Chapter Text
They don’t make it a spectacle.
No press release. No magazine exclusive. No dramatic countdown. Just a quiet decision, made on a Tuesday night while brushing their teeth, that turns into something permanent.
“Winter,” Arm says, foam at the corner of his mouth.
Arc spits, rinses, looks at him in the mirror. “Winter’s good.”
That’s it.
The wedding is small. Intentionally so.
A garden just outside the city — open sky, white chairs, strings of warm lights woven through trees that have seen decades pass without asking for permission. The kind of place that doesn’t demand anything from you except honesty.
Jet and Pun are in charge of logistics and vibes, which means everything somehow works perfectly while also being a mess.
Pun cries during setup.
Jet cries because Pun is crying.
They insist they are not emotional people.
Yotha officiates — calm, grounded, voice steady like he’s anchoring the entire moment to the earth. He jokes once about how this is the least chaotic thing he’s ever hosted, then clears his throat and becomes serious in a way that makes everyone sit straighter.
Gun stands beside Arc, quiet and composed, adjusting his cufflinks once too many times. He doesn’t say much, just murmurs, “You ready?” like it’s a check-in, not a question.
Wine and Faifa arrive together — openly this time. No hiding, no careful distance. Just hands brushing, shoulders touching. Wine wears something sharp and understated. Faifa looks… free. Lighter than he’s ever been.
Arm waits behind the arch, fingers flexing once, twice. Not nerves exactly — more like the weight of this matters settling in his chest.
When the music starts, it’s not grand. Just something soft, instrumental, familiar.
Arc walks first.
Not dramatic. Not rushed. Just steady.
He looks up and meets Arm’s eyes halfway down the aisle, and something quiet but seismic shifts in both of them.
This is it.
No audience noise fades away because there never was much to begin with. Just their people. Their circle. The ones who stayed.
Arm walks next.
When he reaches Arc, they don’t speak. They don’t need to. Arc’s thumb brushes over Arm’s knuckle once — grounding, present.
Yotha smiles at them like someone who knows exactly what this costs — and exactly what it gives back.
The vows are handwritten.
Arm goes first.
His voice doesn’t shake.
“I spent a long time thinking I had to choose,” he says. “Between who I was and what I wanted. Between love and everything else.”
He looks at Arc. Really looks.
“You never asked me to give anything up. You just stood there and said, ‘I’ll wait here.’ And somehow… that gave me the courage to step forward.”
He swallows once.
“I promise to keep choosing you, even when it’s quiet, even when it’s hard, even when the world is loud. I promise to build a life with you that feels like home. Always.”
Arc exhales slowly before he starts.
“I’ve never believed in needing to be loud to be certain,” he says. “But I’ve also never been more sure of anything.”
A small smile curves his mouth.
“You taught me that love doesn’t have to demand. It can just be. I promise to protect your space, to stand beside you without pulling you anywhere you’re not ready to go. And when you are ready, I’ll walk with you. Every time.”
There are tears. Not dramatic ones. Quiet ones.
Jet is openly sobbing.
Pun hands him a napkin like this was expected.
Gun stares very hard at a tree.
Yotha clears his throat.
“Then by the power vested in me — and by the very obvious fact that everyone here already knows this is inevitable — I now pronounce you married.”
They don’t rush the kiss.
It’s slow. Gentle. Certain.
Applause rises — soft, warm, full.
The reception is laughter-heavy and barefoot by the end of the night.
Someone plays music off a speaker balanced on a chair. Someone else steals cake before it’s officially served. Wine dances with Faifa like no one’s watching, because finally, they’re not.
Gun and Yotha sit slightly apart from the noise, fingers laced, watching everything with matching half-smiles.
Jet gives a speech that starts sincere, derails into chaos, and somehow circles back to love. Pun kisses his cheek halfway through just to make him stop crying.
Arc and Arm slip away briefly, just a few steps beyond the lights, where the night is quiet and the air smells like grass and something new.
Arm leans his forehead against Arc’s. “We did it.”
Arc smiles. “Yeah. We did.”
No fear. No doubt. No performance.
Just clarity.
They return hand in hand, not as something newly defined, but as something deeply settled.
Husbands.
And for the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel like a question.
It feels like a continuation.