Together, they stood at the altar, hand-in-hand. A gleeful audience of both of the pairs' families, allied forces, and even a few onlookers, sat in patient silence waiting for the priest's words; his blessings, faiths and hopes for the couple. Bright yet institutional lights twinkled cheerfully above them, a busy bustle of newcomers wafting in, and the church seemed alive yet dead at the same time.
But Soviet stood with a deep-set frown on his face, his face tilted down ever-so-slightly. He had never wanted this. Not in a million years. And yet fate had turned its head on him as he was made an unwilling prisoner to this marriage. Staring into UK's cheering face, he wondered how he felt about this; the smile which twitched with discomfort, the few wrinkles he had in his face from never properly laughing a day in his life, those staring eyes which remained unblinking. When he looked past his face, the rest of him began to shine through..
His hair slicked back with so much oil that you could see the deep groove marks in his blonde hair, that usual tar-black monocle replaced with a shining golden eyepiece and matching earrings almost melded into the bottom of his earlobes from how tight they had been screwed in. A black suit ironed to perfection, clinging to his thin torso yet looser on his legs, the fabric almost grazing the ground, patent leather shoes with oval toes; one of his friends had advised against point-toed flats for a wedding, he had told him a few days ago. But the strangest was the fact that he was without that large tophat of his, his signature item. Ideal for a wedding, yet not even considered, thrown out like meaningless toys.
Soviet could feel warm breath on his cheek, and he had realised the other had leaned in just a bit closer to him. He didn't mind if the Vatican, their obvious choice of priest, heard whatever he would say to the other...
"It's not his buisness what others may say." he had once criticised in a conversation with America, his son. "The Vatican's job is to do his job and shut up, like most people do. America, don't be so silly."
UK had began to speak a little too loud for Union's liking; he began to wonder if it was purposeful. To grab someone's attention or a turn of the head from the few countries that stood aside them. His muscles tightened at that thought.
"I am just so excited for this wedding, aren't you? Good God, my heart is beating out of my chest at this very moment.. mm.. It's going to be good when we get home, honey.."
The grip on his hand tightened just a little, and the rigid in his grin had gotten a little more intense, the twitch more frequent.
"And don't frown. This is our special moment, our special day. The ring is oh so beautiful too, just what could you be so dissapointed about?"
Oh. The ring. It was nothing special or remarkable, and was a simple silver band around his thick ring finger. However, it had "B R I T A I N" engraved all around the stupid thing like he was the other's property; it was as if he was simply a helpless cow, his ear to be tagged since he was a farm's property and sent to the chopping board, to it's inevitable death.
How desperate Soviet was to drop it into the ocean and let it rust away. But UK had gotten so close to the side of his face, the tip of his snub nose prodding his cheek and his silky eyelashes touching his ears, and he could feel his hand being let go of, a much thinner, a much more petite hand on his abdomen.
It seemed that time had frozen for the two. And the Russian had a slightly different feeling stirring in his gut; maybe this would be a marriage he could get something out of. Something good, that is.
....
A sudden clearing of his throat, and the Vatican had began to voice his speech, booming on and on about God, unions, family.. whatever. It was all stupidity, nonsense, fuck-all. It seemed like forever before he finally heard slightly meaningful words being brought to the table. Well, meaningful is subjective..
"I, The United Kingdom, take you, Soviet Union, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life."
He had said it in a unwavering voice, as if it was practiced for in a mirror. He pondered if it truly was, how long he stared at himself in that vain reflection for and made sure he didn't look a total fool as he said each word. All that thinking had brought him away from the real world; it was his turn.
A few blinks of recognition, and he spoke.
".. I-I, Soviet Union, take you, Britai- I mean, United Kingdom, to be my husband. I promise to be true to you.. in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health."
A harsh grip darted back to his hand, and he heard an annoyed hissing from the other. Oh fuck, he messed it up.
"I.. I will l-love you and honour you all the days of my life. Mhm."
Before he could embarrass himself anymore, Britain had pulled him into a long kiss, holding his hands and not daring to pull away incase if he did, a deadly explosion of stammering would come straight out of his mouth and blow the place up. His eyes tightly shut, Soviet slowly closed his, and the entire church had went into an excited uproar. But despite all of this, Union was still extremely flushed with embarrassment from the earlier speech; so flushed that his already red skin had become darker. Not like anyone could see, so he could keep his worries to himself and shield them away from the audience.
How lucky he was.
...
