he knows by now that chapters of experience aren’t to
be bound in neat books and volumes, partitioned off into
pockets of space that were never to be read again. instead,
there are threads that bind each moment together in a long
garland to wrap around the mind: to shape you. to have a
being and a soul forged through that time, no matter who
becomes lost and who is found once more.
gwen stacy makes herself no different, barging into a life
that had been purged of a ’ best friend ‘. she had come at
the darkest hour, with peter lost to his work, and she’d
promised enough of a future to keep going. and, he thinks,
perhaps she’d always known. that that future had been
wound inexplicably with hers, laced and knotted before
he had known to think of her as a lover; before he’d known
to have her walking down toward him, to be bound.
the tap of shoes against marble has him turning, and the
corner of his gaze is graced with light. or something like
it, if his mind’s quick collapse into wordlessness has any
sort of sense to offer. a bride, by his side. not to pass him,
like he’d seen too many times before, with friends and in
the presence of his father, but to stand by his side.
he’ll rest that blame on blonde curls and the curve of her
cheeks, hidden under the veil that still obscured her. and
yet, all it can shroud is the detail that he’s long learned to
imagine; it seems like she isn’t quite hidden at all. not in
white. not at the altar, by his side. not while he isn’t sure
that his eyes remain completely dry.
but this is not a time for sorrow, and harry’s almost let a
laugh to compliment her words out, despite it all. despite
each fold in her dress, and each detail he knows she’s al-
ready considered. perfectly in order, and perfect in the
choices he knows she’ll have made. including one that
places a pair of rings upon a pillow, some distance away.
“i’m, uh. your fiancé . or something; not too sure.
sorry he never introduced us.”
of course, his hand defects to her back, fingers laying on
the smooth expanse of skin, as he leads her up to a seat
for the pair of them.
“gotta say, gwen. you look amazing.”
a mouth painted pink
and pouted prettily splits, revealing a brilliant line of
straight white teeth. laughter escapes, not unlike the
full peal of church bells, but is subdued, made only
loud enough to be heard by the man at her side.
‘ really? even with puffed up eyes? ’
still, she smiles, and it's sunshine, bright and in love.
‘ you don't look too bad yourself
the penguin look really suits you. ’
despite herself, she's trailing fingers over the line of
his sleeve, over the edge of tailored cuffs and only
barely allowing herself to caress the bone of his wrist.
it's comforting, to feel the throb of veins beneath her
touch, to recognize the familiar twists and turns of
his structure.
‘ so, marrying an osborn.
who would have thought? ’
it's curious, but so like gwen, to be making this sort
of small talk. it's her way of making this wholly theirs.
beneath the impressive ceiling of the cathedral — her
choice, not his — they're faced with the expectations
of hundreds. under the unwavering stares of all their
guests, they're but a spectacle and a couple to be
congratulated. but she wants more than that. she
wants this to be a day to remember, one that won't
ever fade from their memory, even fifty years from now.
so she does what she can to remind him that this is
all theirs, just as she is.
‘ sorry for wearing white after labour day. ’
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
annaxmalina
theartofmadeline
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jacobvanloon
