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Choi Han spun his engagement ring on his finger in the manner he had grown prone to. His proposal, at least, had gone seamlessly well. If the wedding itself could go forward without any hitch—just Cale and Choi Han, hand in hand—it would be a blessing.
Perhaps not a blessing, per se; such a sentiment was a disservice to all the favors that Cale had pulled over the past weeks to arrange a flawless ceremony. But Choi Han could not help his fretting despite it.
It was a widespread tradition that the fiancé who walked down the aisle should be the one of lower background—a symbolic “rising to” the same level, an acceptance of their new duties and role in life. Cale had contested it when first told of such a tradition. In Choi Han’s fiancé’s own words, he had no plans to take on any of the duties of a duke anyway. If anything, publicly showcasing his intentions in such a way would be an effective escape from any more bothersome things that might find its way to their door.
But their allies and friends cautioned otherwise. Despite Choi Han’s own title of Instructor, asking Cale to walk the aisle was tantamount to asking not only him, but the entire Henituse ancestry, to lower themselves too.
“That’s stupid,” Cale snorted, one hand braced protectively on Choi Han’s shoulder. At some point, he had leaned forward on their shared chaise and slightly to the side, blocking Choi Han’s view of the Northeastern nobles that were visiting with congratulations and a list of honeymoon locations.
He paused. Turned to his fiancé. “Choi Han. If you do not want to walk, then we can make the ceremony a private one. Or elope.”
Choi Han pressed his ring to his lips, rubbing the gold band against them in turmoil. He did not want to forgo the ceremony entirely, certainly not—he wanted them to be celebrated, known, congratulated warmly. To have friends stand by their side on such an occasion. How could he describe it? It was not the want he could barely remember from his childhood for a themed birthday cake or a sticker, nothing so simple as that.
“Mm,” he responded half-heartedly, still chasing a descriptor that eluded him. It was definitively not a preference. Choi Han shook his head and tuned back into the conversation. It had been silent for a moment too long.
Cale’s sharp gaze bore into him. Once he confirmed Choi Han was paying attention, Cale nodded once, decisive. “Whatever you want to do, let me know. The only condition is that you tell me why.” His pale lips pursed in careful consideration as Choi Han scrambled for an explanation, then parted gently when he came up short. “I only ask because I can’t think of any reason why you would be against it. You aren’t the kind of person to be self-conscious when in front of an audience, or to care about the rank and order of it all. Which leads me to believe this is something more personal.”
Choi Han fidgeted, right hand subconsciously brushing the cushion beside him. Attentive as ever, Cale slipped his hand under Choi Han’s and trapped it in a loose hold. Cale’s touch was cool as always, the same familiar shape and gentle strength, bar the newer addition of the fragment of magic stone set in a wrought silver band.
Opposite them, there was a rustle, a low yelp, and a bright clap of gloved hands. “Okay, well, we’ll leave you two to it! We can see ourselves out,” piped Eric’s voice. Cale waved the trio off.
The door clicked shut.
“I won’t pry,” sighed Cale, leaning back and closing his eyes, “but if you aren’t fully satisfied or comfortable with any form of a wedding—if we cannot make this something I know you will enjoy—then it can wait.”
Choi Han swallowed heavily. “I want a celebration,” he insisted, “I want to have everyone there. I want to see how happy everyone is for us. I want them to see how happy we are.”
“But you don’t want to walk down the aisle?” Cale’s brows pulled together, eyes half-opening to take in Choi Han’s reaction. Choi Han weighed it up: his desire to properly commemorate them, versus his creeping dread at this singular, trivial hurdle. When put that way, it was—
“Okay,” he murmured. And then, “I love you.” The words were calm and steady, but the slight exhale that followed them quivered. Whether consciously or not, Cale’s grip tightened. Choi Han returned the squeeze. Chewed his lip. Fiddled with their fingers as he forced the words out against the familiar numb drape of despair: “Who would even walk with me?”
Cale blinked, disbelief slackening his hand in Choi Han’s. “Is that it?”
Choi Han blinked back. His face heated. “It’s fine! I can do it by myself!” He held his hands out, shaking them in self-dismissal as he turned to fully face his fiancé. “It’s nothing! You’re ri—”
“You’re misunderstanding me,” Cale cut in. “I can name several people who would love to be there for you.”
“But—”
“Is there no one you think of as family in this world?”
Choi Han shook his head. There were. But what if they did not think the same of him?
“I’ll find someone. It won’t be hard.”
Thank you did not feel like the right words here. So, instead, he leaned closer and confessed once more, "I love you."
The tension drained from Cale visibly; they leaned against each other in the emptied tearoom, soaking in the afternoon sun. “Trust me?” murmured Cale.
“I do.”
***
Trust me, Cale had asked of him as they sat together, hand in hand, heart to heart.
Choi Han would not be Choi Han if he did not trust Cale Henituse. It was a fact of the world. Indelible.
He paced the length of the dressing room again, turned on his heel, and paused to glance down at the lack of leather-on-leather squeaking. His stiff new dress shoes were finally wearing in, it would seem—as was the carpet, though it would be more accurate to call it worn out. Choi Han was not sure it would ever recover from his pacing.
Who would take his hand at the door? Did it matter? Even if he walked up the aisle alone, it would end with his hands in Cale’s. Cale’s hands in his. That first offering, reaching out to him once more. Choi Han was no poet but thinking about it like that made him feel a bit steadier. Not calmer by any means, but calmness was a distant fairytale in the dressing room. However long he must walk alone, Cale would be waiting at the end. What other hand did Choi Han need?
He sucked in one last unsteady breath as the wall clock ticked closer to twelve, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked open the door.
“Hyung!”
Choi Han jerked back, catching the lanky Wolf by the shoulders before they both went tumbling. He reached for his sword on reflex but did not find it, which was probably a good thing. Lark assuaged his spiking fears with a cheery grin. “Choi Han-hyung, you haven’t put on your veil yet?”
Choi Han coughed and averted his eyes, cheeks burning. Lark’s fluffy gray hair bounced brightly as he nodded. “Rosalyn-noona said you’d forget something!”
Lark plucked the white tulle from the makeup dresser and headed back over. They turned it over between them a few times, squinting at the clip and its attached double-layered veil. Finally, Choi Han held it up to his fringe in what seemed the right approximation of what it had looked like when the tailor had dressed him last. “Does this look…?”
“Yes!” Lark’s eyes lit up. Choi Han let him take over the actual placement of the veil, marveling at how tall the Wolf had grown—Choi Han didn’t even need to stoop for him. Not even a minute passed before Lark stepped back with a satisfied huff. “There we go.”
“You’re very good at this.”
“Comes with the siblings,” Lark responded. He opened the door and held out his elbow to Choi Han. “Now! Let’s do this!”
Bemused, Choi Han linked their arms together. The dressing room lock clicked shut behind them, and they were off.
As they wound through the Church of the Sun’s many passageways, Choi Han couldn’t help but ask, “So, are we… are you going to walk with me down the aisle?”
Lark side-eyed him. “Obviously? I’m your oldest younger brother!” But there was a nervous bounce in his step that Choi Han could feel through their linked arms. The teenager added, anxious conviction wavering his tone, “To me, you’re my family. You know how important that is to us Wolves. Before everything blew up so much, do you remember when it was just us with Rosalyn-noona? How could we not be family?”
Choi Han breathed out; with the air escaped a burden he had not acknowledged in a long time. They stopped outside the grand doors of the wedding hall and listened to the muffled bustle as everyone found their places. “Don’t tell the others,” Choi Han muttered conspiratorially, “but you’re my favorite brother.”
Lark’s tail was not out, but Choi Han could almost hear the fwip-fwip-fwip that would accompany his pleased grin. “Only your favorite brother?”
Choi Han fought the urge to ruffle Lark’s neatly combed gray hair. “We’ve got to give Rosalyn-noona a chance, don’t we?”
“For the record,” the Wolf whispered as the doors opened, “we played scissors, paper, rock to decide the order.”
“What—?”
Lark only winked and pulled them into motion. Choi Han almost tripped on his numb feet, forgetting his confusion as the music swelled for their cue. An overwhelming tangle of emotion threatened to undo him. The sight before him was a sea parted, chessboard tiles acquiesced to Choi Han like an acknowledgment, a concession, a road to happily ever after.
Cale’s hair draped down the length of his ivory-blazered back in a braid, a white ranunculus flower surreptitiously intertwining itself firmer in the crimson strands. Choi Han’s anxiety loosened its grip ever so slightly at the sight of Raon’s last-minute fix; the rest of it was swept away when Cale turned. Suddenly every step felt like torture—the distance between them closed at an excruciating pace.
In the row just ahead of them, there was a shuffle of fabric, a ripple of shocked murmurs, and a flash of vibrant red. Choi Han’s head snapped around, his own surprise probably visible even with the veil draped over his face and shoulders.
“Archmage Rosalyn,” she announced herself, bowing in greeting with a bright smile. “I’ll take you from here.” Rosalyn extended her hand to Choi Han. “If you’ll let me?”
Choi Han looked between the pair in bewilderment. Lark released their linked arms and stepped back with a light-hearted pout. “She won best of eleven.”
The archmage’s smile widened. If it was just the three of them, Choi Han did not doubt for a second she would stick her tongue out at their youngest. Choi Han accepted Rosalyn’s outstretched hand, and Lark slid into her vacated seat. He only now noticed that Lark’s siblings filled the rest of this row, as they waved bye to Rosalyn and Choi Han. Cale watched them from the stage with the glint in his eyes that spoke of a mission well done, the trace elements of surprise peeking through.
To Choi Han’s right, Rosalyn explained, “He told Lark and I to work it out between ourselves who got to hand you over. Isn’t it nice to see that face caught off-guard?” She shot him a playful side-eye, meeting his own mirthful glance even through the silk tulle veil. “I was going to ask you on the last day of our very first mission, but you know me. I’m not one for impulse decisions. That being said.” They reached the foot of the stage stairs and faced each other briefly. “Spare some time for another ceremony after your honeymoon.”
As Cale descended the stairs, Choi Han asked her, “What for?”
“To officially declare ourselves sworn siblings, of course. I need a competent brother.” She patted his shoulder firmly, fiery eyes bright. “But we can discuss that later.” Rosalyn turned Choi Han toward Cale. He froze at the sight, drinking in Cale’s visage—his figure cut a sharp silhouette in his white suit, gold lining its peak lapels and buttons. Rosalyn placed Choi Han’s hand in Cale’s, looking between them. “You two keep taking care of each other, alright?”
Cale tugged Choi Han up beside him on the step. “Why are you asking something so obvious?” he replied, eyes never leaving Choi Han’s. They bowed to her together, waved down the aisle to Lark, and ascended to the stage. The officiator cleared his throat, and the wedding started in full.
“What did I tell you? Plenty of people wanted to give you to me, but you hadn’t asked.” Cale murmured with a satisfied hum as they stood, fingers tangled together in front of the altar and the droning priest.
Choi Han squeezed his hand briefly in response. “You were right.”
“As long as you remember it.” Cale’s lips flattened against a swallowed-back chuckle. What a shame it would not grace the world—Choi Han would bet everything in all the worlds they had traveled, and a gold coin more, that it sounded just as warm as Cale’s next words: “Choi Han, how loved you are.”
When they faced each other at the cue from the priest, they found themselves closer than had been rehearsed. But who would dare call them out on it? Cale flashed Choi Han a teasing grin as he stepped forward, closer still, and raised Choi Han’s veil to drape it over both their heads. The thinnest semblance of privacy in front of everyone who they loved. Everyone who loved them.
“You may kiss—” said the priest. The rest of the sentence was lost to the caress of Cale’s fingers finding their place on Choi Han’s waist, to the heady anticipation of their mingling breaths. Choi Han cupped his husband’s—husband’s!—cheek and closed that final gap.
How warm. How wonderful. The Sun itself in their veins, a blessing they both swallowed and shared on their tongues.
Cale drew back first, chest heaving and expression dazed even as he tried to feign steadiness, cheeks so prettily fever-flushed. He leant back into Choi Han’s hand, which had slipped to the back of his head to hold him, slick lips curling up in a self-satisfied grin. Choi Han blushed harder than he ever thought possible at the sight.
“Remember this moment,” Cale whispered. “The proof that I love you the most.”