Dress Fitting
You go to your final dress fitting and are reminded how much Katsuki's family love you. Can be read as a stand-alone, or read the rest of my domestic vignette series here.
Warning: swearing, not proofread!
Three months before the wedding, Katsuki and yourself arrive at his parents’ home to finalise a few details. They’ve made all the gowns and suits to the most intricate specifications. You’ve made barely any notes to Mitsuki’s face, but you’ve dropped hints to Katsuki and Masaru that have subtly found their way to her. Your fiancé and soon-to-be father-in-law have thus come across as total groomzillas, while you’ve maintained perfect innocence.
But, it’s worth acknowledging that Katsuki has been particular in his own right. He’s the traditionalist between the two of you and has fought tooth and nail for his suit to be nothing extravagant. That’s why, at the atelier a year prior, he had pried the red fabric from his mother’s hands and given a plain — but high end — black fabric to his father as he announced that Mitsuki wasn’t to touch his or the groomsmen’s designs.
Seeing Masaru’s work now, you’re grateful for Katsuki’s hatred for nouveau weddings. He was so set on having the wedding in the first half of the day which, of course, means full morning dress. They look stunning.
The mannequins are lined up in the lounge room, with the groomsmen having these pale blue, double-breasted waistcoats, and ties made of an artfully patterned black fabric. Katsuki’s morning dress is almost the same, but his waistcoat is a darker blue. He doesn’t thank Masaru. He does, however, shake his hand.
The bridesmaid dresses, designed by Mitsuki, match the colour of the groomsmen’s waistcoats exactly. Katsuki demanded that the dresses all be the same design because he thinks that if they’re mismatched “you might as well put the bridesmaids in the fuckin’ crowd” or something. The shape echoes the mock-up of your gown to make sure they look like a perfect set.
Your gown, shiromuku, and uchikake, were in the office, and Katsuki was forced to watch the pot cooking dinner on the stove while his parents whisked you away to see the final products.
Mitsuki hasn’t the patience to wait, and the Western portion of the ceremony is first anyway, so she pushes your traditional white gown to the front.
“It’s my magnum opus,” she sighs wistfully, “get dressed! Get dressed!”
Masaru gives you some privacy and Mitsuki helps you into the thick layers of satin. The lace detailing is sublime with delicate floral scapes hugging your waist and coating the skirt like frost on a window in Winter. Mitsuki drapes the veil over your head and steps back to admire you.
“The lace on the veil is from my old dress,” she explains, “you have no idea how goddamn long it took me to get those appliques off and sew them onto the tulle. I cracked the shits so many times.”
“It’s everything I could’ve ever dreamed of.”
Next, you try on the shiromuku, which is a gift from Masaru’s side of the family. One of Katsuki’s grand-aunts was a similar size to you when she got married, and always wanted her shiromuku to go to Katsuki’s future wife. Masaru has simply made a few adjustments where needed to fit, and added a few bits and pieces to make it feel more like you. The sensu, too, is inherited from Katsuki’s great-grandmother.
The gorgeous tsumami kanzashi are new, with floral ornamentation that mimic the lace of your Western gown. You almost melt at the level of thought that Masaru’s clearly put into this.
“What I’m most proud of, though—” Masaru begins as he takes the last piece of fabric off the mannequin and helps you pull it over your shiromuku— “is this.”
You were strict about not wanting your uchikake to be red, avowing that you cringe at the thought of wearing a colour that doesn’t match your bridesmaids to your wedding. Masaru has, once again, delivered.
This uchikake is the same colour as Katsuki’s waistcoat. It’s decorated with cranes and oceanic scenes designed by Masaru and hand-embroidered by himself and Mitsuki in every spare moment they’ve had over the last year.
“We wanted to make something worthy of you,” he says.
He removes his glasses to pat at the corners of his eyes, which are becoming wetter by the minute. He’s such an emotional man.
“Worthy of me?” you ask with a hiccup, “I should be hoping I’m worthy of these pieces.”
“Oh, shut up,” Mitsuki scoffs and waves her hand so as to hush you.
“No, I’m serious. Please, these are…” you’re struggling to find the right words, “these are possibly the greatest expressions of love I’ve ever had the pleasure to receive. After my engagement, of course.”
At the dinner table later, Katsuki tries to grill his parents for details on what they’ve made for you. He uses technical language that he’s picked up from years of living with two fashion designer parents, and also more foul language typical of himself.
“Why do you have to be a fuckin’ impatient little shit, Katsuki?!”
“Why do you hafta be such a fuckin’ secretive old hag?!”
Masaru throws you a smile as if to remind you what you’re in for for the rest of your life. You just nod and laugh. You can’t imagine being anywhere else. The love at this table is so filling, even more than the food atop it.