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Dex’s mouth is dry and his palms are wet; the opposite of how they ought to be. He smooths his hands against his suit and tries to remember how swallowing works.
“Breathe, man,” Chowder whispers, elbowing him gently. “Just breathe, okay?”
Dex makes what is very generously a noise in the affirmative, heart racing faster than it ever has after a triple shift. He forces himself to look at the celebrant, Cassia, who answers whatever look is on his face with a warm, calm smile. Dex takes strength from it, resisting the urge to tug at his cufflinks – they’re little silver hockey sticks, a gift from Jack and Bitty, both of whom are sitting not ten feet away in the front row of the church, along with damn near everyone else he cares about.
As the music starts up, Dex turns to look down the aisle, chest tightening at the song. It was Nursey’s choice, of course – I Hear the Bells by Mike Doughty – and back in the privacy of their living room, Dex had chirped him for it as a soft-rock hipster cliché. Now, though, as the double doors open, it makes him feel like he’s going to lift out of his skin.
Shitty comes in first, to universal laughter: they’d been drunk when they offered to make him the “flower man-girl” after seeing a Buzzfeed compilation of adults owning the role, but Dex doesn’t regret it for a second, if only because laughing at Shitty – resplendent in a fitted pink suit jacket and matching vest, paired with an equally pink poodle skirt and black army boots – helps to settle his nerves. Grinning hugely behind his moustache, Shitty jaunts down the aisle, throwing generous handfuls of rainbow petals into the crowd. Reaching the end, he winks at Dex and takes his seat beside Jack and Bitty. Close behind him are Nursey’s groomsmaids – Lardo, Ford and Farmer, all in matching gold; they’re smiling, too, and quickly take their seats on Nursey’s side of the aisle.
And then Nursey comes in on his mother’s arm, and all Dex’s breath leaves his body.
When Nursey had asked if Dex minded if he wore something “unconventional” to their wedding, Dex had laughed and kissed his cheek and told him that he expected nothing less. He hadn’t cared that Nursey wanted to keep it a secret, either: the extent of Dex’s knowledge was that Lardo was involved, and that the end result was therefore likely to be spectacular. Which it is. It really, really is. But even having expected some form of sartorial wonder, Dex wasn’t prepared for this.
At first glance, it looks like a ballgown, gathered loops of dark red velvet flowing from Nursey’s hips over a long, hooped skirt of some lighter, russet fabric that shimmers in the candlelight. But as Nursey comes closer, Dex realises that the top part – sleeveless, fitted, also velvet, laced at both sides with thick gold cords – is cut more like a basketball jersey than a bodice. Not only is it totally flat, but sewn or stitched or pasted over Nursey’s chest is the word SAMWELL, the familiar red-on-white lettering clearly cut from one of their old jerseys.
And wearing it is Nursey: clean-shaven, bright-eyed and so achingly fucking beautiful that Dex finds himself on the verge of tears, trembling more and more the closer Nursey comes. He’s wearing a flower crown, or a coronet, or something like that – Dex doesn’t know the words for this stuff; only that it’s real red roses somehow intertwined with metal ones painted gold, to match the gold and ruby drops in his ears – and as his mother hands him off, her own eyes wet as she takes her seat, Nursey grins tremulously at Dex, extends his arms, and does a twirl –
– revealing the fact that their names and numbers from Samwell, POINDEXTER 24 and NURSE 28, have likewise been lifted from a jersey and proudly re-displayed across the back of the not-quite bodice.
“Oh my god,” Dex whispers, completely forgetting he’s not supposed to talk yet as he reaches for Nursey and helps him up onto the dais, thumbs stroking reverently over his hands. His voice comes out wet and wrecked, and he’s so close to crying it’s not even funny, which is maybe why he laughs instead, knowing that Nursey will get it, because Nursey always gets it. “Look at you. Look at you.”
Nursey squeezes Dex’s hands, hard, his smile so fucking bright they ought to use it to light the room, and Dex’s cheeks are hurting as he smiles back.
The music ends and Cassia gives a polite cough, grins at the pair of them, and starts the ceremony proper. It’s comparatively short, as such things go, but Dex barely hears a word of it: he’s too busy looking at Nursey. Suddenly, Chowder is nudging him again – Dex jerks out of his stupor; shit, rings, they’re up to the rings, oh god – and Dex has to let go of Nursey’s hands to take the rings from his best man, mouth going utterly dry as he waits on Nursey’s reaction. Just like the dress was Nursey’s secret, the rings were Dex’s: he designed them himself, an inner layer of carbon steel painstakingly repurposed from an old pair of skates, then banded on both sides by rose gold. His fingers shake as he hands one to Nursey, who looks on the band with awe, and then Cassia starts to lead Dex through his vows.
His voice shakes. He somehow keeps it together, but it’s a near damn thing, and when he slides the ring onto Nursey’s finger, he knows his cheeks are wet. And then it’s Nursey’s turn, and Nursey – his outspoken, political poet, whose voice never falters – Nursey’s voice cracks, and by the time he slides the cool metal ring onto Dex’s finger, both of them are a mess.
The second Cassia pronounces them married, Dex grabs Nursey’s waist and hauls him in for a passionate kiss. Nursey cradles his face, and then they’re laughing, and then they’re kissing, switching from one to the other as the whole church cheers behind them.
It’s been a long road, getting here. Dex is still one of only a handful of out NHL players, and even though plenty of his guys are here today, there’s a lot yet left to be done in hockey culture. But right now, Dex gets to be married to the love of his life – gets to play for the New York Rangers; gets to openly share his home and his life with a husband once they’re back from their weeks-long honeymoon – and that husband is Derek Malik Nurse, award-winning writer and sometime model, and anyone who takes issue with that can go fuck themselves.
“Malika,” Dex whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “My Malika. Look at you.”
“Look at us,” says Nursey, smiling, and kisses him again.