Work Text:
The garden was worn but charming. A few chairs were mismatched, paint peeling at the edges, and the wooden arch had one side slightly crooked. Strings of lights hung unevenly above, some flickering in the breeze. A few small flowers had wilted under the morning sun, and the petals that had fallen along the aisle created a soft, accidental confetti. It wasn’t pristine, but it had character. It had heart.
Neo stepped forward first. His white suit was crisp, the clean lines of the jacket contrasting with the uneven walkway and crooked arch. Tiny accessories caught the light: the chain on his pocket watch, a simple ring on his hand, the faint glint of cufflinks that matched the metallic edge of his watch face. His posture was careful, measured, but even as he walked, his chest rose and fell faster than usual. Golden eyes flicked over the arch, then over the garden, then back to the black-suited figure at the end of the aisle. He adjusted his jacket one last time, brushing off a stray petal he hadn’t noticed, and swallowed hard, feeling the familiar pinch of nerves.
Avoma appeared at the far end, his ash brown hair catching the light in muted streaks, blue eyes bright and focused. His black suit wasn’t perfectly tailored — the hem was slightly off, the tie at a relaxed angle — but he moved with calm confidence. Taller than Neo, he had a quiet way of filling the aisle, shoulders squared but relaxed, hands brushing lightly over his jacket as if to reassure himself as much as anyone else. Each step was deliberate but unhurried, carrying the weight of years spent together in shared routines, in quiet mornings, in evenings filled with laughter and subtle touches.
Sword, their friend and ordained officiant, cleared his throat. His robe swallowed him slightly, sleeves hanging long over his hands, and his voice trembled for just a moment before settling into a warm, steady rhythm. The words weren’t rehearsed perfectly; the imperfections only added to the intimacy. Even the mismatched chairs, the peeling paint, and the flickering lights seemed to settle into place as if the universe itself had conspired to make this imperfect ceremony feel exactly right.
Neo’s gaze never left Avoma. The subtle way Avoma’s hand brushed over the wooden arch, the faint curve of his lips, the confident tilt of his head — it was hypnotic. When Avoma reached him, their hands met, and the touch lingered just enough to feel familiar but charged with anticipation. Neo’s hand slid into Avoma’s without thought; the motion was second nature, years of quiet domestic intimacy distilled into a single gesture. Avoma adjusted his stance slightly, leaning in just a fraction, as if to whisper that he knew Neo would be there, waiting.
Sword’s words drifted over them: love, choice, commitment. Neo barely heard the rest. The garden noises — the soft clatter of chairs, the creak of the arch, the whisper of leaves — blended into a background hum, all of it falling away as Neo focused entirely on Avoma. He noticed the way the sunlight caught the lighter streaks in Avoma’s ash brown hair, the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his hand relaxed completely in Neo’s grip.
When it came time for vows, Avoma spoke first. His voice was calm, measured, almost casual. No grand proclamations. Just the quiet truth: mornings together, shared breakfasts, the way Neo could read his moods without words. The gentle chaos of their apartment, the comfort of knowing someone would always be there, even in silence. He mentioned the small, mundane moments that had become extraordinary simply because they were shared.
Neo’s reply mirrored that honesty. Golden eyes softened, light freckles visible in the sunlight, hands holding Avoma’s tightly. He spoke of comfort, of trust, of choosing each other every day — not in words of poetry but in simple truths. About lazy mornings, chaotic evenings, nights spent on the couch watching shows neither really followed, the small arguments that always ended in laughter. He brushed a stray lock of Avoma’s hair behind his ear unconsciously, the touch lingering just slightly longer than necessary.
Then the rings. Simple bands, cheap, scratched, and imperfect. Avoma slid Neo’s on carefully, thumb brushing Neo’s knuckles. Neo did the same, fingers lingering on Avoma’s hand just long enough to feel warmth spread from the contact.
And then the kiss.
It wasn’t a ceremonial, drawn-out gesture. It wasn’t choreographed or exaggerated. It was casual. Familiar. Perfect in its simplicity. Neo leaned in slightly, and Avoma met him halfway. Lips brushed first, then pressed together lightly, warm, effortless. Neo felt the faint weight of Avoma’s hand on his back, a grounding presence, and he instinctively leaned into it. Avoma’s other hand found its way over Neo’s arm, a gentle hold, just enough to anchor him without commanding him.
The kiss deepened just slightly, more out of habit than intention, a fleeting echo of years of mornings spent brushing teeth side by side, nights wrapped together on the couch, quiet domestic intimacy that didn’t need to be announced. Neo’s golden eyes closed for a fraction of a second; when they opened, Avoma’s calm blue gaze was steady, sure, and faintly amused. The world around them — crooked arch, peeling paint, mismatched chairs, flickering lights — fell away entirely.
A few soft claps echoed from the guests. Whispered comments drifted, but Neo and Avoma remained in their private bubble. Fingers still intertwined, smiles small and knowing, quiet laughter passing between them like a secret. Neo felt Avoma’s shoulder brush his as they stepped back together, the contact natural and effortless, no need for theatrics.
They moved through the garden, hands still linked, navigating friends and family. Drinks passed, small snacks shared. Fingers brushed against elbows, shoulders bumped, laughter slipped easily between them. Neo helped steady Avoma as he stepped slightly off a cracked stone, and Avoma’s hand brushed Neo’s wrist, the contact fleeting but grounding. A few friends leaned in for congratulations, but Neo and Avoma’s world stayed theirs alone.
As the sun began its slow descent, casting a warm golden hue over the slightly broken garden, they returned to the crooked arch. The soft glow of string lights flickered above. Neo adjusted the cuff of his jacket and brushed a stray petal from Avoma’s sleeve. Avoma rested his hand lightly over Neo’s, thumb grazing the back of his hand — a silent acknowledgment of the life they had built together, of the years behind them and the countless days ahead.
The day was theirs. Worn, imperfect, slightly crooked. But full of heart. Full of laughter, full of love. Full of quiet domesticity made monumental in a single afternoon. Neo caught Avoma’s gaze, and the slight smirk he gave — gentle, knowing, affectionate — made every cracked tile, every flickering light, every mismatched chair worth it. They had each other. And that was more than enough.
It was their day. Imperfect, visually, sure, but entirely theirs.