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"Hey, so- idea!"
A noncommital hum answers Sampo's bursting entrance; the time the two young fools have spent living together in the vastness of the cosmos has led them both to expect the unexpected from each other, forever waiting for the punchline.
"Let's get married!"
They spit out their drink, comedy-style, and wish they had remembered to aim for Sampo's ridiculously sturdy chest; the audience would have loved that (and the view, they are certain). Instead, they shake their head to clear it and snap their gaze to his bright one.
"What?"
"Let's get married. Oh, it'll be hilarious, don't you think?"
Blinking at him from the couch they are still perched on, still incapable of forming full sentences at the sheer absurdity and audacity of this new joke he seems to have decided on, they breathe deeply in once before replying.
"You want to... get married for the bit?"
When he vigorously nods his head, enthusiastic with the prospect of a new comedic bit within his grasp, they gape. Several rounds of asking him if he is actually, truly serious about doing that much paperwork just to set up a punchline that will not land until long after they find the friends to use it on years, perhaps decades, from now, lead them in circles around the living area, unable to sit still in the moment.
"You're thinking about it~" Sampo's voice lilts from his position draped over the back of the sofa, languid and smirking with his usual foolish grin.
They tilt their own head towards the unseen cameras of the cosmos, expressing their exasperation to the audience behind the cosmic screen with the look in their eyes. One blink, then two, and shared laughter, twin grins, is a damning answer (or is it freeing? they pair does not know what the punchline will be yet, not now, not soon, but the stage is set and waiting).
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When they find Sampo's mask tucked neatly into the luggage under their bed, the bed the share whenever they happen to both be home, they carefully pluck it from its place and inspect it for its details. Turning it over and over in their hands, feeling the shape and weight of it in their palms and tracing over the finer artistry of it with light fingertips, they hum.
Whatever their legally recognized husband got up to in his time was none of their business, really, they supposed. Distinction of their titles was still funny in their mind; done for comedy or clarity, they could not say. They certainly did not act like a married couple; they ate together and cooked for each other, sure, but is that not what friends should do when they are sharing the same space? With separate bedrooms, sharing one was hardly necessary and if, on nights when the universe's jokes were worse, they did share, proximity was a gift given of concern and care- again, something friends should do for each other, surely?
If Sampo had a home, or even a place to land, then they did too. If they had a roof over their head, then so did he. Food was shared and hoodies pilfered between them. Life had worked under such a script for as long as they could remember; a marriage license was just a convenient and humorously official way to commemorate it. The fluttering of their heart when he told the little old ladies he brought groceries and medicine to (boxes snuck and stolen to get, but brought and given in nothing but earnest good will and determination and perhaps some spite), who always spoke fondly and at length of their grandaughters and grandsons and grandchildren far away but certainly coming to visit this way soon, that he was happily married, nearly complicated things.
The heart is both the most difficult and most simple thing to fool, afterall.
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"I love you."
And Sampo would laugh if he could through the choking gargle in the back of his throat, what a joke. The audience must be on the edge of their seats, watching him gag for each breath he takes now with his head on his partner's lap, white snow stained in red splatters beside them. The world is spinning like a terrible tilt-a-whirl, but the hand running through his hair remains steady; he closes his eyes for just a moment, just one little moment, to let the worst of the nausea pass.
They look away, somewhere off into the distance as their fingers absent-mindedly trace through Sampo's blue locks, pointedly avoiding looking at the damage done. A shaky hand grasps one of theirs, laying idle, and bringing their gaze to his. Their eyes meet like an Aeon's blessing, clear for the first time in a long time and full of charge; neither blink. When he smirks, as best he can with warbling smile, Sampo manages to croak out his answer.
This time, they laugh. It is a giddy, near hysteric, thing. The curtains close over the sun in the sky, blanketing the bleeding pair of hearts in evening darkness.
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He lives, of course; they both do. Comedic relief is not allowed to perish so early in the play of life, you see?
A good joke never grows old, even if their bones have both grown weary from escapades long past. Sampo heals time and time again, Foolish antics leading to theatric recoveries and opportune one-liners at every turn. If their foolish heart ever tired of him, it never showed, that stupid piece of legally binding paper tucked securely in one of their luggage packs gaining more weight to its worth with every traitorous beat.
He ventures off, business and Fools and destiny calling; these days, they find themselves going with. If Sampo had a home, or at least a place to land, then so did they. If they had a roof over their head, then he did too. Food still shared and new clothes still equally pilfered, bickered, over, the script continued onward; two characters stayed forever intertwined by the pages fate had already written, by the papers they had signed on youthful whims.
Who is more the fool, they wonder, looking deep into their husband's sparkling, mischievous eyes; the Fool or the fool who follows?
(They take his offered hand with a grin, and step into the world with him anyway, always. The next scene awaits.)
"Hey, so- idea!"