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It’s a simple affair, probably at your own insistence, probably in theme considering the equally simple proposal. A presentation of a ring on an early Tuesday morning in your kitchen, your hair messy, sleep still on your breath as you brew two cups of coffee for you and him. He’s on his knee, then. Smiling wide in his sleep shorts, more sure of this than he could have ever been sure of anything.
The notice of marriage is sent to the registrar that week, a date for your elopement picked for six months later.
You’re able to squeeze a booking for a country estate beside a lake and it's perfect . Only immediate family and a few of your closest friends are in attendance, the same for Johnny. Your friends bunking in rooms together with his friends, your families closer than they have ever been before, laughter filling the estate as they all come to celebrate the weekend of your wedding. The smile never ceases from Johnny’s face and despite the chaos that comes with the whirlwind decision to get married (and the endless teasing accusations of a hidden pregnancy, of which you vehemently deny and he seems to smugly not deny), Johnny has never looked more content.
The day of is an exciting blur, beautiful nonetheless. Cloudy, but the sun beams brightly behind them as a slow breeze sways through the estate. You awake in your bridal suite alone until you’re quickly joined by the number of women who flit and bounce through your room in elation. Your bridal party fusses over your makeup, adjusting pieces of your hair lightly to fit the style you want, crying tears of joy all the while. Your dress lays elegantly pressed in its protective sleeve on the neatly made bed, your shoes sitting beside it.
It’s a snapshot of a moment, delight tangible and permeating. It breathes through the room, light and airy, the anticipation of it—of marrying him — an addictive high that you inhale with deep breaths and hold steady within the locket of your heart. Your dress sits, almost beckoning you into its awaiting caress; Into the future that waits for you in the love and embrace of the man who could hardly delay until dawn broke before asking you to be his forever. You reach for it, letting the long awaited hold consume you—it’s a sweet and dreamy becoming. The softness of the built love enveloping you in the tendrils of its blossoming, and your mother remarks with a teary smile that you are glowing.
You’re walking down the aisle an hour later. Johnny stands at the end, dressed in the ceremonial regimental uniform, and the smile—the same smile that’s been plastered on his face the whole weekend since you arrived at the estate, the same smile that greets you every morning and night—falters in place when his eyes land on yours. It turns watery, and the breath that he takes upon seeing you is heavy. He’s quick to wipe his eyes with his thumb, but you see it even from the distance.
You’re married soon thereafter. Pledges exchanged, vows uttered sacredly to one another as only those who matter look on you. Even then, it feels like it’s just you two; You and Johnny standing beside the lake as nature sings her blessing into the union, and grants permission for man to kiss his bride. And you’ve kissed Johnny before, many times before, and yet, this one is different. It stills earth and life to this moment; all that could be transforming holy within the second, transcending beyond this plane of existence and into the next. A formidable, stilling, precious moment.
You become his, he becomes yours. Forever.
Even when a light drizzle of rain falls upon you in the seal of the kiss, the sky turning a darkening gray in a split second, nothing tramples the becoming . As rain falls harder and your guests run back into the stone house with screeches of shock and surprise on their tongues, you and Johnny fall into a suspended laugh.
“We should go with them.” You tell your husband— husband — as your veil sticks to you like second skin now from the wet and the point in your heels begins to sink into the mud of the grass.
“Let’s stay out here.” He tells you, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer to him, the other hand cupping the side of your face. Droplets drip down his nose in the downpour, but the grin grows even wider as he leans forward for another kiss, “I wan’ tae enjoy my wife .”
Shared kisses turn feverish in a slow burn, Johnny pulling more and more from the depths of you as his hold tightens and you both stand alone to bask in the luck of your joy. Eternity could be spent out here, and you suppose maybe that’s what marriage is all about. Only when you are called inside by your respective families— ”Get oot o’ the rain, ye eejit lovebirds!” His sister had yelled— do you return to the realm of mortals, of simple reality.
Singing, and dancing, and speeches, drinks spilled and stomachs clenching in on themselves as full bellied laughter turns to painful wheezing. Johnny’s sisters crowd around you, blubbering at how grateful that their bawbag of a brother caught someone like ye, your parents charmed evermore as Johnny sits beside them and talks their ears off about the the history of this particular part of the country, and you catch from the corner of your eye two shared friends of yours finally making their move on one another. Caught in the wistfulness of romance, they lean close to one another and you make a mental note to tell Johnny that he now owes you ten foot massages.
The reception is the gateway to the rest of your life—and it's wonderful.
The party goes well into the night and when you return to your bridal suite, Johnny is in tow. Your heels are held in his hand and his suit jacket is draped over your shoulders. Giggles peter out into tired sighs and he flops onto your bed with little reservation when you open the door.
“We should consummate.” He mutters to the ceiling, eyes closed as you unlace his dress shoes and tug them off. He heaves a great breath of relief when they’re off of his feet, “Lemme make a real woman out o’ ye.”
“How romantic.” You laugh, tossing his shoes to the side before falling on top of him, nuzzling your own tired head into the crook of his neck, inhaling the faded scent of his cologne and the warmth of his own musk. His hand caresses your back, following a familiar pattern of tracing onto your spine. “Think I was already a real woman before you met me, though.”
“Aye, ‘s probably why I liked ye so much.”
You hum amusedly and sweet silence befalls the two of you. Slow breaths of honeyed happiness that dips into the steady cadence of welcome sleep. You’re halfway to dozing off entirely when he pats you gently, whispering about a bath. He takes the lead, unzipping your dress and laying it with considerable care on the bed before drawing yourself and him into the shower. He washes you both as you lean against him, the warm spray and the soothing strokes of his hands on your neck, your shoulders, your back, lull you deeper into him, deeper into the embrace of sleep.
You awake the next morning to the filtered light of gentle sunlight in your eyes. It’s hard to fight the stickiness of slumber, especially since you know that you have nothing pressing on the agenda for today—but in the stretch of your body against the sheets warmed with rest, your foot touches that of another; And you realize, you haven’t woken up alone this time.
Your husband— husband! —sleeps soundly beside you; His hair is pulled in tufts that you know he’ll soon shave back to his signature mohawk come deployment time, deep breaths exhale from his slightly open mouth, the sheets tangled between his legs as one rests in the cool air of the room and the other lies next to yours underneath the duvet.
It’s quiet in the estate, hardly anyone awake or moving just yet as you sit up in your bed, surveying the state of the room in the glow of a peaceful morning. Johnny’s suit is crumpled by the bathroom floor, your bouquet and other gifted flowers decorate the surfaces around the suite, and your dress lays worn and loved at the foot of the bed, white chiffon spilling over his exposed foot and onto the footbed.
This is the rest of your life. An eventful night; a romantic sight. Youthful longing and late-night fantasies suddenly forgotten worries as they are fulfilled in this moment alone.
You fall back into the bed, attaching yourself into Johnny’s side and breathing him in.
“Still need to make an honest woman o’ ye, Mrs. MacTavish.” A glance upward reveals that his eyes are still closed. You fix yourself into him deeper, wrapping your arm around his bare chest as you lay your head against him. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you in tighter.
“‘m counting on it, Mr. MacTavish.”
He smiles and you both return to the homecoming of sleep as rain begins to tap gently on the windows of your life together.
(Rain, for good luck.)