The Merry Wives of Windsor

Standing around in waistcoats and cufflinks is the wedding fantasy of an alternate reality's relationship. Minoth won't live for it, in this one, and he'll just barely tolerate a black suit on black shirt, maybe a tastefully colorful paisley tie. Not a Canadian tuxedo, of course. Cowboy tuxedo? Maybe. Pending.

Addam, to coordinate, is in a bright white shirt with a tan suit. Something something loafers, something something pocket square. Minoth's wearing his boots.

Everybody "mmm"s and "ahh"s, and Minoth elbows Addam when he thinks they're approaching the time of crying. He lets him do it, naturally, but he's not going to pretend that he doesn't notice, and he's not going to pretend that he doesn't think it's funny.

What? He's a loving partner, but that doesn't mean he's a ginger hand.

If Lora and Haze had had a larger wedding party, Addam might even have been in it. Just two pairs of aisle attendants in Mikhail and Patroka followed by Akhos and Obrona, with Jin giving the bride away (Malos, inexplicably, is a registered officiant) is plenty, for the cadre of attending children.

Minoth's glad of it, too - gives him someone to sit with, and a crowd generated via sheer rambunctial volume within which to hide.

"You're awfully shy," Addam nudges him (well, and fair's fair, it's only his rightful turn). "Come now, it's a celebration! Two people commemmorating their union and embarking upon the rest of their lives together. Moments like these are truly once in a lifetime. We may never have another chance like this one to see all these people together and alive."

Another fresh tear threatens, from glimmering birth below the cornea.

"What are you gonna say next, 'they look well together'?"

"Well, I-"

"Relax, Prince." Minoth smiles, company genteel, and lays his hand high enough on Addam's back to keep it masculine but low enough that it graces the betweenland of shoulderblades, even through linen. "You're right. They do look well. They even look good."