The Wedding
I woke up early, and the house was relatively quiet for a change. Billy and Brian had stayed in a hotel after a heated discussion about tradition and not seeing the bride until the wedding day. Brian had eventually surrendered, muttering something about more bloody money, but the cost was worth it if he got some peace.
Jesse and Eli, strangely, were already dressed, having breakfast as I ambled in wearing my tighty whities and matching vest, heading straight to the coffee machine. Morning, boys," I said, coughing from something that tickled my throat....knowing full well, it was their bloody aftershave.
"Good morning, Steve," the boys bid me in unison with excitement in their voices. "Is Rob up yet?" Eli enquired.
"Not yet, that I'm aware," I responded. "And don't forget, I might need you guys to run errands for me, so don't venture far away."
Jesse held up his cellphone. "Not much chance of that, Steve, with this hanging round my neck," as he picked up the tray with a morning pot of tea and some toast. "Wedding breakfast too early for Rob?" Jesse asked.
"Nope, go for it,” I said, “and Jesse, tell Rob, the barber is coming for 9.30am."
Eli bounded upstairs after Jesse, excited to wake Rob on his wedding day. All I heard was, “Christ almighty” and then laughter, suggesting Eli must have dived onto Rob’s bed, frightening the living daylights out of him.
The barber finished and left, leaving Rob to be dressed by Jesse and Eli. Everything was running to schedule when the car arrived, and I helped Rob into the back, making sure his tweed suit remained unruffled by his nervousness and endless fidgeting.
The journey didn't take long when I asked the condemned, "You ready?" as the car pulled up outside the church.
"Of course I'm bloody ready," Rob replied. "I’ve been ready for fucking years. Just hope Brian is, that's all."
"It'll be fine," I declared, knowing full well that Brian had arranged everything with military precision, with Rob attending to the details that Brian considered irrelevant and superfluous.
The church smelled of beeswax and flowers, the organised chaos of the morning forgotten as Billy emerged from the vestry looking like a mobster's idea of respectable. His tie hung loose around his throat, the top button of his dress shirt straining over his Adam's apple. "Fuck me sideways," he hissed, clawing at the collar. "Is this how straight people breathe?"
Brian adjusted his cuffs with precision, then grabbed Billy to deal with the tie and top button of his shirt, as I peeked through the door, hearing him tell the lad, "The noose is symbolic, apparently," he declared. "Marriage is a life sentence," the joke falling flat on Billy as he didn't get it.
Billy emerged from the vestry, having seen me peeking in, his forehead already glistening with sweat under the church's stained glass. "Remind me again," he hissed, clawing at his collar, "why they couldn't just get married naked on the fucking beach somewhere?"
"Shut the fuck up, Billy and tell me when we can come in," I said, looking at all the guests sitting patiently awaiting our arrival. "Also, Rob's grandmother donated this church's new organ," I said, flicking an invisible speck from his lapel, “and the top dog Bishop is attending, so… just behave and make a good impression. It’s Rob and Brian’s big day. Don’t forget.”
Brian didn't look up from aligning his cuffs again, amazing me how nervous he appeared to be, the late morning light catching the silver threads in his otherwise perfect army No.1's with his full-sized medals, white web belt, white gloves and cap tucked under his arm, as his sword dangled at his left side.
I had to admit, Brian looked fucking marvellous, but then again, I like guys in uniforms, but I reported back to Rob all the same. "Brian looks fucking amazing, but strangely, nervous and ready to run, so we'd better get in there."
The church was packed. Every pew groaned under the weight of Rob's extended circles, Brian's military connections, and our own gloriously mismatched household, Jesse practically vibrating in his seat while Eli clutched his forearm like an anchor.
Hari smiled beatifically beside a stone-faced army officer who kept glancing at his bare feet. Billy and Brian stood rigid at the altar with the Reverend Sarah Fanning, her robes swaying like kelp in a gentle current, smiling cheerfully, knowing that God was on her side, in all this madness.
Rob's grip on my elbow tightened as we stepped onto the nave's worn stones. "Wow," he breathed, his voice barely audible over the organ's swell. I followed his gaze to where Brian stood at attention, sunlight from the rose window gilding his uniform buttons, his sword's scabbard gleaming against immaculate trousers. "I've never seen him in full dress uniform. He looks..."
"Like a three-course meal?" I murmured, adjusting Rob's boutonniere.
Rob's chuckle sent his great-aunt Mildred fanning herself violently. "You can eat him later," I added, just as Billy caught my eye and mimed hanging himself with his tie.
The aisle stretched before us like a gauntlet. Rob's Oxfords scuffed rhythmically against the stones while old Professor Carmichael from the archaeology department openly wept into a tartan handkerchief. Halfway to the altar, Rob suddenly stopped, his fingers digging into my arm.
"Wait," he whispered, his gaze locked on something beyond Brian. Following his line of sight, I saw Hari rising from his pew with that liquid grace of his, bare feet silent on the flagstones as he stepped into the aisle. The military officer beside him made a strangled noise when Hari's robes slipped off one shoulder, revealing the henna swirls tracing his collarbones.
"Blessed be this union," Hari announced, his voice carrying effortlessly through the vaulted space. He held up a seashell dripping seawater onto the stones. "May your love be as constant as tides, and as surprising as moon snails," and then with deliberate slowness, he pressed the shell into Brian's stiff hands, leaving wet fingerprints on his immaculate white gloves.
The church held its breath. Brian stared at the shell like it might explode. Then, impossibly, his shoulders relaxed a fraction beneath his immaculate tunic. "Thank you," he said, so softly I almost missed it, his gloved thumb brushing Hari's wrist before the younger man retreated.
Rob exhaled sharply beside me. "Okay," he murmured, squeezing my arm. "Now we can..."
Just then, a shrill whistle cut through the nave. Every head swivelled toward the back pews where Jesse stood on the bench, Eli yanking at his belt loops. "Oi! Billy!" Jesse hollered, pointing at Reverend Fanning's podium. "You forgot the...."
An awkward pause erupted, silent enough to hear a pin drop. "You forgot the fucking rings!" Jesse shouted; the words ricocheting off the vaulted ceiling. Eli facepalmed himself as Jesse dug into his pocket, producing two platinum bands that caught the light like miniature halos. "Brian made me swear on my life not to lose 'em! but I forgot...to...."
The congregation dissolved into laughter. Even the Reverend Fanning's lips twitched as Jesse vaulted over the pew, dress shoes skidding on polished stone as he sprinted up the aisle, nearly tripping over Hari's discarded robe, and thrust the rings at Billy with the solemnity of a knight presenting Excalibur.
Red-faced now, Billy accepted them with glacial precision, but I caught the way his fingers trembled against Jesse's palm, just once, before snapping into parade rest, Brian's influence clearly rubbing off against him.
"At ease, Private," Brian murmured, and Jesse's grin exploded brighter than the light cascading through the stained glass windows.
Rob seized the moment, dragging me the remaining distance to the altar where Billy stood vibrating with suppressed laughter. "You," Brian hissed at him, "are a menace."
"Me?" Billy pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of innocence if you ignored the hickey peeking above his collar. "I didn't forget the..."
The vows and prayers delivered, the guests' applause signified that Brian and Rob had indeed seen the thing through to the end as the Reverend Fanning pronounced them married, almost drowned out by the organ, the organist getting his timing wrong.
Brian and Rob, looking resplendent, turned to face the guests when Billy bolted from the altar like a greyhound released from its trap, tearing at his collar with one hand while the other already reached for the flask in his breast pocket.
Observing Billy, the Reverend Fanning sighed, following the young man’s hasty exit down the nave, mingling with the scrape of a hundred chairs as the congregation rose in a rustle of Sunday best to watch the newly married couple leave the church.
Outside, the normal pandemonium ensured. The photographer was herding everyone into formations that grew increasingly absurd. Brian and Rob posed stiffly beside a gravestone, "It’s symbolic!" the photographer cried, while Hari draped himself over an angel statue with the same languid grace he'd shown riding me in the sea grass.
Jesse kept photobombing Instagram with increasingly ridiculous faces until Eli yanked him away by his tie, both of them dissolving into giggles behind a yew hedge.
The crowd that had gathered beyond the church gates surprised me, not just Rob's retired colleagues and Brian's regiment, but locals who'd clearly heard about "those men from The Point," getting married.
A group of elderly women clutched each other's arms, whispering behind gloved hands as Hari passed them barefoot, his ceremonial robes fluttering open to reveal the henna spirals trailing down his thighs.
"Christ," Billy muttered, swigging from his flask beside me. "We're a fucking sideshow," his hands surprisingly free of paint-stained fingers, gestured to where a teenager was livestreaming Jesse attempting to balance a champagne flute on his head while Eli swigged from the bottle.
"Where the fuck did they get the champagne from?" I demanded from Billy.
"Probably liberated it from supplies, I think," Billy responded, remembering his last hangover from hell. "Shame Brian is ex-army because he bought enough champagne to sink a battleship."
Brian materialised at my elbow, his sword clanking against a gravestone. "Media blackout was too much to hope for," he murmured, watching Rob charm the bishop with some anecdote that made the woman blush.
Brian coughed as military officers do, when a harrumph is required, his white gloves still damp from Hari's seashell, flexed around the hilt of his sword. "Though I suppose we should be grateful no one's...," stopping to view a scene that suggested chaos wasn’t far away.
The bishop's crucifix swayed dangerously close to Rob's champagne flute as Hari materialised between them with a plate of canapés. "Blessed be the buffet," he intoned, popping a smoked salmon blini into the bishop's startled mouth before the woman could protest.
“Where the fuck did that tray of food come from?” I demanded from someone, anyone, while surrounded by no one who really cared.
Jesse's whoop shattered the moment as he vaulted onto a crumbling crypt, dress shoes skidding on lichen-covered stone. "Oi! Eli! Catch!" The champagne cork hit Eli square between the eyes before bouncing into Professor Carmichael's cup of whiskey, the contents poured from his hip flask.
Billy's laughter cut through the chaos as he emerged from behind a yew tree, his tie finally discarded and shirt unbuttoned to the sternum. "Fucking hell," he gasped, clutching my arm for balance. "Did you see Brian's face when Hari..."
A sudden hush fell over the crowd. I turned to see Brian standing rigid beside the lychgate, his white gloves gripping the wrought iron with military precision. The sunlight caught the silver threads in his uniform, casting him in an almost ethereal glow, until Rob stumbled into frame with a giggle, his boutonniere now pinned rakishly in Hari's hair.
"Attention!" Brian barked automatically, his parade-ground voice making several guests jump. Rob saluted sloppily, nearly impaling himself on Brian's sword. "Let's move this party to the proper venue."
The Reverend Sarah Fanning would have been forgiven for saying "thank fucking God for that," as we all left the grounds of the church but it was the Bishop, the Right Rev. Dr. Kimberly Heath who thanked God in her own special way, much to the surprise of the Reverend Fanning, who just looked at her, wondering if the hand of God would strike her down there and then.
The sea view venue groaned under the weight of laughter and spilt champagne. Crystal decanters sweated condensation onto white linen, their contents disappearing at alarming rates as Professor Carmichael demonstrated the correct way to shotgun a bottle of Burgundy to a horrified, the Right Rev. Kimberly, who had by this time dismissed the need for her full name, sharing a similar approach as Professor Carmichael to a bottle of champagne.
I made a note to ask who invited the Bishop when I noticed Jesse had somehow acquired Brian’s dress sword and was using it to spear cocktail sausages from across the buffet table while Eli filmed the whole operation with the reverence of a wartime correspondent.
Billy materialised beside me with two tumblers of whiskey, his dress shirt now completely unbuttoned and clinging to his chest in damp patches. “Rob’s great aunt just challenged Hari to a limbo competition,” he muttered, pressing the glass into my hand with fingers that smelled of cigar smoke and stolen cake. “I think she’s winning.”
The band launched into an unexpectedly funky rendition of the bridal march as Brian took the makeshift stage, his dress uniform still immaculate despite the champagne stain blooming across his thigh where Rob had tripped during their first dance.
The microphone screeched feedback as Brian cleared his throat with parade-ground precision.
“For those of you wondering,” he began, adjusting his white gloves, still faintly salty from Hari’s seashell... “yes, the army does now permit same-sex marriage so if any of you like men in uniforms, sign up quickly. Though I suspect they didn’t anticipate mine involving…” as his gaze flicked to where Hari was demonstrating tantric breathing techniques to a circle of fascinated aunts, “…quite so many spiritual advisors.”
Rob’s speech dissolved into giggles halfway through when he realised Jesse had swapped his notecards for Polaroids of Brian sleeping in increasingly improbable positions, one featuring a strategically placed rubber duck. “Right,” Rob wheezed, wiping his eyes with his bowtie. “Just… welcome to our beautiful wedding and the normal disaster that ensues when our family get's together.”
Billy's speech ended with a champagne flute raised so high it caught the chandelier light like a beacon, his toast punctuated by Jesse's wolf whistle echoing off the cliffs outside. "To Brian and Rob, may your marriage be as orderly as Brian's sock drawer and as gloriously messy as Rob's archaeological dig sites!" as the crowd roared as Brian rolled his eyes while Rob kissed his cheek, leaving a red wine stain on the pristine white lapel.
My speech followed, carefully calibrated English propriety with just enough self-deprecation to charm the aunts, until Jesse heckled, "Speak up, Grandpa!" from the buffet table where he balanced three profiteroles on Eli's head. I closed with the gift, handing Brian and Rob an envelope.
Brian's fingers trembled slightly, tracing the embossed crest of The Queen Mary and Cunard, his telltale sign of being moved, while Rob immediately opened it, bursting into tears while his hand covered his mouth. "They're tickets for a cruise. A long cruise at that."
The band struck up a pulsing remix of "YMCA" as the dance floor flooded with uniformed officers and tipsy academics, and a wide variety of other guests, suffering the consequences of the endless flow of alcohol.
Billy and I stole a quiet moment by the grand piano, Billy peeling the label off his beer while Brian attempted a thank you, but failing miserably. Rob leaned into me, smelling of champagne and Hari's sandalwood oil. "You gave us the best present anyone could have done," he whispered, forehead creased. I shrugged in response. "It’s about time, the army boy here got his sea legs, in style."
As the celebrations progressed, everyone was getting very drunk, including Brian and Rob and then a shriek cut through the music. Hari stood atop a speaker stack, his robes billowing open, displaying his Fruit of the Loom briefs, as he directed a circle of elderly guests through synchronised exhales. "Now visualise your root chakra as a... oh for heaven's sake, Mildred, not that root..."
And then, the French doors burst open. Jesse and Eli stumbled in, seawater sluicing off their clinging briefs, the wet cotton rendering Jesse's anatomy absurdly detailed like a Roman marble. Eli's Hanes tented conspicuously as he waved a seaweed-wrapped champagne bottle. "Treasure!" he slurred, presenting it to the nearest guest, the Bishop, who recoiled so violently her mitre might have toppled into the shrimp tower had she been wearing it.
“I made another note in my head to ban those boys from the sea the next time, wondering about wedding venues inland and nowhere near water.”
Shortly after that, the Bishop slopped off, muttering something about repentance and confession, leaving the rest of the party to become ridiculously merrier as I grabbed a bottle of champagne and walked outside to survey the sea below.
As the evening came to an end, the last cab taillights vanished down the gravel drive, taking with them the final echoes of Reverend Fanning's scandalised muttering, "heathen hydration practices."
I leaned against the porch railing, watching Hari attempt to shepherd Jesse and Eli towards my mate's idling pickup truck, an endeavour comparable to wrangling drunken eels. Eli's seaweed crown listed dangerously to one side as he doubled over, adding another technicolour arc to the hydrangeas.
"Christ," my mate Dave called from the driver's seat, tossing me a packet of wet wipes. "They're worse than hockey rookies after playoffs."
Hari, miraculously upright despite having drunk half the Canadian Navy's rum ration, caught Jesse mid-collapse with one arm while using the other to mop Eli's forehead with his own discarded robes. "Breathe through your nose," he instructed with the serenity of a man who'd just directed a tantric meditation circle, though the effect was somewhat ruined by Jesse answering with a wet belch that made the neighbourhood bats take flight.
Dave's pickup groaned under the weight of three vomiting adults and one stolen ice sculpture shaped like Brian's ceremonial sword. "Text when they're safely chained to a toilet," I called as the tyres spat gravel. Hari's serene wave would've been convincing if not for Eli suddenly projectile-vomiting over his shoulder like a malfunctioning fountain.
The silence that followed was almost sacred. Almost. Somewhere in the venue garden, a cricket began chirping, then abruptly cut off with a sound suspiciously like Brian retching into the rose bushes.
I was mistaken; he was fine, although Brian's champagne flute had slipped from his fingers, bouncing once on the cedar decking before rolling into the darkness. Rob giggled, an alarming sound from a man who'd spent the evening demonstrating proper archaeological excavation techniques using the shrimp cocktail tower, and nudged the empty bottle with his toe. "We should've stolen more."
Brian's dress uniform hung open at the throat, his medals askew where Rob had clung to them during their last slow dance. Moonlight caught the stubble along his jaw as he turned to me, his usually precise enunciation softened by alcohol. "You're quiet."
I watched the tide pull back from the rocky shore below, the white foam catching a cab's headlights like phosphorescence. "Just thinking about tomorrow," I lied smoothly, watching Rob's fingers trace lazy patterns up Brian's thigh where the champagne stain had dried stiff on his dress trousers.
“I know you too well, Steve. What’s wrong?”
“Truth?” I asked.
“Truth, Brian responded while Rob looked at me.
“I’ve had a marvellous day, but it got me wondering if I should marry Billy?” I responded.
With perfect timing, the cab honked twice, our driver clearly regretting his life choices, as Rob struggled upright, nearly taking Brian's sword scabbard to the groin in the process. "Christ," Brian muttered, catching Rob by the belt loops with reflexes that belied his blood alcohol content. "Mind the..."
Rob's answering kiss silenced him, messy and warm and tasting of stolen cake. I looked away politely, though not before noticing how Brian's white gloves, still faintly crusted with sea salt from Hari's blessing, curved around Rob's hips with unconscious possession.
We made it back to the house that was strangely quiet as Brian and Rob said goodnight, Rob already discarding his clothes on the stairs as Brian helped him negotiate each individual step.
My Proposal
Now left on my own, I slipped all my clothes off, leaving them piled in the kitchen and grabbed another bottle of champagne along with my cigarettes and walked naked down to the dock, wondering where Billy was. It had been a while since I saw him, assuming he had gone to bed feeling slightly worse for wear.
The dock groaned under my bare feet, each weathered plank memorising the shape of my soles like an old lover. Salty splinters bit at my arches, the pain sharp and clean compared to the champagne fizz still humming in my veins. I took a long drag off the cigarette, watching the ember flare against the inky water where moonlight shattered into a thousand silver shards.
Behind me, the house loomed dark except for Billy's studio window, a single rectangle of buttery light where he'd undoubtedly swapped his ruined dress shirt for a paint-smeared tank top. The faint strains of Nina Simone floated down the cliffside, mingling with the lap of waves against the pilings. I wondered if he was painting the wedding chaos or something more abstract, the way Brian's sword had glinted during the ceremony, perhaps, or Hari's bare feet leaving wet prints on the altar steps.
The bottle's neck clinked against the dock's iron ring as I set it down. Warm glass, cool metal, the contrasts grounded me as much as the cigarette smoke burning my lungs. Out past the breakwater, a fishing trawler's lights bobbed like drunken fireflies. I imagined the crew hauling nets, their hands rougher than Brian's parade-ground gloves but no less precise in their work.
A sudden splash made me turn. Ripples radiated from the far end of the dock where moonlight pooled thick as cream. Then Billy surfaced with a gasp, water streaming off his shoulders like liquid mercury. Of course, he'd gone for a swim. Why wouldn’t he? The man I love was more otter than human as I watched him.
"Nice swimsuit," I called as he hauled himself onto the dock, his nudity still stunningly attractive. Must have been a refreshing swim at this time of night," I said. Billy shook his head, sending droplets arcing through the air like scattered diamonds.
"Not really,” he responded. “I just needed me time and went for a swim before you got home. After all, one of us had to make sure the children got home safely."
Billy collapsed next to me on the dock with the graceless elegance of a drunk prince, his damp shoulder pressing against mine hard enough to leave a watermark on my skin. He snatched the cigarette from my fingers without asking, inhaling deeply before passing it back, our shared smoke curling around us like a lazy halo. The bottle clinked between our knees as he took a swig, the contents glinting amber in the moonlight before he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Fuck me sideways," he muttered, shaking seawater from his hair like a dog. "Did you see the bishop's face when Hari..."
"Fancy getting married?" The words slipped out like the tide receding, inevitable, unstoppable.
Billy froze mid-swig, the champagne sloshing dangerously close to the dock's edge. The fishing trawler's lights caught the slow arch of his eyebrow as he turned toward me, water still dripping from his earlobe onto my thigh. "To whom? Hari? Because I'm pretty sure he'd insist on a tantric ceremony involving conch shells and..."
"To me, you twat," as I flicked ash into the dark water below, watching the ember die in the brine. "Unless you've got objections."
"Had you going," Billy said, laughing out loud. "You're so gullible."
"I'm being serious, Billy. Will you marry me?" I asked. “We’ve been together in the house for almost two years now, and watching Brian and Rob today and watching you, got me thinking about the future.”
Billy's laughter dissolved into something softer, the champagne bottle forgotten between us as he turned fully toward me. Moonlight carved the planes of his face into something ancient and newly vulnerable, the Billy only I ever saw. "I will," as his fingers found mine on the damp wood, tracing the calluses from digging sites and stolen weekends in his studio. "A small one, though. Just Brian and Rob and Jesse and Eli lurking somewhere with a camera they'll absolutely fucking use?"
"How about next week in England? Because I have something important to tell you that might affect your decision."
Billy's fingers stilled against mine, seawater dripping from his hair onto the dock between us, his simple demand, spoken softly. "Go on, tell me," he demanded, realising the seriousness of my demeanour.
"My sister and her husband were killed four weeks ago in a car accident, leaving behind their four children as orphans needing a home. She always hated my gay lifestyle, and we hadn't spoken in years, and then I got a letter two days ago from the solicitors with a letter from my sister as part of her Last Will and Last Testament.
The fishing trawler's lights blinked once, twice, before he spoke. "Shit," he whispered, his thumb pressing hard into my pulse point. "That's why you've been..."
He trailed off, his gaze flicking up to the house where Brian's silhouette moved past an upstairs window.
"I didn't want to ruin Brian and Rob's wedding. The letter has sat on my desk drawer for forty-eight hours, its embossed letterhead glaring up at me every time I sit there. My sister's solicitor had used phrases like, tragic collision, and immediate kinship placement, but the underlined clause that stood out was, conditional upon establishment of stable marital home."
Billy exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders squaring the way they did when he was about to lift something heavy. "Four kids?" His voice cracked on the number.
"Twin boys, eight and another set of twins, girls, six."
I recited the ages like an inventory, ignoring how the champagne turned to vinegar in my throat. "She also left a personal letter which I've read more than ten times... at least."
A wave slapped the pilings below us, sending salt spray into the air. Billy rubbed his thumb over my knuckles, his calluses catching on the scar from the Banff leg of my hike.
Billy's fingers tightened around mine, seawater still dripping from his hair onto the dock between us. The silence stretched like the tide pulling back, that awful, weighty pause before the wave crashes. Then he lifted my hand to his mouth and bit my knuckle, sharp enough to sting. "You absolute bastard," he growled against my skin, but his eyes were wet. "Making me cry at my fucking proposal."
I exhaled a laugh that cracked halfway. "Technically, I proposed first."
He snatched the champagne bottle and took a savage swig before thrusting it back at me. "Read me the letter. The whole fucking thing."
"Okay, but we have to go to my study."
Billy and I walked back up to the house, hand in hand, in silence until we entered my study, where I grabbed the letter, and we sat side by side on the couch.
The paper crackled as I unfolded it, the light rendering my sister's stiff cursive into something almost gentle.
"Stephen," I began, and Billy flinched at the use of my full name. "If you're reading this, Martin and I are gone. But I tell you now, I was wrong about you, and I was wrong all those years ago. I have followed your career with pride, even though I couldn't say it, but I will say this: watching you build that ridiculous household of yours from across the Atlantic, Christ, you mad bastard, you proved me wrong."
Billy barked a surprised laugh, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "She sounds like you."
The letter trembled in my hands, the paper smelling faintly of lavender as Billy’s knee pressed against mine, solid and warm, as I cleared my throat and continued reading her words aloud.
"I was wrong to say those things to you, Stephen. Wrong to wish you dead. God forgive me, I thought I was righteous. But watching your life unfold from afar... your hike, reading your academic books, that ridiculous gold find, the way you built a home out of chaos..."
My voice cracked. Billy’s fingers twitched like he wanted to snatch the letter away, sparing me the rest, but I shook my head as I continued, "... the way you love Billy so openly, so fiercely... I realised love isn’t a sin. It’s the only damn thing that makes sense in this world."*
Billy made a small, wounded noise in his throat. He reached out, tracing the edge of the paper where a coffee stain bloomed like a bruise. "Christ," he muttered. "She really said that?"
I nodded, swallowing hard as I continued. "So here’s my ask, big brother. If the worst happens, take my kids. Raise them in that madhouse of yours where love, honesty and naked meditation are a way of life. Let them see what real love looks like. But..."
I hesitated, my thumb rubbing over the next line, the ink darker where her pen had pressed deep. "Marry him first. Give them that stability. Not for God. For them."
Silence pooled between us, thick and heavy. Outside, the tide whispered against the rocks. Billy exhaled sharply, then snatched the letter from me, scanning the last lines himself. His lips moved soundlessly as he read: "P.S. Tell Billy I’m sorry for calling him a ‘grubby delinquent’ in that Daily Mail interview, two years ago. The man clearly adores you. Even I can see that."
Billy stared at the letter, seawater dripping from his hair onto the paper, smudging the ink where my sister had written: "grubby delinquent."
His laugh punched out of him like a sob. "Fuck," he rasped, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye. "She really did say that in the Daily Mail, didn't she?"
The grandfather clock ticked three times before he shoved the letter back at me and stood abruptly, pacing to the window where dawn bled into the sky. His bare feet left damp prints on the Persian rug.
"So?" His voice sounding too controlled. "Four kids. Marriage. Next week. England."
He turned, his silhouette haloed by the rising sun. "You realise we'll have to tell the others, but not now. Now, we...well, when the kids arrive we'll have to make love behind closed doors but, for now, we..."
Billy's silhouette cut a sharp line against the dawn, his shoulders rising with a breath so deep I could see his ribs press against damp skin. Then he pivoted on his heel, moving toward me with the same deliberate intensity he brought to fresh canvases, when he knew exactly what the painting needed before his brush touched linen.
"Now," he said, his voice rough as he dropped to his knees between my spread thighs, "we christen this fucking study properly," as his hands slid up my bare legs, leaving trails of seawater that evaporated under his palms' heat. "Before we become respectable married men with...," his teeth grazing my inner thigh. "...four tiny chaperones."
Sealing Our Relationship
Billy's lips brushed mine first, a fleeting pressure that tasted of salt and stolen champagne, before trailing downward with deliberate slowness. His mouth mapped a path along my jawline, the hollow of my throat, the scar from Banff's icefall that never quite faded, each kiss a punctuation mark in a sentence only our bodies understood. When he reached my sternum, he paused, exhaling warm breath across damp skin, and I felt the chuckle vibrate through his ribs before he murmured, "Christ, you're beautiful," against my navel.
His teeth caught my hair between my thighs, where Billy's fingers now curved possessively. "Fuck," he breathed, not at my erection but at my sister's comment. "Grubby delinquent"
Only then did he finally lower his mouth to me, swallowing me whole in one smooth motion that had my hips jerking off the couch.
The contrast nearly undid me, Billy's lips soft as tide pools while his grip on my thighs bordered on brutal, his fingernails carving crescents into muscle as he worked me with that unhurried precision usually reserved for mixing paints or untying my climbing harness. Somewhere beyond the study windows, gulls cried over the dawn-chased waves, their rhythms syncing with the wet sounds of Billy's mouth until I couldn't tell which was louder, the ocean or my pulse.
"Look at me," he demanded around a mouthful of me, and when I obeyed, dragging my gaze from the ceiling, he hollowed his cheeks deliberately. The visual alone, Billy's lips stretched obscenely, his lashes clumped with saltwater, my sister's apology letter sticking to my hip, coiled tension low in my gut.
Billy took me apart with the same meticulous care, each stroke deliberate, each adjustment calculated to draw out the maximum response. His tongue flicked over the head of my cock with the precision of a brush cleaning oil paint from canvas, teasing the slit until my hips jerked involuntarily. "Easy," he murmured against my skin, the vibration travelling straight to my spine as he pinned my thighs harder against the couch.
He swallowed me deeper, his nose pressing into my pelvis as his throat worked around me, the suction so intense it bordered on painful. My fingers tangled in his damp hair as he pulled back just enough to drag his teeth along the underside, that sweet-brutal edge he knew I craved.
"Fuck," the curse tearing from me as he hollowed his cheeks again, his free hand sliding between us to thumb at my perineum with practised pressure. Somewhere beyond the study windows, the tide rolled in, waves crashing against the shore in time with Billy's rhythm. He varied his pace just enough to keep me teetering, long, slow pulls followed by quick, shallow sucks that had my toes curling against the armrest. When his fingers brushed lower, tracing the furl of muscle behind my balls, I nearly came off the couch. "Billy...."
I couldn't prevent my orgasm, not when Billy's tongue swirled just beneath the head in that obscene little corkscrew motion he'd perfected over years of trial and error, not when his fingers pressed insistently against my perineum while his other hand pinned my hip to the couch with bruising force.
The force of my climax was evident as cum shot from my cock in multiple ropes from multiple thrusts. Billy took it all, swallowing with a satisfied hum that vibrated through me long after I'd finished pulsing down his throat.
He pulled off with an obscene pop, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before collapsing against my chest. The grandfather clock struck five as Billy pulled away, his lips glistening. "Tell me you love me," he murmured against my chest, his voice wrecked.
I carded my fingers through his damp hair, tugging sharply. "You know I do. I love you."
Billy's teeth flashed in the dawn light still streaking through the study windows. "In that case," he said, thumb swiping at the corner of his mouth, "your desk hasn't been properly christened," his chin jerked toward the massive oak monstrosity dominating the room, "Go lie on it."
The wood was cold against my bare back, the scent of lemon polish and old paperwork rising as Billy shoved my academic notes and books aside with his arm. A fountain pen rolled off the edge, hitting the Persian rug with a muffled thud next to my sister's crumpled letter. Billy pulled my legs toward the edge of the desk, his legs bracketing my hips as his cock leaked precum.
"Christ," I muttered as my shoulder blades hit a stapler. "This is..."
"Perfect," Billy interrupted, grabbing a handy tube of lube, smearing his cock. "You've spent two years fucking me in every room except the one where you write your pretentious academic papers. Time to remedy that."
The desk groaned as his fingers circled me, his efforts alternating between punishing and tender as he prepared me.
Billy stood, looking at me as he pushed in, sliding easily into my body until he was all the way in. The desk creaked beneath us, an old oak protest swallowed by Billy's sharp inhale. His pupils swallowed the blue of his irises, dark with a reverence that still caught me off guard after all these years. "Husband," he murmured, rolling the word around his mouth like vintage wine, hips moving in that first slow circle that made my breath hitch.
Sunlight spilt across his shoulders through the study window, gilding the saltwater still drying on his skin. Every thrust was deliberate, his rhythm tidal, that same relentless push and pull that had carved out sea caves along our coastline. His fingers found mine on the desk, pinning them beside a half-finished manuscript, our palms pressed together like pages in a book.
"You feel..." I started.
He bit off the sentence with a groan when I clenched around him, his forehead dropping to mine. The scent of his sweat mixed with seawater and the lavender from my sister's letter beneath us. Somewhere outside, gulls cried over the harbour, their voices rising and falling with the cadence of Billy's hips.
I arched into him, the edge of the desk biting into my thighs as he angled deeper. "Christ, Steve," he breathed against my collarbone, his lips forming the words against damp skin. His free hand mapped my ribs, pausing at the scar from Banff before sliding up to cradle my jaw. The contrast nearly undid me. Billy's touch tender where our bodies joined fiercely, his thumb brushing my cheekbone as his cock dragged over my prostate with devastating precision.
The grandfather clock chimed six times, the sound muffled by Billy's ragged exhales against my throat. He slowed further, drawing out each movement until I could feel every ridge, every twitch of him inside me. "Look at me," he demanded, and when I obeyed, his smile was the same crooked grin he'd worn paddling toward me in the moonlight. "You still promise to marry me next week in England," he murmured, rolling his hips in that obscene corkscrew motion that made my vision blur. "Say yes."
“Yes.”
The desk creaked violently as Billy’s thrusts lost all rhythm, his hips stuttering against mine in that familiar, helpless way that meant he was close. His fingers tightened around my wrist hard enough to leave marks, his other hand fisting in my hair as he gasped, "Say it again."
"Yes," I hissed, arching up to meet him, the edge of the desk digging into my thighs. "Next week. England. You and me…"
Billy came with a choked-off groan, his forehead pressed to my sternum as he pulsed inside me, his entire body shuddering like a sail caught in a squall. I followed him over the edge moments later, my release stripping our stomachs as he collapsed onto me, both of us sticky and spent.
For a long moment, the only sound was our ragged breathing and the distant cry of gulls. Then Billy lifted his head, his eyelashes clumped together with sweat. "Fuck," he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "We’re going to need a bigger SUV"
I laughed. "You're thinking about a bigger SUV at a time like this?"
“Well, someone's got to,” he responded.
The grandfather clock struck seven as Billy slid off the desk, his knees cracking audibly. "Christ, we're getting old," he muttered as he pulled out of me, only to climb on top of me, looking down at my face while his fingers pinched and twisted my nipples. "I don't care, though, how old we are, I love you."
The Family Conference
We fell asleep on the couch, covered in the old blanket that we had used on our first night together by the lake. It was 11am when I heard the sounds of life, nudging Billy awake. "I think they're all alive. I wonder, though, what condition they're all in after yesterday."
"We'd better go and have a look and... perhaps a family conference is in order," Billy replied.
We stepped into the kitchen, where the scent of burnt toast and expensive coffee battled for dominance. Brian stood rigid as a flagpole in nothing but his white Hanes briefs, steaming mug in hand, his posture making the domestic scene absurdly formal. Rob slumped at the breakfast bar like a discarded marionette, forehead pressed against the granite, his own briefs stretched obscenely across his hips.
Jesse’s bare feet slapped against the tile as he bounded in, his nudity somehow less shocking than the sketchbook clutched in his ink-stained hands. "I don’t know how," he announced, slapping the book onto the counter next to Rob’s twitching elbow, "but I managed to complete more sketches of Eli and Hari as they slept."
The pages fanned open to reveal Eli curled foetal around a pillow, his fabric harness straps resting on his back like bondage vines, while Hari’s serene profile glowed amidst a tangle of sheets, one hand draped over Eli’s hip in unconscious possession.
Brian’s coffee sloshed dangerously as he leaned over the sketches. "Christ," he muttered, squinting at Hari’s erect nipples rendered in meticulous charcoal. "Did you have to include the..."
Hari arrived next, naked and blinking like a startled owl, his usual serenity fractured by what appeared to be the mother of all hangovers.
Eli shuffled in behind him, his nudity equally forgiven, muttering something about "never again" and "why did we shotgun three bottles of sacramental wine?" as he squinted at the sketches Jesse had left on the counter and groaned. "Oh god, I let Hari cuddle me?"
Billy slid two mugs of coffee across the granite, the steam curling around Hari’s shell like incense. "Guys," he said, nudging my knee under the counter, our silent signal for, brace yourself.
"We have to chat," I declared.
Brian’s spine straightened another fraction, his instincts overriding his hangover. Rob lifted his head just enough to peer at us through one bloodshot eye. "Chat," he repeated flatly. "After yesterday, that word terrifies me."
I cleared my throat, acutely aware of my sister’s letter on the desk in my study. "We’re getting married," I said, watching Billy’s fingers tighten around his mug. "Next week. In England."
Brian's coffee mug hit the granite with a loud crack that made Eli flinch. "Christ," he rasped, blinking at us with the haunted expression of a man who'd just realised his ceremonial sword had been repurposed as a cocktail stirrer a few hours earlier. "You're serious?"
Hari, who'd been massaging his temples with both hands, froze mid-circle. His eyes flicked from Billy's bitten lips to the fresh love marks developing on his skin. "Obviously," he sighed, as if our dishevelment explained everything. Which, to be fair, it usually did.
Rob lifted his head fully, revealing a spectacular love bite blooming across his throat, Brian's doing, judging by the blush that swept over him. "England?" Rob croaked.
The silence after my announcement stretched like the tide receding before a tsunami. Brian's fingers twitched as he rested his hand on Rob's back. Rob's lips moved soundlessly, his brain undoubtedly reconstructing the timeline from "wedding" to "four orphaned children" with terrifying precision.
Jesse's stool screeched as he shoved back from the counter. "Wait, England? Like, castles-and-queens England?"
“Yep, England,” I responded. “It's going to be a big change, and we’re all in this, and I need to know how you all feel before…”
The silence was something else as the seriousness of the announcement took hold. Brian broke the silence first. “I think I speak for everyone present, why not? Why can’t we embrace a change like this?”
“Rob spoke next. “I’m game on, although I know nothing about raising kids, especially…that young.”
Jesse and Eli just remained silent, perhaps unable to absorb the news through the alcoholic haze that appeared to drift through their eyes.
“Billy and I sat down and prepared a to-do list,” as I slid it across the granite, its edges catching on condensation rings.
"Jesse, Eli, you two are on house-sitting duties while Brian and Rob come with us to England," I said, tapping the bullet points with a butter knife.
"No orgies. No repurposing Brian's sword...again...and absolutely no..." as my voice trailed off. "I need you guys to prepare the house for the children. The boys will share a room, and the girls will share likewise. We have to accept our lives are going to change, and I'm relying on you guys to make arrangements."
Rob made a noise like a deflating balloon. "Christ, we're really doing this?" his fingers creeping towards Brian's wrist, finding the pulse point. "Four kids? Next week?"
"Not quite. Two weeks," I clarified. "We're their family now, if everyone agrees. They need a home, and adjustments will be essential."
Brian's coffee mug hovered midair, his posture faltering as he muttered, "Grandfather," repeating the word like thin ice underfoot. His gaze flicked to Rob, who was grinning into his orange juice like a man who'd just discovered free will. "Bloody hell," Brian muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Rob nudged Brian's bare knee with his own, his voice thick with suppressed laughter. "You'll look dashing in granddad cardigans. Like I will."
Across the counter, Jesse's charcoal pencil snapped between his fingers. "Hold on," he said, staring at the broken halves like they held answers. "You're saying we're getting demoted from sons to... what? Uncles? As his voice cracked on the last word, his usual bravado crumbled. Eli, silent beside him, traced the edge of Jesse's sketchbook with a fingertip, his knuckles whitening.
Billy exhaled through his nose, reaching across the granite to flick Jesse's forehead. "You'll still be our pain-in-the-arse kids," he said, but his usual smirk lacked conviction. "Just with extra... tiny humans to corrupt."
"Non-sexually," I interjected, watching Hari's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "You guys are family. Billy and I love you both very much. Just be yourself and understand their needs. You will be the big brothers they need. We gave you a home. Now it's your turn to give them a home.”
"What about...?" Eli started. "What about moments like this. You guys are naked. We're naked and the granddads," looking at Brian and Rob, "are... almost naked."
Hari's shell necklace clicked against his collarbone as he leaned forward, sunlight catching the fine lines around his eyes when he smiled. "Ah," he said, rotating his coffee mug like a divining tool, "so we're raising them like those French families who breakfast nude but don't fuck on the kitchen table?"
Brian choked on his coffee.
"Exactly," Billy said, flicking a toast crust at Jesse's bare chest. "Except for less philosophy, more practical boundaries. No jerking off in shared spaces...."
".... and definitely no using fucking in public," I added, watching Brian's left eyelid twitch violently.
Rob traced the rim of his juice glass, his grin widening. "So we're normalising nudity but desexualising it? Like Scandinavians?"
"Yep, I guess we are, Rob. Nudity is to be enjoyed even for stuffy-nosed English kids who, considering their ages, don't really see naked bodies anyway. It's normal for them to run and play around naked. It's adults, especially stuffy-nosed English adults, who have problems with it. So, is everyone on board?" I asked.
Hari's shell necklace clicked against his collarbone as he raised a hand, his smirk more amused than apologetic. "As much as I adore your impending marital bliss, gentlemen, I do technically not live here," as he gestured toward the front door with his coffee mug.
Eli snorted into his orange juice while Jesse, still gloriously naked, flipped Hari off with his charcoal-stained fingers. "Coward," Jesse muttered.
The espresso machine screamed like a wounded animal as Brian pressed another shot, the sound cutting through the silence left by his announcement. Steam curled around his clenched jaw as he slid the tiny cup toward Rob. "We'll hold down the fort," he said, "First introductions should be just you two, and we'll celebrate upon your return. In the interim, I've looked at your to-do list, and I think Eli and Jesse might need some help. Besides, I can run a risk assessment. Their health and safety are primary."
Rob nodded, his smile softer than the morning light filtering through the windows. "We'll throw you a proper celebration when you’re back," he promised, winking at Billy. "Complete with stolen ice sculptures and Eli passed out in the shrubbery."
Hari stretched with feline grace, his shell necklace clinking against his collarbone. "I'm returning to my bed. I'm not feeling too good," he announced, padding toward the hallway. Then paused, glancing over his shoulder at Jesse and Eli. "Unless you two wish to assist with my... morning meditation?"
Jesse's charcoal pencil clattered to the floor. Eli choked on his orange juice, and then they both scrambled after Hari like puppies chasing a tennis ball, their bare feet slapping against the hardwood in unison.
The airline confirmation email blinked accusingly from my laptop screen, *British Airways Flight 0059, Vancouver to London, departing 23:15*.
Billy’s bare foot nudged mine under the kitchen table, his toenails still flecked with turquoise paint from last night’s wedding chaos. "First class, yeah?" he muttered around a mouthful of cold toast, squinting at the seat map. "Not risking coach with jetlag and..." His voice trailed off, fingers hovering over the keyboard where four unassigned child seats glowed ominously in first class for the return flight, the reality hitting him for the first time.
I snorted, scrolling past the bassinet icons. "They’re six and eight, not infants," as my cursor hovered over the button until I clicked, " Book now.
"Fuck," he said, jabbing at the screen where a description of first class promised "privacy at 30,000 feet," his grin turning wolfish. "Last chance for mile-high.... membership."
The front door slammed. Jesse bounded in, still naked, waving a dripping ice pack. "Hari says vodka fixes hangovers!" he announced, tossing the pack onto Brian’s to-do list. "Also, Eli threw up in the, oh shit, are those *plane tickets*? reality knocking at his front door as well."
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