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This isn’t right. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. How can I— can we — do this if it isn’t somewhat perfect? The color is all wrong. The pattern the weave makes is god-awful. Not to mention the fucking fabric itself. I can feel every fucking stitch in this goddamn shirt from the moment I place my arms in the sleeves to every tug it makes as I do up each button. I want to rip it off. Burn it. There aren’t even places for my own cufflinks, if I had any. Just the same plain white buttons. Cotton-polyester thread in cotton-polyester fabric that feels like it’s three sizes too small and too big all at once and catches every single hair on my body. I knew the jacket would only make it worse, if that was even possible. Jesus fucking christ. God.
I shove an exhale through my nostrils, rake my fingers through my hair in the bathroom mirror. The fluorescent light contrasts terribly with the setting sun streaming in from the open window, only casting sharper, deeper shadows across my face. A strand of sun-bleached hair snags on one of the cheaply sewn buttons at the cuff.
I want to rip my hair out now too, but it brushes the top of my collar now, and Will never shuts up about the fact he thinks it’s “hot” this long.
Get it together, Hannibal. You’re a grown man. It’s your wedding day. Make the fucking effort. You can withstand an evening on the deck. It won’t be that long.
“Hannibal?”
He says it so softly, as if my name could reach out and announce his presence before his footfalls on the bedroom hardwood. I like how the phonemes never sound harsh when he pronounces them. He could be sighing, singing, praying them.
I erase any trace of frustration as I turn to face Will. He’s half dressed, shirt still untucked and unbuttoned, two ties draped over his arm.
“You were being awfully quiet.”
“We shouldn’t be seeing each other right now.”
He frowns, huffs a small laugh. “It’s just us. I don’t think we’ll incur any more bad luck than we already have. It’s not like we didn’t decide what to wear together.”
I open my mouth to protest but find I can’t speak. I resort to swallowing past the lump in my throat instead. Will appears to ignore this and passes me a tie. An off-white paisley on burgundy. One of my favorite combinations.
He’s got one third of his buttons done up by the time I tie the tie. I watch him move with that tell-tale stiffness the entire time. He’s tucked the shirt in and is about to start the buttons again when I reach out and stop him.
“Let me.” His wrist feels hot under my fingertips. “I know the pressure changes bother your shoulder.”
Will gives me a chiding look, but does not protest. I sit on the edge of the counter and pull him close, close enough to smell Old Spice and the ever-present scent of the sea. I do up each button with agonizing slowness. When I reach the top, I stand, holding his gaze steady with mine. I do up the final button, running my fingers along the edge of the inside of the collar all the way to the back of his neck. He smirks when my fingers meet, thinking, assuming he knows what’s to come, but I merely smooth down the collar and reach for the tie.
Will exhales long and low through his nose. I duck my head to hide the self-satisfied grin.
He snatches the tie away before I can get it, suddenly serious, concerned. “Hannibal. Tell me.”
I close my eyes and inhale. His hands are on my face, smoothing lines, scars, pulling me down to rest on his shoulder. The cheap, stiff fabric rustles, sounding more like a roar this close and feeling worse.
“The clothes,” I whisper, after the roaring settles.
“What about them?” His voice rumbles, reverberates this close.
I pull away, swallow. The weight of Will’s touch is strange as he lightly runs his hands over my shirt, feeling the fabric, the buttons, examining everything.
“Not what you’re accustomed to?” It’s not a jest. Will says it quietly, genuinely.
I clear my throat, gathering his tie from where we discarded it on the counter. I can only shake my head.
He nods, bites his lip, chews on the little crumb I gave him.
“You don’t have to wear it if it’s unbearable, Hannibal,” Will finally says. “We don’t have to go out like this. I don’t want you torturing yourself for me or the sake of propriety. When have you been selfless like that?”
I know my answer, but I can’t bring myself to say it. Ever since you threw us off that cliff. No. The crypt in Palermo. When you forgave me.
I feel Will’s hands give mine a squeeze and brush over them, then departing footsteps as he walks into our closet and begins sliding coat hangers this way and that. I keep my eyes on a particular section of tile in the bathroom. The mosaic pattern dissolves into tiny individual chips of sky blue, butter yellow, and white.
Will’s voice forces my head up. “Here, try this.”
White, sheer, linen button up. Light blue-gray seersucker trousers.
He’d changed as well. A loose, open button up in a close match to the trousers. Khaki shorts. I blink at him. I want to move, to speak, to thank him through tears, but— Will plunges us into near-darkness with the flick of the light switch and I feel the pressure at the base of my skull lift.
The only sound is the lapping of the Pacific on the back deck through open windows. The setting sun strikes the mirror and cuts across Will’s body, drawing a gold diagonal across the skin of his bare chest. His scar shines white against his tanned torso, right at my eye-level. It makes my own stomach twist to see it sometimes. I can lose it in the minute details of freckles and moles and soft, fine black hairs most times— but right now I find it impossible to look at anything else.
My world is reduced to blue-yellow-white tile, calloused fingertips, Old Spice as Will undresses me piece by piece. How many times had I done this? How many times had I made sure he stayed with me in Baltimore, and now I was failing him by drifting out to sea?
I let him help me, pulling my own weight when required. I suppose he must want to, or he would’ve left me with the clothes.
I manage a small “thank you, Will,” ignoring the battle in my head telling me I cannot get married like this.
“We’ll just move it from the deck to right on the beach,” Will whispers. “Hell, right in the water if you want. It’s just us, Hannibal. No one to impress but me. And Sandy.” I hear the smile in his voice.
“We’d better call the whole thing off then, I don’t know if I can face Sandy.”
Will laughs, draping us in warm, resonant baritones smooth as fine coffee or chocolate. He pulls me close, presses a kiss into my hair. Each breath gives me a calming hint of Old Spice, perfectly matched to Will’s thumb lightly brushing a soft rhythm into my shoulder.
“C’mon,” he murmurs into my neck, “let’s go before it gets too dark.”
I reluctantly let him go, then willingly let him lead me by the hand into the kitchen. As we approach, he insists on placing his hands over my eyes.
“Will, you know I detest surpri— ” A wet nose nudges my hand and Will finally uncovers my eyes. Sandy blinks up at me expectantly, sand-colored fur neatly groomed and neck adorned with a crimson ribbon.
A large tag and matching red drawstring bag hangs from the ribbon, the title “FLOWER GIRL” loudly emblazoned in bold, blocky black calligraphy. I flash Will a broad smile before pulling him in for a kiss.
“You’re ostentatious.”
“I get it from the best.”
“I would’ve trained her to carry them on a pillow.”
Will shoves me away, toward the patio door. “Show off,” he smiles.
He grabs a blanket and bottle of champagne before leading us out. Sandy runs ahead, barking madly after something only she can see. I reach for Will’s hand almost out of habit.
We walk in silence until we reach our usual spot, a small sort of cove with a small overhang. Sandy is there waiting, of course, like any well-trained member of Will Graham’s pack. Will kneels down and unties the ribbon from her neck, then from someplace I can’t see, feeds her a treat of some kind and takes the pouch with the rings.
“Give me the ribbon,” I say.
Will silently passes me the piece of ribbon— silk, by the feel. He’s outdone himself. I weave a bit of the end through my right fingers, until I know it will stay.
“Give me your right hand.”
He holds his hand out immediately, looking to me for further instruction. I take his hand at the wrist and feel his pulse hard and fast against my palm.
“An old European tradition, likely started by Celtic tribes,” I explain. “For each pass we make, you must promise me something, or why you’ve chosen me, some moment from our lives.”
I loop the ribbon once over our hands, toward Will’s left. “I do the same for you.”
He nods, and I begin.
“You are the only person I have ever let see me completely.”
“I knew I loved you before I called that night.”
I freeze, any words I was about to speak torn from my throat.
“Will I– I’m sorry about that,” my voice sounds thick and gurgling, like a death rattle, “that night.”
His brows furrow and his mouth droops in a frown. “We agreed, we only think of things in befores and afters. We agreed to only move forward.”
I let our hands fall between us, feel the end of the ribbon tickle and flutter against my ankle. I look at Will for a long moment, hoping he knows I’ll speak anyways.
“I’m sorry–” I must sigh to clear my lungs. My throat has grown thick again. Gathering words around this feeling is difficult— like cleaning up porcelain shattered into a million tiny pieces.
I start again. “I’m sorry because I could’ve lost you too, and I would’ve had no one but myself to blame.” I close my eyes. A breath. My voice is below a whisper. I’m not even sure if I say it aloud.
“I thought I had, I was so scared I had. I was terrified they wouldn’t be good enough, that no one but me would be good enough. I didn’t intend for my hand to shake, Will.”
He tries to shush me with gentle murmurs I can’t make out. His left thumb is soft across my wet cheekbones, under my eyes. It’s no use. I speak around the potsherds in my throat, my mouth.
“I was foolish, acting in anger, and it almost cost me both of you.”
Will lets time stretch out before us. I use the moments to swallow down the broken pottery fragments. I imagine I can taste the blood of the cuts it would produce.
I feel the weight of Will’s hand on our joined ones. His features are blurred by my tears.
“Always remember that I forgave you,” he whispers, voice rough too. “I will never take that back.”
I pick up the ribbon again, loop it around our wrists. “You forgive how God forgives.”
Will meets my gaze in that horribly charming, wide-eyed way. The Greeks had an epithet for Hera, vengeful and mercurial queen of the gods that strikes me suddenly. βοῶπῐς. Bo-ôpis. Cow or ox-eyed.
He doesn't even take the ribbon before his next vow tumbles out. “I promise my forgiveness. Then, now, forever.”
I falter before I can speak again. “The Uffizi,” is all I can muster.
“Damn it,” Will laughs, “stole one of mine.”
I attempt to hide my smile, but by the way he smiles back at me, I’ve failed.
He wraps the ribbon around us again, thinks for a moment. “When you carried me home from Muskrat Farm.”
I don’t hesitate to respond. “The Palermo crypts.”
His voice is low, steady. “I’d want you to eat me, if it came down to it.”
There’s just enough slack left for one more promise. “I will never, ever eat you Will.”
I take the end of the ribbon I wove through my fingers and pass it up to Will’s left hand. With a little maneuvering, we tie the ends together in a loose knot. Then, I have Will open the pouch with the rings. With my help, he brings out two identical gold bands, slim and nearly mistakable for silver in their light color.
“You first,” he says.
I pray Will doesn’t notice how I nearly drop the ring in the sand under our feet, how my fingers shake as I slip it on to his left hand.
“Till death,” I choke out. The words are thick, molten wax for a contract.
Will takes the other ring and slowly slides it on to my finger while I watch. It feels like a lifetime and an instant.
“Till death,” he repeats, much clearer than I. The wax is poured.
I don’t wait. I lean forward and kiss him like I wish I had that night in my kitchen in Baltimore, on the bluff, so many countless other times. It’s a slow, careful kiss. We have no audience, no one to show off perfectly tailored person suits or human veils to. We can do what we like.
It tastes different than the other times, even the first. It tastes like fresh fish, clean linen, sun-warmed skin. Like unleavened bread, sour wine, and the metallic bite of stainless steel. Absolution. The stamp coming down on the cooling wax, to seal everything forever. Our bound hands fall in between us. I feel the weight of gold brush my cheek as Will brings his free hand to my face. Sandy barks.
I pull away when I shift my weight in the sand and feel the champagne bottle tilt toward me.
I let Will pop it if only for the satisfaction of seeing him attempt it with our hands bound, before sheepishly asking if we can remove the ribbon. Sandy barks at the noise while I tuck the knotted ribbon into the bag which held the rings.
We sit on the blanket and pass the bottle back and forth until it is empty and the stars begin appearing above us, twinkling like fireflies.