Our Lady of Perpetual Misery stood, grand and beautiful in grey stone, amid the myriad architecture of Rhy'Din's WestEnd, a bastion for those of a particular religion in this interdenominational city. Yet the name belied the joyful event about to take place within. The nave was lit with a multitude of candles, bright bouquets of white and blue lending a sweetness to the traditional vaulted ceiling and wide columns, drawing the eye to the altar draped in blue and white. Family and friends were beginning to gather, to take their seats on either side of the aisle, awaiting the arrival of the bride and the beginning of the ceremony they had been invited to attend.
Conspicuous by his absence was the groom, who waited in the sacristy rather than be under the eye of his family and prospective in-laws. The priest had given Tony a little space to himself, whisking the best man off in his wake to go over last minute plans, and for a few blessedly peaceful minutes, he was left alone for the first time all day.
Sadly, it was not to last. A very proud Rosita De Luca entered without bothering to knock, knowing she'd seen it all before anyway. "Mia piccolo, you look so handsome! Where is your boutonniere?"
Tony had been thankful for the short respite from the chaos of well-meaning family and friends. He was somewhat accustomed to chaos, albeit backstage chaos, and though the special occasion today was not that of an opening night, he felt the same nervous jitters he always felt the first night of a new ballet. Thankfully, he was already dressed when his mother walked in, though he was fighting with his tie to get it just right. Other than for the tie - and apparently a missing boutonniere - he was looking impeccably dressed in a formal black suit, dark haired curls tamed and perfectly combed to the side, offsetting a pair of gray-blue eyes. "Mama!" he exclaimed as she joined him unannounced in the sacristy. "Aren't you the one who taught me to knock first?" Growing up the sole male in a household of four women, it was a lesson Tony had learned early on, the hard way.
"I would hope that you would not be getting up to anything in a church that required me to knock," Rosita pointed out, just a hint of the stern woman who had kept four children under control on her own for a good few years. She moved over to her eldest, her only son, batting his hands out of the way to take over the careful presentation of his tie. "Are you nervous, bambino?"
"Why should I be nervous?" he asked, a little sarcastically, which was not really like him, but he thought the answer was obvious. "I'm just getting married. Piece of cake," he said, snapping his fingers to underscore his point, though in all truth, no matter how nervous he might be, he was over the moon with happiness at the prospect of finally wedding his Anya. "It's not the wedding that worries me. It's her father. I haven't seen him smile once since he got here." That was most likely an exaggeration. Anya claimed her father liked Tony just fine, but Tony wasn't so sure.
His sarcasm earned him a smack across the back of his knuckles, despite the quiet laugh that escaped his mother's lips. "Andrei Komarov is a lovely man," she informed her son firmly. "A little stern, perhaps, but his wife is so obliging. He must have some redeeming features for her to have stayed with him all these years. And her sons are such gentlemen!" Rosita grinned, knowing she wasn't helping by pointing out that Tony was marrying the only daughter in a family that had produced three strapping fellows before Anya's birth. She released his tie, looking him over thoughtfully. "You don't eat enough," she then said disapprovingly. "All skin and bone, you are."
Tony's smirk at his mother's smack was quickly followed by an eye roll for several reasons, but mostly for the remark about his weight. "Mamma, we've had this discussion before. I'm a dancer. I'm supposed to look this way," he pointed out for that seemed like the umpteen-thousandth time. It didn't bother Tony so much that Anya had grown up with brothers, just as he had grown up with sisters. He had been surrounded by mostly women all his life and was looking forward to adding a few men to the list.
"All you need is a little more bulk," his mother insisted, patting his slim waist with both hands. "You're a slip of a thing, just like your Anya. How are you going to give me any more babies if you're both so thin?" This, from a woman who was practically stuck to Mataya's side these days in the hope that she'd have to step in and deliver her next grandchild herself, rather than let Tony's younger sister go to the hospital as planned.
It was always the same. His sister Theresa had two children and Mataya was due any day now, and still his mother pestered him about children. He knew he wasn't getting any younger, but if he and Anya were going to have any children, it would be when they were ready, not when his mother said so. Tony chuckled and patted her hand fondly. "Can you at least let us get married before you start pestering us about children?" He made no mention of Elena, who had only been married a short time herself. He wasn't sure his sister and her husband were any more ready to start a family than he and Anya were. He bent to brush a kiss against her cheek. "Be patient. Mataya is due any day now. You will have your fill of bottles and diapers."
"You were made to have lots of beautiful babies, Tony," Rosita insisted with a smile, letting him reassure her in his own way. "And you will make beautiful babies. I don't want to die before I see them!" She chuckled softly, spying the box of boutonnieres close-by. "Ah, there they are ..." She frowned as she picked up the unique creation intended for Tony's buttonhole. "What is this?"
Tony frowned at the mention of death, despite her teasing. She'd had her firstborn at the tender age of seventeen and was still young in his eyes. He remembered the innocent days of his childhood, before his father had left, and he'd taken over as the man of the family, growing up far faster than he should have. "Don't talk like that, Mamma. You're young. You still have plenty of time left." He followed her gaze to the box of boutonnieres and shrugged. "I was wondering the same thing myself."
"My death is a threat I will keep holding over your head until you give me babies," she informed him cheekily, inspecting the boutonniere closely. There was no actual flower in the carefully made piece, which was what was throwing her in the first place. "Did your Anya make these?" she asked him with a faintly disapproving frown. "There are flowers out in the church, I should put something together for you."
Conspicuous by his absence was the groom, who waited in the sacristy rather than be under the eye of his family and prospective in-laws. The priest had given Tony a little space to himself, whisking the best man off in his wake to go over last minute plans, and for a few blessedly peaceful minutes, he was left alone for the first time all day.
Sadly, it was not to last. A very proud Rosita De Luca entered without bothering to knock, knowing she'd seen it all before anyway. "Mia piccolo, you look so handsome! Where is your boutonniere?"
Tony had been thankful for the short respite from the chaos of well-meaning family and friends. He was somewhat accustomed to chaos, albeit backstage chaos, and though the special occasion today was not that of an opening night, he felt the same nervous jitters he always felt the first night of a new ballet. Thankfully, he was already dressed when his mother walked in, though he was fighting with his tie to get it just right. Other than for the tie - and apparently a missing boutonniere - he was looking impeccably dressed in a formal black suit, dark haired curls tamed and perfectly combed to the side, offsetting a pair of gray-blue eyes. "Mama!" he exclaimed as she joined him unannounced in the sacristy. "Aren't you the one who taught me to knock first?" Growing up the sole male in a household of four women, it was a lesson Tony had learned early on, the hard way.
"I would hope that you would not be getting up to anything in a church that required me to knock," Rosita pointed out, just a hint of the stern woman who had kept four children under control on her own for a good few years. She moved over to her eldest, her only son, batting his hands out of the way to take over the careful presentation of his tie. "Are you nervous, bambino?"
"Why should I be nervous?" he asked, a little sarcastically, which was not really like him, but he thought the answer was obvious. "I'm just getting married. Piece of cake," he said, snapping his fingers to underscore his point, though in all truth, no matter how nervous he might be, he was over the moon with happiness at the prospect of finally wedding his Anya. "It's not the wedding that worries me. It's her father. I haven't seen him smile once since he got here." That was most likely an exaggeration. Anya claimed her father liked Tony just fine, but Tony wasn't so sure.
His sarcasm earned him a smack across the back of his knuckles, despite the quiet laugh that escaped his mother's lips. "Andrei Komarov is a lovely man," she informed her son firmly. "A little stern, perhaps, but his wife is so obliging. He must have some redeeming features for her to have stayed with him all these years. And her sons are such gentlemen!" Rosita grinned, knowing she wasn't helping by pointing out that Tony was marrying the only daughter in a family that had produced three strapping fellows before Anya's birth. She released his tie, looking him over thoughtfully. "You don't eat enough," she then said disapprovingly. "All skin and bone, you are."
Tony's smirk at his mother's smack was quickly followed by an eye roll for several reasons, but mostly for the remark about his weight. "Mamma, we've had this discussion before. I'm a dancer. I'm supposed to look this way," he pointed out for that seemed like the umpteen-thousandth time. It didn't bother Tony so much that Anya had grown up with brothers, just as he had grown up with sisters. He had been surrounded by mostly women all his life and was looking forward to adding a few men to the list.
"All you need is a little more bulk," his mother insisted, patting his slim waist with both hands. "You're a slip of a thing, just like your Anya. How are you going to give me any more babies if you're both so thin?" This, from a woman who was practically stuck to Mataya's side these days in the hope that she'd have to step in and deliver her next grandchild herself, rather than let Tony's younger sister go to the hospital as planned.
It was always the same. His sister Theresa had two children and Mataya was due any day now, and still his mother pestered him about children. He knew he wasn't getting any younger, but if he and Anya were going to have any children, it would be when they were ready, not when his mother said so. Tony chuckled and patted her hand fondly. "Can you at least let us get married before you start pestering us about children?" He made no mention of Elena, who had only been married a short time herself. He wasn't sure his sister and her husband were any more ready to start a family than he and Anya were. He bent to brush a kiss against her cheek. "Be patient. Mataya is due any day now. You will have your fill of bottles and diapers."
"You were made to have lots of beautiful babies, Tony," Rosita insisted with a smile, letting him reassure her in his own way. "And you will make beautiful babies. I don't want to die before I see them!" She chuckled softly, spying the box of boutonnieres close-by. "Ah, there they are ..." She frowned as she picked up the unique creation intended for Tony's buttonhole. "What is this?"
Tony frowned at the mention of death, despite her teasing. She'd had her firstborn at the tender age of seventeen and was still young in his eyes. He remembered the innocent days of his childhood, before his father had left, and he'd taken over as the man of the family, growing up far faster than he should have. "Don't talk like that, Mamma. You're young. You still have plenty of time left." He followed her gaze to the box of boutonnieres and shrugged. "I was wondering the same thing myself."
"My death is a threat I will keep holding over your head until you give me babies," she informed him cheekily, inspecting the boutonniere closely. There was no actual flower in the carefully made piece, which was what was throwing her in the first place. "Did your Anya make these?" she asked him with a faintly disapproving frown. "There are flowers out in the church, I should put something together for you."