Archive of Our Own ^beta

She’s swept away from him in a flurry, he hardly has time to notice her absence with how bombarded he is. Olivia and her lady’s maids leave too, without much of their usual fanfare. Orsino waits patiently, gives instructions for a dinner to be scrambled together, and soon there’s a full fledged party sprung from nothing. Food is served and dancing is had but he doesn’t pay any mind to it until Viola returns to his side.

His newly wedded wife slides into the chair left open at his side. When he looks to her, he has to turn away almost immediately. There’s something too strange about her in a gown– even still, there is a protesting part of him that looks upon her and screams Cesario, Cesario, Cesario – and his palms begin to sweat at the sight. Cesario becomes Viola, man becomes woman, servant becomes wife. To say the day thus far has been odd would be an understatement.

“How art thou, my Lord?”

Her voice comes quietly, only rising loud enough so that Orsino and no other can hear. It’s a higher pitch than he’s used to. He’s struck suddenly by the depth of which she had been pretending. Even going as far as to speak in a voice not her own. It isn’t terribly different; the cadence is the same, the phrasing, and the tone, but it’s a change nonetheless. What else will have been changed? What else will be different from the serving man that Orsino felt himself so endeared to in this new noblewoman who crawled from the sea and into his unworthy hands?

“I prithee, do not call me that.”

“What wouldst thou have me call thee?” Is her soft reply.

“My name will suffice.”

They go silent then, for what feels like hours. They watch as people roam the ballroom, laughing uproariously. The Lady Olivia’s uncle drinks what must be half his body weight in ale and ends up having to be dragged from the room, nearly unconscious. It’s revelry at its finest– well, perhaps not finest , but at its peak. Orsino never did like revelry, never did relish in joy and beauty and the like. But he’s not looking at the partiers for the most part. He’s only watching one person.

Partway into the evening, Viola is approached by that brother of hers. The boy who looks so similar to her, so indistinguishable from Viola when she was dressed as Cesario except that Sebastian might be a little sharper in the jawline and a hair’s breadth shorter.

“Might I inquire with my sister for a dance?” He asks Viola. She smiles and looks at Orsino.

“My L- Orsino, may I?” It gives him pause, this ask for permission. Is it a habit from her months as his servant? But even then, she felt that she could speak freely. She criticized him openly, joked with him, even directly disobeyed him. Then, is it the expectation of a wife to obey her husband? Whatever it is, it makes him deeply uneasy. Some spark that had been behind her eyes as Cesario has been diminished, some rebellion that she had carried with her is being held back. She is more chained down as his wife than as his servant. She was more free when he paid her pennies than now as she is sharing his wealth.

He nods his assent and watches as her brother leads her to the dance floor. They clasp hands easily and more than once, one of them surges forward to embrace the other. With disbelief, they talk and laugh and smile. Orsino knows nothing of the pain of losing a sibling– his parents only had one child in him– but can see well enough that the grief that Viola had carried is a weight lifted now. She knew Sebastian well enough to imitate him, she carried him with her in her very choice of clothing and manner, she chose a name that echoed his– yes, it’s clear how much Viola cares for her twin. There’s an ugly, jealous, blazing hot part of him that asks this: would she ever care for him that much? When others watch Viola and Orsino stand side by side, do they see even a scrap of that sum of love?

When she returns to him, flush faced and joyful, she collapses into her seat, leant back against the high backed chair. He watches her in this vulnerable moment, her eyes closed as she catches her breath. Her hair is down, despite being a married woman now– the thought that perhaps Olivia had insisted on it being down so as to better distinguish Sebastian and Viola is only a little hilarious. Dark waves fall down past her shoulders, much longer than Orsino might have thought it to be. Cesario kept his hair back and away and hidden, but Viola does not. The collar of her gown sits far lower than any of her livery as his servant, exposing collarbones and the freckled expanse of her throat and where her chest strains against her bodice– No, Cesario and Viola are not the same.

So then why does it feel the same? Why has his longing not abated? Why does a part of him yearn for things that should never be? 

When she opens her eyes, he’s still staring. He shoves down the blush that ensues from her sharp gaze on him; why should he not stare? She is his now. She is his . She, she, she –

“I think I am ready to retire.”

He stands and offers his arm. She takes it easily and they walk out of the room, only stopping once for Sebastian to kiss both his sister’s cheeks affectionately. Once they leave the dining room, the quiet falls over them like a blanket of snow, heavy and choking and leaving no room for anything but an awkward silence. He can hear the swish of the fabric of her dress, the clicking of both their shoes on the stone floor, her soft exhale every once in a while.

They stop in front of his bedroom door. Viola sways absently on his arm, eyes on the floor.

“What dost thou wish?”

“What?” She looks up.

“There is no bedroom made for you, as we only wed on the present day," he says. “Dost thou wish to stay with me or–”

He’s effectively cut off by her leaning up the small distance between their differing heights and presses her mouth against his. It’s not their first kiss; they had sealed their union with a chaste press of lips that Orsino could feel neither of them wanted in front of all of those people. This is a fuller, more thorough kiss. While short lived, he quickly understands the appeal of romantic poetry and love songs and entire sonnets written for a single kiss. He finds himself almost falling forwards after she pulls away, as if he is unconsciously chasing after her, leaning in for another. He wants to kiss her again.

“That is my answer," she declares, wiping her mouth primly. He sees a small spark of Cesario in her eyes finally, and he thinks that perhaps they might be one in the same after all. Or he hopes.

Orsino is only mortal. He is only a man. He misses the servant boy who soothed his loneliness, he loves the beautiful woman with the same face as that youth. He wants the world with no hindrances; he wants the boy and the woman to both be in his bed. He wants to love them both with no hesitation.