accio-wit:

John Logan Wright II does not cry easily.

And, true to form, he does not cry now, eyes dry as ever as they skim the stiff paper in his hand, over and over until the words lose form and spill into meaningless smudges of ink. For what is perhaps the first time since the dwindling of childhood glory days, he is absolutely motionless; the world spins on, certainly, and his thumb continues to absently trace the letter’s rough edges, but nothing seems to matter in this instant save for the elaborately engraved invitation in his hand— the universe crystallizes for a mere instant. He reassembles the splinters of his composure and takes a breath, vision refocusing just enough to reevaluate the paper’s heading.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Logan Wright and Julian Larson-Armstrong.

The house is quiet and the night beyond it is electric, thrumming and buzzing with the much adored New York melody. He does not shake. With every ounce of precision and grace he is accustomed to possessing, he trifles through Michelle’s drawers, past silks and laces and glittering trinkets; when he does not find it immediately, he pushes any misgivings aside with clinical detachment and presses on. He finally finds it in the bottom of her old hope chest, where she likely thought he’d never find it; the smile at his mouth is bitter and lost before it’s washed away by silver reverie.

When Michelle returns from her spa retreat the next morning, the first thing she sees is a picture— a neat, framed, eight-by-ten, newly-cleaned— of two grinning boys, the brunet leaning to place a kiss on the blond’s cheek as the latter held him close, placed in the center of the mantle.

aw fuck you that isn’t even FAIR

(Source: mercurial-wit)