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Dude hadn’t really imagined his wedding, really. All he knew was that growing up, his grandparents had expected as much from him. He remembers the sermons from the scripture being read while he was down on his shaking knees (he’s a very tall man, his knees have never gotten a break), and the slap of the wood on his hands during catholic school that reminded him that marriage was his calling. Sure he could have been a priest, maybe a monk, but he was always told he had been too stupid, too weird, too wrong to become anyone of importance.
And though he isn’t religious anymore, at least not when the meds kick in, he still had it in the back of his mind. It felt like another failure. But when he met you, suddenly he felt like the most successful man in the world. He had taken you to his grandparent’s graves, just so they could see what a man he’s become, maybe they’ll change their minds about him from wherever they may be. Heaven? Hell? Nirvana? Or maybe just the pile of bones that they’ve become 6 feet under. He didn’t really care where they went anyway.
He wanted to marry you. You were all he’s ever wanted. You always touched him, you never stopped, your hands and lips always found their way to his face. You were so gentle with him, even when he was scary, even when he felt like you should have slapped him. You always talked to him in soft whispers like he’d break, and honestly that's what he’s always needed. You knew he needed to be held fragilely.
You had to be his, had to be his in the only way he knew you could never leave him, what he was taught couldn’t be broken. A sacred bond that meant you could never go, you had to stay. A bond that meant he could finally know what you felt like (as strangely, even though he doesn’t believe in such things anymore, he still clings to some of his old beliefs like its life or death. But man, celibacy is a bitch. And no, those hookers he paid under the counter before he met you don’t count…). But he cared more about you. You staying. You being with him forever.
And the time was right. It’s been a year, which isn’t long for most, but he knew he wanted you, and only you. The only problem is, how the hell will he afford this?
You deserve a wedding fit for a princess, which in his head, is filled with jewels and pearls and sparkles. A gigantic gown, one that the light makes sparkle, showing just enough of your chest that his pants get too tight (can you blame a man who prides himself on avoiding anything immoral?). But again, he’s been almost evicted too many times to count, only having you to save his ass (to which he is forever thankful). He’s been going back to his self-inflicted aggressive behaviors again just from thinking about how little he’s able to give, but at least he’s been hiding it better this time (except for the new hole in the bedroom wall…).
So when he awkwardly approached you, blank faced, thumbs aggressively rubbing friction with the him of his shirt, eyes staring at the wall behind where you sat on the couch, the cushions, the clock on the wall, right next to where he keeps one of his rifles (for self defense, obviously, he needs to protect you), he mumbles out wedding plans.
You hadn’t said much when it came to the topic, as it was only just a week ago when he pulled you closer in bed and pulled out the ring, kissing you so passionately yet so soft, with so much love as he whispered his plea for you to marry him. Just a week ago he was kissing and licking away your tears of happiness as you said yes, when he slid the finger on you (he put it on the wrong finger at first, but he got it by the 2nd try), so you thought he wanted to take the wedding slow. You were always okay with whatever he wanted, it was another thing he loved about you. But he didn’t want to wait, he wanted you to be inseparable from him as soon as possible.
All you could decipher is that he was sorry, he loved you, but that maybe the backyard would be alright. Maybe he could make you the dress (he’s decent at sewing, he’s mended all your clothes for you)? It won’t be much, but it would be pretty-
And you smiled at him, it made him stop, made him look at you (granted, not your eyes, he isn’t good at eye contact). You always had him so flustered over the smallest things. He knew you soft nod and the way you pulled him by the arm to stand between your legs as you kissed up his scared arms, even the ones that still stung, that you approved.
So, he spent the next two weeks hard at work for you. He couldn’t afford much, and he didn’t have family or friends to invite, so it would just be the two of you, so that at least saved him quite a lot, but he wanted it to feel like this was big, he owed you that.
He spent the first week thrifting silk, white bed sheets, getting lace for it, making a simple dress. It was straight forward, quite literally. It wasn’t really all that flattering on you due to it being boxy (it was literally a rectangle), but did have a soft sweetheart cut at the top, its edges covered in lace, which matched the lace at the hems. It went just a little below your knees, about mid calf, and he found some ribbon he could use to cinch in the waist. You caught him reading a book from the library about how to tie bows, he really wanted to make sure he could tie it just right.
And then you caught him in the backyard, blistering his fingers to make a makeshift arch. That didn’t take him as long, though it wasn’t the prettiest thing in the world. Before this, all he’s built was a dog house for Champ (and it leaks when it rains, you let him hide inside with you when it gets cold) so his skills aren’t top tier, but he spent the rest of the days painting over it. He put some flowers in its cracks, but he couldn’t quite hide the little burn in the middle that he didn’t have time to paint over (he wasn’t thinking when it happened, just leaving his cigarette anywhere, as who has time for ashtrays anyway?).
And that was it, it was finally the day. He wore his usual white button up, but replaced his red sweater vest for a red and gold embroidered one he found at the thrift store (which, for the record, had a strong smell. Somewhere between death and pissed carpet, that's up to you to decide which is worse. Probably donated to the Goodwill after their owner’s passed). His pants were his same usual jeans, but he tidied them up a bit by replacing his signature trench coat for a blazer, which he found in his stash of things from when his Grandpa died (it had cigarette burns around the sleeves and collar, things were never that good at home. At least this time, the smell of death was accompanied by the faint smell of 70’s cologne).
You can tell he really tried to clean up for you though. He smelt heavily of his own cologne, which smelt more like soap than anything, but he never saw the point in investing in such things (his was the cheapest from the mall).
But when you walked out from the bathroom? God, he was stunned. He was clutching his necklace, fist tight around the gold cross, chafed and scratched from having it since he was a boy (the most noticeable scratch being from getting his head shoved into a locker back in catholic school, bursting his lip open, the chain getting caught on the latch). His mouth was agape, and he felt the pressure start to build just below the belt. He let out a shaky sigh, grabbing your hands, his thumb caressing the dorsal part of your hand. He pulled you closer, hiding his face in your neck, taking a large whiff of you as he pulled the ribbon around your waist, tying it behind your back. The bow was uneven, but he had yet to notice (and you didn’t care), so what did it hurt?
And just like that, you both were outside, standing in the dying grass, a light breeze, the faint chill of the November air (this is Arizona we’re talking about), and the silence of the neighborhood, which seemed to calm just for the two of you (except the whines of Champ, who was locked inside, made to watch from the sliding door. He’s not well potty trained, Dude didn’t want to risk it, so him pawing on the glass will have to do). You’re heel’s dug into the dirt a bit, the stiff, dead grass helping to not let them sink too far, but you could barely focus on that, not with the Dude in front of you, staring at you like you were the God he was meant to pray to.
It went by fast, there was no officiant, just him spilling his heart out. His voice trembled as he desperately tried to talk outside of his normal mumbles, but he did it because he wanted, no needed you to hear how much he loved you.
I need you
I can’t live without you.
I would die if you weren’t here with me.
I can’t have you leave me.
Please don’t leave me.
I need you to love me.
You’re so perfect.
You love me.
I hope so anyway.
At least that's all you could make out, you were mesmerized. The cuts around his chin from trying to get rid of some stubble growing around his goatee, the pimples around his lip, the strawberry pattern of his cheeks, the blush that coated them. It was almost too much. But beside what you could vividly remember, he did go on and on about how much he cared about you, about his favorite memories (most of which were small things you didn’t even think of, like touching his cheek on a specific afternoon, or kissing him in a spot only slaps have ever touched), it was endearing, it made you love him even more.
And then you, you went on, and he stared at you mouth still agape just watching your lips move as you told him all you could say.
And as soon as you finished, he crashed his lips against yours, almost aggressive, needy, but not taking. He wasn’t trying to take anything from you, he wasn’t greedy. He held your hips tight, pulling you close but keeping you just far enough that just maybe Jesus could slip between, but in that moment Dude would crucify him again with his own bare hands if that meant he could take everything he wanted of you right now.
But yet, it was sweet, he never was too much, he never wanted to be. It was loving. It was everything.