strength. But you are right. I will manage." He was absolutely sure he was doing the right thing.
"Make a list. Right now." Marie-Ange produced a little spiral bound sketchpad from a drawer under her sink, and a pen from somewhere - possibly her hair, possibly her bra. "In no particular order, and while you do that, I will go find the hair wax and make this rather more touseled."
Grumble. "A list. How disgustingly prosaic." But, as always, Jean-Phillipe had to admit that his cousin had a point. Extemporaneous off the cuff grand speeches only happened in films, and when you got down to it, those speeches came from scriptwriters, so they weren't truly extemporaneous, just meant to appear that way. "But then, I suppose being married and living together is prosaic as well."
He sighed. "Fine. Get me a pen and some paper, and then please continue making my hair even more fabulous."
It was a strangely uncharacteristic scene in Marie-Ange's room. For one, both Jean-Phillipe and his cousin were smiling, wide happy expressions on both of their faces. Jean-Phillipe was seated in front of a vanity mirror, his cousin behind him examining a large streak of orange running through his hair. His tuxedo was still safe in its garment bag to one side.
"I think I can pull it off, what do you think?" he asked, his eyes twinkling as he raised an eyebrow.
Marie-Ange had somehow - and in this case, the definition of somehow was having gone about half the morning with her hair wrapped in a towel - managed to limit her exposure to the colour powder to a dusting of sparkly magenta on one arm, and a streak of blue in her hair that she had carefully separated into it's own curl among the loose waves of her hair. "I think today you can pull of any colour you like." She fussed with his hair and flicked a few strands. "Do you want it neat and tidy, or the orange very... artfully messy?"
"Messy. We know I have always been a disaster, cousin." But it was said without any of the usual edge that Jean-Phillipe tended to put into even the most joking of comments. "Did you ever think this was...in the cards?" he asked curiously, his choice of words very conscious. "Me, semi-respectable and all."
"You have always been more romantic than I was." Marie-Ange said. "But you know I cannot predict anything for you really, so I was as happily surprised as anyone else." She patted her cousin's shoulder a few times, almost awkwardly and then returned to the much easier task of his hair. "Should we add orange to the flowers? Hope already texted to say she could call in a favour to add any extra colors."
Jean-Phillipe shrugged, then grinned. "We have a rainbow of colors, and a gay wedding, I say we embrace it. I trust Hope's judgment, what with her society background and all." He ran his fingers through the orange shock of hair. "I think let us keep to one color for my hair, though." As Marie-Ange went to work, her cousin met her eyes in the vanity's mirror. "I have absolutely no idea what I am going to say for vows," he admitted quietly.
"Is that, you have no idea, or you have written fifteen index cards and set them all on fire after hating what you wrote?" Marie-Ange asked, while tapping out a few texts to Hope on her phone. "I am not perhaps the person to ask about this, I do not do grand declarations of emotion. But you should say it in French. Angelo speaks it and it sounds more romantic, no matter what you say."
"See, this is why I am having you as my best...person, cousin," the Frenchman said, still smiling widely. They weren't exactly doing large wedding parties, it being such a small personal affair. "You are full of excellent advice. And fashion sense." It was reassuring, having her there to keep him steady in the face of nervousness he would not necessarily admit to.
"Also I am full of knives." Marie-Ange had a spring dress and a light airy shawl and makeup and sitting outside her bedroom was a pair of heeled sandals, and nowhere did it look like she could have hidden a knife. One did not even appear. But it was a truth all the same. "Perhaps just tell Angelo all the reasons he makes your life better. Make a list, stay it in French, everyone will think you wrote love poetry."
Jean-Phillipe made a thoughtful noise. "You have reason, cousin. Though there are a number of people here who speak French..." He shrugged. "Speaking from the heart is not exactly my strength. But you are right. I will manage." He was absolutely sure he was doing the right thing.
"Make a list. Right now." Marie-Ange produced a little spiral bound sketchpad from a drawer under her sink, and a pen from somewhere - possibly her hair, possibly her bra. "In no particular order, and while you do that, I will go find the hair wax and make this rather more touseled."
Grumble. "A list. How disgustingly prosaic." But, as always, Jean-Phillipe had to admit that his cousin had a point. Extemporaneous off the cuff grand speeches only happened in films, and when you got down to it, those speeches came from scriptwriters, so they weren't truly extemporaneous, just meant to appear that way. "But then, I suppose being married and living together is prosaic as well."
He sighed. "Fine. Get me a pen and some paper, and then please continue making my hair even more fabulous."
