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There's a lot of things Layla doesn't know about Marc, but there is one thing she knows for certain: there's no one else she'd rather be marrying.
"You ready?" she says as the doors near.
Marc entwines his arm around hers. "Of course."
The moment they enter into the golden glow of the church, a cheer goes up through the crowd, any reservations and disapproval seemingly forgotten in the moment. The air is alive with the sounds of hymns and the smell of thurible's incense. Layla gets a few hoots from her friends who are scattered amongst twice-removed family members and last-minute plus ones, and she smiles at them as she passes. Marc is stiff and awkward at her side, but he's smiling all the same.
They reach the end of the aisle and take their place upon the solea, and wait there quietly for the hymns to eventually die down. The thurible continues to be swung to and fro as the priest begins to mumble blessings. Lots of blessings.
It’s all very formal and uptight, and Layla almost wants to ask the priest to hurry it along. She had never cared for any of these religious traditions, having always swayed more towards her father’s ideas and beliefs about the existence of the Egyptian gods, no matter how much people scoffed at them. It was her mother who had pushed for Layla to have a Coptic wedding, and Layla had appeased her requests because, no matter their rocky relationship or Layla’s own beliefs, she still wants to honour her mother and her family.
And it certainly doesn’t hurt seeing Marc wearing a cape and crown. She wants to kiss him very, very badly in that moment. From the sly smile Marc shoots her when she receives her own cape and crown, he seems to think the same thing.
As she listens to the priest continue to go through the prayers and anoint them each with holy oil, she can't help but focus on the absence of people on Marc’s side of the platform. She has an absence of her own, the empty spot next to her mother all too apparent, but at least her mother is here, as well as her bridesmaids.
Marc has no one.
Well...almost no one.
Layla's eyes shift to the pews. There are two seats in the crowd that aren’t filled by one of her friends or family members, but only one of those seats is actually occupied, by a tall man with slicked back hair and a finely trimmed moustache. Layla recognises him, but only because of the very few things Marc had told her.
“Jean-Paul’s an old friend,” Marc had said, after she'd pointed out the name while planning the seating arrangements. “Back from my...Marine days.”
“Then why haven’t I met him? And why don’t you want him to be your best man?”
“He travels a lot,” was all Marc said on the matter.
Knowing she wouldn’t get any further, Layla had pointed to the other name, the one Marc had reluctantly added after she asked him to invite more than one person to their wedding, please, because surely he knew someone else who he wanted to attend.
“What about him? Who’s he?”
Marc had stared at the name for a long time. “...He’s an even older friend.”
And then he’d moved on, as he always did with things he didn’t want to talk about.
Whoever this ‘older friend’ was, he hadn’t shown up. He hadn’t even called to explain why. Layla assumed Marc would be upset by that, to be hurt, but he almost seemed to expect it. Like he'd been let down like this far too many times to be surprised.
Layla didn't care what the guy meant to Marc; if he was going doing shit like this, on Marc's wedding day of all days, then it's safe to say she had a bone to pick with him.
Her attention is drawn from her thoughts when the priest presents Marc with the rings. Both of their rings are simple—Marc’s is a shimmering silver, Layla’s a gold band engraved with stars—but they fit perfectly, in more ways than one. Marc slides the band onto her right hand, and Layla does the same for him, feeling the faint scars on his knuckles as she slides the ring along his skin.
The last few minutes of the ceremony is spent on blessings and the signing of the marriage documents. Just as it's about to draw a close, however, the priest hands Marc a glass wrapped thickly with napkins. Marc takes the proffered glass and places it on the floor between him and Layla. There are a few befuddled murmurs from the crowd, but Layla only smiles, remembering Marc’s shy request to include it at the end of ceremony, after months of him turning down any suggestions Layla had made to include more Jewish traditions.
“We’re having the wedding in Egypt,” he’d told her dismissively, “and unless you're friends with the last eleven or so Jews who live there, I don’t think anyone’s gonna care if I do any of that. Or even know what any of it is. Or, hell, even approve.”
And Layla had said: “But it’s not for them. It’s for you. It’s your wedding too, Marc.”
Marc had shifted, clearly uncomfortable by the conversation. Religion had never been a point of contention for the two of them until the wedding, and that was only because of the outside pressure from Layla's family. “Let’s...let’s just stick with your stuff.”
She wasn’t sure why he’d changed his mind, but she’s glad he did. Amongst a day filled with traditions she didn’t personally care for, it was nice to see the traditions of someone she did care for. It made today feel more like the union it was meant to be.
Together, they smash the glass under their feet.
There’s a single cry of ‘Mazel Tov’ from the crowd, and Layla glances over to see Jean-Paul beaming. The rest of the crowd follows a moment later, hesitant and with a few mangled pronunciations, but the feeling is there, at least.
After that it’s time for photos. A few are taken with the priests and deacons, but soon enough everyone is making their way out of the church and over to where the photographers are waiting outside. Despite it being evening, the light of the surrounding streetlights is enough to see by, and Layla uses the opportunity to spend some time snuggling up against Marc and whispering jokes to him. She manages to get some genuine laughter out of him, and a small part of her—the part of her that is thinking beyond now, beyond this particular, perfect moment—is glad that she'll have photos of his smile to keep after today.
It’s over far too quickly, and Layla’s uncles and cousins start to call Marc over towards the car that’s waiting. He gives them a wave of acknowledgement before turning back to her.
“I’ll see you at the hotel,” he says, planting a light kiss on her hand, and then he is gone, leaving her to walk alone to the car that will be taking her.
Her mother is waiting by the door, and despite the smile on her face, there’s sadness in her eyes. Neither of them say it, but they both know who should be here, doing this part. Layla hopes he would've been proud.
They spend most of the journey in silence, both of them staring out the window. Layla doesn’t mind the quiet; her mother and her have never been particularly close, and these last few years they’ve barely seen each other, not until Layla called her to tell her she was getting married. There had been a lot of tension once her mother had discovered who Layla was marrying, about how he wasn't Copt and how his parents and family would not be involved in the wedding or even the marriage, and of course how—
“I do worry for you,” her mother says.
Layla sighs. There it is.
Her mother leans forward, her face the picture of concern. “His family has disowned him. He has no community. I fear what that’ll mean for you, sokar. If he’ll be able to provide for you.”
“Mama,” Layla says, “he doesn’t have to provide for me. I can provide for me. Marc only needs to love me, and he does. I’m happy. Isn’t that enough?”
Her mother only hums, and says nothing more. Thankfully, by that point, the hotel is in sight, shimmering like a jewel in the night, and Layla is more than happy to get out of the car once it's parked out front. Marc is already there, waiting by the entrance with a smile.
Layla gives her mother a quick kiss before rushing over to Marc’s side. Hand in hand, they make their way into the hotel.
“Your mom give you the talk again?” he whispers to her.
“Of course,” Layla says, glancing back at her mother, who is following some distance behind. “She didn’t bring up the fact that you're Jewish this time round, so I’ll take that as a win. How about your ride over? My uncles didn’t hassle you, did they?”
“They kept asking me to say things in English. I think they found my accent funny.”
Layla makes an annoyed sound. “Oh god. I’m so sorry.”
Marc laughs. “No, no I didn’t mind. Believe it or not, but I do actually like your family. I think they might be starting to like me too.” There’s a wistful expression on his face as he says it, but it’s gone a moment later. “Come on, let’s not keep them waiting.”
Layla hears the trilling zaghrouta and sound of drumming long before the two of them enter the room. The sound only grows at their arrival, and the energy within the space is nothing more than joyous. Marc and Layla make their way to the centre of the room, and the crowd grows hushed as Marc takes Layla’s wedding band from her right ring finger and then gently pushes it onto her left. With the same gentleness, Layla repeats the gesture, completing the union.
“I believe that means we’re well and truly married now,” she says.
Marc leans in close and kisses her forehead. Against her skin, he says, “I believe it does.”
Another cheer goes around the room, and the music returns in force as the party starts back up in earnest. It isn’t long before everyone is making their way to the reception hall. The kosha that has been set up there is elaborate, the throne-like lounge placed upon it a deep crimson red, perfectly fit for royalty. Layla muses briefly if half the budget for the wedding went towards the chair alone. She wouldn't put it pass her mother to do something like that.
“I’m not sure I like all this attention,” Marc whispers to her as they head over to the kosha.
His hand is wrapped around hers, though from the tightness of his grip it's more out of seeking reassurance than affection. Layla squeezes his fingers and presses in closer to his side.
“Me neither,” Layla admits. “But trust me, once my uncles get on the dancefloor, the attention is going to be entirely on them.”
Marc chuckles, and the tension in his shoulder eases somewhat. He sits down on the lounge and sends her a shocked look. “Holy shit, this is comfortable.”
Layla sinks into the space beside him and groans appreciatively. “I’m sorry, Marc, but I think I might have to marry this throne instead.”
That gets her an outright laugh, and she laughs along with him, leaning her head onto his shoulder.
A few of Layla’s girl friends come over to wish her well and to pinch her knee for good luck in their own search for love. Most of them still had the faint traces of henna on their hands from the Laylat Al-hinna, and Layla shares a few giggled comments with them about the antics they’d all gotten up to the night before, the giggling only growing when they spot Marc’s befuddled looks. Layla makes sure to wish them all luck in the bouquet throw.
As the guests start to dig into their food, Layla notices Jean-Paul eyeing her and Marc, a faint smile on his face. When he notices her attention, he raises his glass of sharbat and turns away, pretending to be preoccupied in a conversation with the child seated beside him.
“I think I might talk to some of the guests,” Layla says. “Do you want to come with me?”
Marc considers it for a moment before shaking his head. “I think I’ll just stay here. On this throne. On this impossibly comfortable throne.”
She laughs. “Mm, I think we might need to steal it.”
“Yeah,” Marc says with a snort, “I have a feeling that’s not what they mean by ‘something borrowed’, baby.”
Layla smiles and gives him one last kiss before she descends down onto the main floor. She goes around the room, chatting with some family members and a few of her close friends, but there is only one guest she really wants to talk to. He’s back to staring at Marc with that strange smile, and he doesn’t seem to notice her approach until she’s standing right next to him.
"So,” she says, “you must be Jean-Paul."
He hums and pulls the glass away from his lips, giving her a charming smile as he bows his head. “And you, of course, must be the famous Layla I’ve heard so much about. Enchanté.”
Layla raises her eyebrow. “Marc talks to you about me?”
“Only good things,” Jean-Paul assures.
“I would like to say the same, but he doesn’t talk about you much. Or ever, really.”
Jean-Paul lets out an amused breath and shakes his head. "Mm, that does sound like him. Never much for sharing, that one.”
“No,” Layla says. “No, he’s not.”
Jean-Paul looks back over to Marc, who is watching the singers with a quiet kind of appreciation. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy. I’m glad I could make it.”
Layla smiles ever so slightly at that. Jean-Paul seems decent, for a Frenchman. “I’m glad you could too, or otherwise Marc would have had no one here. You were one of only two people he invited, did you know?"
"Two? I did not know Marc had other friends," Jean-Paul says good-naturedly. “May I ask who it is? Maybe I know them.”
“Someone named Steven Grant,” Layla says. "Does that ring any bells?”
Jean-Paul's smile falters, and after a moment of shocked stillness, he raises his glass to his lips to take an exceedingly long sip.
Layla crosses her arms. "So you do know him."
"Mm." Jean-Paul's lips linger on the glass until, with clear hesitation, he answers, "I've met him a few times, yes."
"I take it he's bad news."
Jean-Paul blinks, before shaking his head profusely. "Oh, no, no, you mistake my tone. On the contrary, he's actually quite lovely. Very polite, though not without a bit of a temper too. He's a"—he waves his hands around as he frowns thoughtfully—"rat de bibliothèque. Very interested in history, specifically Ancient Egypt. Once you get him going, he's off like a horse at the races. He makes for very interesting company. And I'm sure he would have loved to be a part of today's festivities if he could."
The words are said with a gentle, affectionate smile, and it's enough to rip up the picture that Layla had been making up in her head all day about the absent Steven Grant. Seems the only bones she has to pick with him are the ancient ones unearthed from the ground. She softens. "Oh. Well it's a shame I didn't get to meet him then. It sounds like he and I would get along."
Jean-Paul gives her a reserved smile. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll get to meet him one day. When Marc's ready."
“So probably never,” Layla says with scoff.
Jean-Paul hums thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that. I’m sure you’ve noticed this yourself, but he really loves you. I can tell.” He takes another sip of his drink, hiding a small smile behind the glass. Once he’s swallowed it down, he says, “Marc doesn’t have a lot of people. I’m glad he found you.”
“Yeah,” Layla says, glancing back over at Marc. “I’m glad I found him too.”
After a few more shared words, she returns back to the kosha. As she sits back down, she notices that Marc has yet to have made up his own plate of food.
“Are you alright? You haven’t eaten all day,” Layla says quietly. “Is it nerves?”
Marc shakes his head.
Layla touches his knee. “Something to do with Khonshu? He’s not bothering you right now is he?”
“No,” Marc says, waving her off. “No, it’s nothing to do with him. It’s just...personal stuff. A religious thing,” he clarifies awkwardly after a short pause. “I don’t really—you know I don’t really do all that but uh...”
He looks around the room, at the guests mingling, laughing over jokes that can’t be heard and swaying along to the music. For a brief moment, something breaks across his face, something that almost looks like shame. He lowers his head and rubs at his chest. When he looks back up at Layla, the expression is gone, replaced with a tentative smile.
“Today’s special,” he says. “It’s the start of something better. Of me being someone better. Someone worthy of—” He falters and shakes his head. “Nevermind. It’s not important.”
Layla takes his hands into her own, the coolness of the rings a new but pleasant sensation, and sidles in closer to his side. “Marc, I don’t care if it isn’t important. You can talk to me. About anything.”
Marc pulls his hands away, not meeting her eyes. "I know. I will."
"Just not now?" Layla says, unable to hide her disappointment.
Marc says nothing, his hand picking at the fabric of the chair.
Layla sighs, but nods, shifting to the end of the lounge. "Okay. Just...remember I'm here. If you ever want to talk."
There's a lot of things Layla doesn't know about Marc, and though she is certain of his love for her and her love for him, she can't help but hope that one day he'll finally let her in.