HERE COME THE... GROOMS!

[longlivesealand]

WHO: The newlyweds and the wedding guests.
WHEN: September 2nd, Thursday.
WHERE: Berwald's house.
WHAT: Peter and Raivis' wedding. What else.

Comments

[das_vedanya]

That evening, Ivan felt like he was leaving for a shift at the restaurant. He wore the same dark-cherry collared shirt, black slacks, and ebony vest. He adjusted his black tie in the mirror lazily, already tied into knots because his scarf would be covering it. It already hung over his shoulders, even as he pulled his coat: Ebony, significantly more different than the beige he grew accustomed to, though still in the possession of his American nuisance, who, ironically, would be joining him that night.

Having Alfred by his side somehow made the burden of carrying that invitation - cleverly slipped between Raivis’s documents weeks prior - more agreeable. He hated weddings, and in that attire, he nearly made the mistake of wandering en route of the occupation in which he wore it had Alfred not inquired on the street they turned. Maybe he wished he was going to the restaurant instead, especially since Alfred was so intent on getting Ivan to dance with him.

Although the two hadn’t arrived until the reception, he did very little to make himself noticed - including standing, as a simple glimpse at the crowd placed him among the tallest two. One glass of wine, used more often as a distraction than it was sipped, for the entire evening. His tiny envelope, bearing a nameless but appropriate monetary value, looked so tiny against the mountainous gifts on the opposite table.

He did remember seeing the American’s ears turn red with envy the moment a certain audacious girl had seized his wrist in imprisonment, and used him like a marionette to dance to an upbeat song involving “love games” and “disco sticks.” When he returned to his wineglass after the four minutes of torture, Alfred was laughing. Ivan felt the need afterwards to remind his wine how much he hated weddings with another half-glass full of chardonnay.

His dancing partner retired to their table for a fleeting conversation or two, and bade the Russian farewell with a fairly appropriate gesture - a quick kiss to the cheek in “thank you”, he presumed - but as the steps between Johanna and the door shriveled, Ivan found that hunger deep in Alfred’s eyes for that promised dance grow more insatiable.

As the crowd thinned, Alfred became more impatient. Once he was assured in the fact that the major percentile of the wedding population had returned home, he finally indulged the American in a slow dance, if only for the last minute or two to a nameless piece of leisurely jazz before a more buoyant song melted through the speakers. They had to disperse, this time not to the table where his wine awaited, but into the night. His breath materialized into the darkness as Ivan fished his pockets for the familiar ivory box with his cigarettes in it, only to solemnly remember that the coat that bore it was now in Alfred’s possession.

It was a cigarette-less walk home that night, but his lips were still occupied nonetheless. Maybe he didn’t hate weddings after all.