Work Text:
“And cut!”
Kenma drops his smile but not your hand, palm to palm, resting the pad of his fingers on every dip between your knuckles. He rubs the ring on your finger.
“We’ll see you at the reception,” the videographer says and zooms away in his car.
“Guess that’s our cue.” Kuroo waves, disappearing with the rest of his groomsmen and your bridesmaids.
You tug his hand. “Still good?”
“I’m running low,” he says. The afternoon sun paints your face with radiance, each sunbeam easing into the comfort of your skin. He squeezes your hand for a fragment of your warmth. “But I’ll manage.”
———
On the way to the hotel, as the limousine passes by palm trees, Kenma slouches.
“Is there any way we can speedrun this until our honeymoon?”
You chuckle, your laughter adding a million rays of sunshine to the petals of your earrings. “What’s the rush?”
A few hair strands brush against your shoulders. If all the money in his bank accounts could downsize his body, he would settle on the dip on your collarbones.
“There’s only so much time in the world,” he says.
“But we have all of it now, don’t we?”
Kenma brushes away your hair with his nose and rests his forehead on the crook of your neck.
“And you have all of me.”
“And you have all of me,” he echoes, whispering against your skin, hoping the words can fit all he has to offer.
His hand crawls over your dress until his palm touches your wrist. And for a moment, he regrets: if he hadn’t spent his teenage years assaulting his fingers with controllers, his skin wouldn’t strafe yours. So he brings your hand to his mouth, and smooths it over with his lips.
———
Kenma plops on the bed, his legs hanging off the edge.
“You’ll wrinkle your suit,” you say, closing the door behind you.
“I need to recharge before the program starts.”
“Fair enough.” The bed dips as you sit next to him. He rolls over to his side and strums the pleats of your dress. “But it’ll show when we dance later.”
His ribcage crumbles and weighs down his chest. He stops scratching the fabric. “Do we really have to?”
“Not really,” you say. “But people here attach money to the couple’s clothes during their first dance.”
“I make enough money,” he murmurs.
“Just think of it this way. We’ll trick them into paying half of our expenses!”
“That’s not it.”
Kenma rolls off the bed and pulls you to stand up. He links your hands around his neck and cradles your torso within his arms.
“They’ll see the face you’ll make on our first dance.”
The last embers of sunset slips through the curtains, touching any skin your cheek and shoulders allow. They pull the sun deep into the ocean until night falls, until he falls, deeper, and chases after the sun swimming in your eyes.
“Okay,” you breathe out, smiling.
Kenma begins to move, shifting his weight to the other side in time with every sway of your head. You close the gap between your forehead and his shoulder.
His chest drums until it finds and follows the peaks and valleys of your pulse. From your heart. To his heart. Two hearts surfing the same waves until they reach the shore like a message in a bottle, finally breathing after years of clinging on riptides.