Chapter Text
I’m not quite sure how I wound up here, in the backroom of a church, getting ready to marry Richard Fucking Peele of all people. There was a chain of ill-fated decisions and events that led to this point, and they’re mostly my fault, but it’s still utterly baffling how quickly you can fall headfirst into what might be the worst mistake of your life.
This is perhaps not what you’re supposed to be thinking on your wedding day, but, then again, you’re also not supposed to hate your fiance. Or have gotten legally married drunk. Or only have a ceremony because his family is traditional but trying to look accepting and can’t stand the idea of their only son having a shotgun wedding with strangers as witnesses. Especially if he’s marrying another man.
I stare at myself in the mirror, taking in the sight. I hope I don’t look as awful as I feel. I think I look fine. Maybe I should be hoping for more than fine on my wedding day, but we can’t all have what we want. Most of this wedding isn’t what I want, but it’s better than nothing. Better than the alternative.
My suit is awful, I can say that much. It’s too plain. I wanted something different. I found a suit that I loved. It was a gorgeous, floral thing. It was going to be something about today I was actually looking forward to. But it made me look like, in Richard’s words, a “fucking pansy,” so I’m wearing one he approved. It’s fine though. It’s just one day, one wedding. It’s not like I’m going to be forced to play delighted, heterosexual-adjacent newlywed for his family for the rest of my life.
And I’ll never have to pretend for my family, so at least that’s something.
I attempted to invite my sister to the ceremony—more out of courtesy and the desire to not be surrounded by strangers than anything else—but when she found out who I tied myself to, she was (albeit appropriately) horrified. I thought she would at least be willing to come and see what a trainwreck she’s sure we’ll make, but she refused and kept demanding to know what was going through my head when I married Richard Fucking Peele . The truth is that there was a lot more vodka in me than coherent thoughts, but that’s none of Felicity’s business. So she isn’t coming.
I didn’t even bother with my parents. I haven’t spoken to either of them since Richard and I were legally married, but the message then was clear: we don’t claim you anymore .
My disownment didn’t come as a surprise to anyone. The legal processes of removing me from all the wills and policies and inheritances were already well underway. My father was finally making good on the threats he had been making for years now that there was a new Montague son in the picture. Adrian was only two but he had already been a better son in my father’s eyes than I was. My marriage to Richard was simply the final straw, the pebble that set off an avalanche we were all anticipating.
At the time, this marriage seemed like the only solution. I was being cut off, and could feel my life slipping out of my own hands, and did what I always do when everything is shit: I fell into bed with someone. Richard was just the unlucky one who happened to get caught up in my self-preservation efforts.
I’ve spent a while trying to come up with a romantic alternative to my actual proposal to him. He was sitting on a countertop and buttoning his fly while I rummaged around his cabinets for a bottle of something that would get me drunk enough for round two, and I made the mistake of opening my mouth.
“You know, my father’s going to kick me out.”
He looked up across his shitty little kitchenette to squint at me. “And?”
“Can’t I just make small talk?” I emerged from halfway in one of the cabinets with some cheap, half-drunk vodka, and took a swig straight from the bottle. He pulled a face. “Y’know, I make for an excellent conversationalist.”
“Do you want something from me?” Richard took the bottle from me to pour himself a glass. “Because I’m not lending you money.”
I laughed. “I don’t want your money.” A blatant lie. “I don’t need your money.” A bigger lie. “I can just bartend. I have marketable skills.”
“Are you here because you’ve already been thrown out?”
“No, Richard. I’m here because I was bored.” I snatched back the bottle and took another drink, almost relishing the burning at the back of my throat. “You’re definitely not my first choice of roommate.”
“Excellent.”
He pulled me into a kiss that felt more like he was trying to eat my face than anything else, and a bit later, we wound up in his bedroom, him on his twin-sized mattress—you would think he could spring for a real bed in his multimillion-dollar apartment—and me on the floor. I was apparently not worth moving over for after he collapsed, sweaty and blotchy and smelling like the same cheap vodka that I retrieved from the kitchen.
I’d like to blame said vodka for the next words out of my mouth, which were “What if we got married?”
Richard didn’t even look over at me. He just laughed, staring up at his ceiling and wiping a hand across his face. “Why the fuck would we do that?”
I sat up and shoved my way onto the end of his bed. “Aren’t your parents trying to set you up all the time?”
“You want me to marry you to avoid being pestered by my family.” He scowled. “What if they find someone better?”
“No one would be willing to marry you except me, Richard.”
He groaned, reaching for the bottle. “Fuck you.”
“Listen, it doesn’t even have to be a thing. We can go to a courthouse right now and it would be done, and they’d be off your back about finding a perfect rich gay heir to some oil company. You could divorce me in a year and pretend to be so heartbroken you could never wed again.”
“I don’t think anyone would believe that.”
“It’s worth a try.”
He rolled his eyes and took the bottle again. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, huffed out a sigh, and finished the vodka. “Let’s get married.”
So we waited just long enough to pass as sober and got an Uber downtown to the courthouse. And we signed the papers and got married and went back to his apartment and fell back into bed. So, really, Richard’s not even my shitbag fiance, he’s my shitbag husband. God, that’s such a strange thought. I don’t feel married. I feel like a man awaiting his execution.
I’m making a valiant attempt at putting on eyeliner (because really, something about my appearance has to be at least a little bit interesting) when the door opens, and Richard sticks his head in. His hair is slicked back with so much gel that it’s almost reflective, and when he sees me he scowls, which is basically par for the course.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like, darling?” I return to my efforts and ignore his scoff.
“You can’t wear that.”
“Whyever not?” I look back up at him, more confused than anything.
He’s shut the door behind him and has his face scrunched up. “You look… gay.”
I hum. “Hate to break it to you darling, but you’re marrying a man today. I think that’s gayer than a little eyeliner.”
“Can you not be… yourself for one day?” he huffs. “I don’t need to get shit from my father about respectability .”
I set down the eyeliner pen. I shouldn't be angry. It’s one day. It’s one day, and I don’t even give a shit about the wedding, and it’s a simple ask. But the whole point of marrying Richard was to escape a house where my father always has an opinion about what I wear and how I act and who I go home with.
I shouldn’t compare Richard to my father. They’re nothing alike. Richard is a far, far better option. But I’m still ready to take a pair of scissors to the neat little dimple in his tie.
“I think you left respectability behind when you dragged me into the alley by the courthouse so I could—”
“I’m just asking you to tone it down for one day. What the hell is your problem?”
“I don’t have one,” I say, getting to my feet and pushing past him as he rolls his eyes. “Everything is abso-fucking-lutely perfect , darling. Thank you for such a magical day.”
He starts to say something that’s most likely Henry in that absolutely exasperated voice he uses when we’re fighting, but I shut the door behind me before he can get it out.
I’ve not taken three steps when I smack directly into the priest, a short, round man who seems to always be smiling. I can’t remember his name for the life of me. He drops his clipboard, and papers go flying. “Fuck, sorry.”
He looks up at me, and I wince. “Wait, oh my god, sorry. Shouldn’t swear in church.” When he’s still silent, I catch myself. “Shit, I can’t say that— wait, sorry, damnit. Sorry.”
For the first time since I’ve met him, the priest’s smile seems a little strained. “I was just coming round to remind you and Mr. Peele that you have fifteen minutes.”
I gather up the papers and shove them back into his arms. “Right. God, that’s soon. Sorry.”
“Would you walk with me?”
“Are you going to lecture me? Sorry, I haven’t been to church consistently in years, and I never talk whenever I do go, and it’s just—”
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Montague.” He starts down the hall, and I follow behind, unsure of if he’s taking me somewhere or simply wandering. “It’s normal to be nervous.”
“I’m not,” I say before I can stop myself.
The priest looks up to me (really, it’s a miracle that he’s shorter than me) and squints. “So you and Mr. Peele were not having an anxious quarrel?”
I wince again. “No, that’s just— he’s worried because his family’s here, and they don’t know me well, and neither of us actually wanted this goddamn ceremony, but we got badgered into it. Sorry.”
“Are you sure you’d like to do this?” He stops walking.
“What, get paraded around for the rest of the day so Richard’s parents can feel better about the way they raised their son?”
“I meant marry Mr. Peele,” the priest says, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
I’m not sure how in the hell I’m supposed to answer that when we’re already married. I don’t know what to say to this man, who’s so concerned for my wellbeing that he’s willing to stick his neck out and be, objectively, incredibly rude about my marriage. I can’t tell him what I’m thinking, that this is either the best or worst decision I’ve made in my life, because I’m trading living with my father for marrying my childhood-tormentor-turned-friend-with-benefits. I’m definitely not telling him that I’m terrified I’ve already made a huge mistake in saddling anyone with my baggage, even if it is Richard Fucking Peele.
What I say to him is, “I’m sure,” and it comes out shaky enough that neither of us believes it.
After what can only be described as the most awkward leisurely stroll the priest and I have ever endured, I barely have time to find Richard again before the ceremony (which promises to be only marginally less awkward).
Originally, I think Richard’s parents wanted to make the most out of the whole imitating heterosexuality thing and have me walk down the aisle by myself. I told Richard that would only happen if he dragged me kicking and screaming. He didn’t seem interested in doing that, or explaining to his family why it wasn’t possible for anyone in mine to walk with me, so we walk together. The organist doesn’t play Here Comes the Bride for obvious reasons, and instead plays a song I don’t recognize that resembles a death march. (Or maybe that’s just me.) Richard and I commence our walk of shame as quickly as possible without looking like we’re speedwalking in tandem. When we pass his family, his mother gives me a sour look. I realize only then that I never did anything about the makeup and, to make matters worse, never even finished with the second eye before storming out on Richard. I can only hope the photographer is being paid enough to work around it.
We meet the priest—who does very little to hide the concerned glances he throws my way—at the altar. Richard takes my hands as stiffly as possible and keeps a godly distance between us. It should annoy me, but I won’t object to putting distance between myself and Richard.
The priest launches into an introductory speech about love and trust and commitment in marriage. It takes everything in me not to scoff to Richard’s face. I can feel him resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Richard and I don’t agree about most things, but I take a little comfort in knowing we both think this is stupid.
After the priest says his piece, we say our vows. We both strongly protested to this part under the guise of not performing well under pressure (an excuse I’ve heard from Richard many times) but his parents insisted that we profess our love for each other. I’m fairly certain we’re all aware that this marriage is a sham by now, and his parents are trying to see how far they can push us before we admit to it. But Richard is a stubborn ass if nothing else and I have too much to lose, so we play along.
Richard pulls a folded piece of paper from his jacket and opens it to his vows, written in what I think is his sister’s handwriting. He reads from them, reciting more bullshit about love and fate and fabricated dates. (The fake backstory he gives us is almost impressive, making me even more sure that he didn’t write it.) When he’s finished, I read my own. They’re a lackluster patchwork of vow material I found on the internet, vague enough that they don’t contradict any fake stories Richard may have told his parents but interspersed with details that might convince his distant relatives we actually like each other.
The priest, looking underwhelmed by our grand displays of love, barrels on to the “I do”s. I don’t actually listen to what he says. I almost don’t want to. I only know it’s my turn to speak when Richard gives my foot a subtle kick.
“Oh, I do,” I say, hoping my surprise isn’t obvious. If the looks Richard and the priest are giving me are any indication, it is.
The priest, in his everlasting patience, continues. One of Richard’s young cousins presents the rings and we slide them onto each other’s fingers. Then, the priest says that we can kiss.
It’s the one thing Richard doesn’t hesitate to do. He pulls me to him, one hand on my face and the other on my hip, gripping me with his usual possessiveness that only I—and maybe the priest—notice. Only Richard could manage to make a marital kiss feel so dirty.
Suddenly, it sets in how real this all is. Although the damage had already been done before today, this is when I truly feel married to Richard. There is no going back. This is the point of no return. This is the rest of my life.
I try to ignore the panic that starts to build in my chest. I try not to feel like an animal in a snare. I try to remind myself that Richard’s vise-like grip isn’t just binding but security. Richard is stability.
And when all of that falls short, I remind myself that the reception is starting soon and I can drown all my misgivings in gin.
As we part, the guests start to cheer. Richard—my husband —and I lock eyes, significantly less joyful. He releases me, then takes my hand to pull me down the aisle again. I follow; one long, loud, easy descent into hell.
You would think that, when passing the point of no return, there would be more warning. You would expect signs that say stop here or you’ll pass the point of no return and probably die ! You would expect alarm bells and sirens and some kind of resistance. But there isn’t. There are only drunken decisions to later be justified and that point of no return far, far behind you.
Surprisingly, the reception is bearable. Once our dance is out of the way, I spend it with a glass in hand and as far from Richard as possible. I expect avoiding Richard to be the hard part, especially since he gets extra handsy when he’s drunk, but the avoidance seems to be mutual. That’s fine by me.
I drift through the guests, also avoiding Richard’s parents (though between the ceremony and the reception I managed to remove the makeup) and making my best small talk with relatives that look like they would give the most generous Christmas gifts. I think I might make it through the whole night without a hitch until Caroline—Richard’s younger sister—corners me at the bar.
Of all the Peeles, Caroline is the most tolerable. I don’t know her that well but she’s quiet and was once friends with Felicity. Unlike her parents, she doesn’t look overall pained by my existence. She gives me a pleasant smile and tucks a blonde strand of hair behind her ear.
“Congratulations, Henry,” she says. She even sounds sincere.
“Thanks,” I say, hoping my smile is as convincing as hers. The dimples tend to help.
Caroline settles in beside me and, without asking, is given a drink by the bartender. I get the strangest urge to scold her, but I know I don’t have room to talk since neither of us is of drinking age. Still, Caroline is sixteen like Felicity, only three years younger than me, but I almost want to warn her that drinking at that age doesn’t do you any favors.
But in the interest of not getting called a hypocrite, I don’t.
Caroline smiles again. I can’t tell if it’s fake or if, drinking habits aside, she’s as sweet and unsuspecting as she appears. “I guess this makes you my brother-in-law.”
I freeze, glass halfway to my mouth. “I guess,” I echo. I don’t know where she’s going with this but I don’t like the sound of that all the same.
“You don’t sound very happy about that,” she observes.
“About marrying into your family? I’m ecstatic.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I worry a moment too late that Caroline might be offended by that, but she laughs.
“My parents aren’t thrilled about it either.”
“I’m well aware.”
“They were so mad when Richard told them what you two did,” she continues as if I never spoke. It must be a family trait. “They had been trying to set Richard up for ages, and you’re not exactly—”
“Do you have a point, Caroline?” I snap.
She’s unfazed. “I defended him. I said Richard wouldn’t have done that for someone he didn’t love.” She looks over at me. Her gaze is searching, but not accusing. “I’m not that close with my brother. But he’s never mentioned you, has barely looked at you all night, and—just between you and me—has about as much romantic potential as a dead fish.”
I laugh, cracking my first genuine smile all day.
Caroline looks pleased. “So correct me if I’m wrong,” she says, with an unspoken but I know that I’m right . “But you and Richard got married for another reason, didn’t you?”
I don’t respond right away. I entertain the possibility that admitting to Caroline might be a bad idea. She could tell her parents. Richard might not want me telling her anything. On the other hand, Caroline could have sabotaged this already, knows my history with Richard is so unsavory we needed a fake backstory, and most importantly, I’m not interested in doing anything to please Richard.
“Richard and I both have our reasons,” I finally say, keeping my voice down so we won’t be overheard.
Caroline nods like she suspected as much. “Well, good luck.” She stands and pushes an empty glass back on the bar. I hadn’t even noticed her drain it while we talked. “You should go talk to Richard so my parents don’t catch on as fast as I did.”
“Will do.” I give Caroline a little salute. I’m definitely tipsier than I thought I was, but it makes her laugh so I’m okay with it. As I watch her go, I realize it could be nice to have an ally somewhere in this family.
I empty the rest of my glass for liquid patience and set off to find my dear husband.
My patience doesn’t last long. I spend about half an hour hanging around Richard and his friends—a few of whom I think called me slurs in high school. Caroline is right. Richard hardly looks at me. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even let me stand too close without inching away. Whenever I touch him, testing the waters, he pulls away like I’m tainted. Most of the things I say go ignored.
I never wanted Richard fawning all over me. Hell, if we didn’t talk for the entire reception I wouldn’t mind. I don’t need (and oftentimes don’t want) his attention. But the way he pushes me out on purpose and treats me like I’m beneath his notice around the people he knows stings. I should have expected this behavior from him. The only attention he ever paid me in public growing up was to join his friends in harassing me. But it’s our goddamn wedding day, and I’m not going to spend it feeling like something he cast aside.
The third time Richard pushes me off of his shoulder, I’ve had it. I shove my chair back and storm off, not caring that he and his friends will only laugh it off. I don’t expect Richard to change but I might as well make a dramatic exit.
However, my dramatic exit only makes me look that much more pathetic when I return to sulking at the bar, hating Richard and myself and this entire wedding. I resolve to get so drunk that maybe I’ll forget this whole terrible day, but I don’t get very far with that plan before one of Richard’s friends comes up to me.
“Henry?” he asks.
I turn, already prepared to tell him off, but I stop myself. I recognize him as one of the few who actually seemed to notice me when I was with them.
“Hi,” he says, offering a hesitant smile. He’s cute, in a scruffy way.
“Hi,” I return flatly.
He rubs the back of his neck. “I just wanted to apologize for Rich and…the rest of the guys. They’re not usually—”
“Trust me, they are.”
He looks taken aback. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
I wave off his apologies, turning my attention back to my drink. I’m not interested in making Richard’s friends feel better about being assholes.
I expect him to leave, but instead, he takes a step closer. When I look at him again, I notice the way his eyes travel, studying me.
Oh, I think with a pleasant thrill. I can work with this. At least someone will give me attention tonight. And you have to admire the guts to flirt with the groom at his own wedding.
“Well, do you want a drink?”
His smile is unabashed as he sits next to me, victorious. The bartender brings him a drink. We sit there talking for a while. It’s not any meaningful conversation but it’s nice, making small talk neither of us really cares about while sitting as close as is socially acceptable and exchanging looks that most certainly aren’t. I start to debate the logistics of sneaking away from my own wedding or whether it would be easier to get his number when Richard appears at my side like an unwanted apparition.
“Henry.” He grabs my arm, a bit too tightly for my taste, and I pull it free. “I need to talk to you,” he says in a way that leaves no room for argument. He shoots a glare at his friend. His friend looks caught in the act. I should probably feel bad for potentially ruining that friendship, but I don’t know what he expected to happen after openly hitting on me in public. “Henry,” Richard says again.
I stand, brushing off my suit. “Of course, darling.” I give Richard a saccharine smile, which he returns with a scowl. “Lead the way.”
Richard leads me out into a small sitting room off of the reception hall. I assume it’s meant for newlyweds to have a place for more romantic private moments before facing their families after the ceremony. Our private moment is anything but. As soon as the door is shut, Richard turns on me, eyes blazing.
“What the hell was that?” he demands.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I answer mildly.
“I asked you to be less… yourself today,” Richard says, as if I should be so ashamed of who I am. “Not throw yourself at one of my friends!”
I bristle. “I did not throw myself— ”
“You were making ‘fuck me’ eyes at him all night!”
“How would you know? You’ve hardly looked at me all night.”
He sighs and says “ Henry, ” in that damn voice.
“If you won’t even touch me at our wedding—”
“My parents are here, Henry.”
“It’s a gay wedding! We’re going to look gay!” I snap. “Your parents would learn to get over it. They wouldn’t control you if you would act like the adult you are and grow a fucking spine.” I’m aware of the hypocrisy as soon as it leaves my mouth, but I don’t take it back. Not for Richard.
Richard steps forward, suddenly in my space. “This was your idea. I’m not going to stick my neck out for some idiotic plan you came up with because you got thrown out.”
I’m caught. We’re both well aware I need this more than he does, and if Richard’s parents become fed up enough with us that Richard is left on his own, I’m a tad fucked.
But I’m not letting Richard Fucking Peele win this argument, so I tip my nose defiantly and step forward, practically in Richard’s face. “Well,” I say petulantly, “you certainly weren’t complaining when I went—”
“Oh my god . Would you shut up? For five minutes?”
“What are you going to do?” I ask. “Make me?”
That’s the final straw. Richard makes a frustrated sound before grabbing me by the collar and kissing me. He pushes me back into the wall. My head hits it rather unpleasantly, but if Richard notices he doesn’t show it. He just kisses me like it’s an extension of the argument. (I suppose it always kind of is with us.) Then his hands are on my shoulders pushing me down, onto my knees.
This, I tell myself, letting him manhandle me, letting him distract me from that inexplicable panic trying to fill my chest again. I can work with this.