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I've got a lover, a love like the rich
Jan. 12th, 2017 01:33 pmIt was Friday the thirteenth, and Joseph Kavinsky was getting married.
It had taken a couple tries to get the second ring just right, to capture the flips and whorls of Newt’s thumb print on the metal. Then there was the deliberation of if he should keep wearing the ring that Newt had gotten him. Eventually, he settled on slipping it onto his chain, the one with the Saint Joseph charm. Close to his heart, easy to get that nervous energy out.
They filled out paperwork before they went. Not only was there the marriage license, but there was Newt’s official name change documents as well. By the end of the month, Newt would be Newt Kavinsky not just in casual conversation, but on his mail, his identification, everything.
This was a day that Kavinsky had never really thought would ever happen. His stomach was a flock of birds, his heart a hammer in his chest. It was glorious.
It was a brisk day; yesterday had been warmer, but the sun was out today. Kavinsky couldn’t quite stop smiling as they headed to city hall and the courthouse in the Mitsubishi. Newt sat in the passenger seat. They’d dressed nicely, but nothing extravagant. Maybe they’d go wild and well dressed for the reception in a few months, once the weather was more consistently wonderful, once the garden started to bloom.
When Kavinsky parked, he paused. He leaned over and kissed Newt there in the passenger seat. A part of him wanted to question it, wanted to double, triple check.
Instead, he said, “Tell me I’m not dreaming.” It had been a mantra on and off since they’d known each other. Too much of Kavinsky was tied up in that liminal space between waking and dreaming, and this seemed exactly as warm and bright as any good dream ever had.
Newt cupped the back of his neck. “You’re not dreaming. Come on, shank.”
It was Friday the thirteenth. The sun was shining. This beautiful boy was in love with him. They were getting married. There was no way this was a dream, because Kavinsky was not nearly creative enough for that.
They held hands into city hall, up the steps and in through the doors. The clerk of courts was a disinterested woman who took their papers, made sure they were all filled out and signed properly, and then told them that, for the name change, there would need to be a public posting. Kavinsky had already submitted to one of the newspapers the day before, to be published today. Money exchanged hands. And that was that.
When they stepped out of the building, Kavinsky smiled at Newt. “Feel any different, Mr. Kavinsky?”
Newt rolled his eyes, tucked in against Kavinsky with a hand against his lower back. “Maybe after breakfast, Mr. Kavinsky.”
It had taken a couple tries to get the second ring just right, to capture the flips and whorls of Newt’s thumb print on the metal. Then there was the deliberation of if he should keep wearing the ring that Newt had gotten him. Eventually, he settled on slipping it onto his chain, the one with the Saint Joseph charm. Close to his heart, easy to get that nervous energy out.
They filled out paperwork before they went. Not only was there the marriage license, but there was Newt’s official name change documents as well. By the end of the month, Newt would be Newt Kavinsky not just in casual conversation, but on his mail, his identification, everything.
This was a day that Kavinsky had never really thought would ever happen. His stomach was a flock of birds, his heart a hammer in his chest. It was glorious.
It was a brisk day; yesterday had been warmer, but the sun was out today. Kavinsky couldn’t quite stop smiling as they headed to city hall and the courthouse in the Mitsubishi. Newt sat in the passenger seat. They’d dressed nicely, but nothing extravagant. Maybe they’d go wild and well dressed for the reception in a few months, once the weather was more consistently wonderful, once the garden started to bloom.
When Kavinsky parked, he paused. He leaned over and kissed Newt there in the passenger seat. A part of him wanted to question it, wanted to double, triple check.
Instead, he said, “Tell me I’m not dreaming.” It had been a mantra on and off since they’d known each other. Too much of Kavinsky was tied up in that liminal space between waking and dreaming, and this seemed exactly as warm and bright as any good dream ever had.
Newt cupped the back of his neck. “You’re not dreaming. Come on, shank.”
It was Friday the thirteenth. The sun was shining. This beautiful boy was in love with him. They were getting married. There was no way this was a dream, because Kavinsky was not nearly creative enough for that.
They held hands into city hall, up the steps and in through the doors. The clerk of courts was a disinterested woman who took their papers, made sure they were all filled out and signed properly, and then told them that, for the name change, there would need to be a public posting. Kavinsky had already submitted to one of the newspapers the day before, to be published today. Money exchanged hands. And that was that.
When they stepped out of the building, Kavinsky smiled at Newt. “Feel any different, Mr. Kavinsky?”
Newt rolled his eyes, tucked in against Kavinsky with a hand against his lower back. “Maybe after breakfast, Mr. Kavinsky.”
