the windowsill. the morning is so extraordinarily ordinary. a wedge of sun upon the dressing table, a small breeze stirring the curtain, a thrush taking its breakfast upon the sill, all the same as yesterday. and yet, the bride finds herself, in the middle of having her hair pinned, beginning quite suddenly to cry.

the setting. a forested estate in the south of france, with high pines and slim white birches, a long open glade cleared into the heart of the wood. at its centre stands a grand pavilion of pale stone, its open arches looking out upon the greenery that surrounds. forty white chairs in two careful columns. a long aisle of strewn petals and pine needles. overhead, the thrush prepares to take part in the proceedings as well.

the dress. paolo sebastian, ivory, a long chantilly lace fishtail with three-dimensional blossoms and small embroidered butterflies climbing the bodice. inside the hem, in thread so faint one must know prematurely to look for it: t.k. & you. 06.06.

the second look. hung carefully upon the back of the dressing room door beneath a long sheet of muslin, awaits the rest of the evening in a saree of peach silk, hand-embroidered with small gold florets and a fine border, the choli scalloped. somewhere in the groom’s quarters, beneath an identical sheet of muslin, hangs the kurta meant to meet it. delicate dori-work at the placket, a deep indigo shawl folded neatly over the shoulder.

pomme. the chocolate-and-cream dachshund coming down the aisle in the wake of the flower girl, attired in a slim ivory satin collar with a sprig of baby’s breath tucked beneath the buckle. she’s been given her instructions, but instead trots directly to her mother, settles herself upon the train of her dress beneath the pavilion, and refuses to be moved for the remainder of the proceedings.

the aisle. the string quartet begins, and the bride steps into the open mouth of the glade alone, her bouquet held anxiously to her sternum. the heads of forty guests turn as one, but all she can see is the pavilion at the far end of the aisle, gauzy with sun, and the warm dark figure of her dashing groom standing within it.

she takes three steps. four, six.

and then karasu breaks every line of the rehearsal and walks out of the pavilion to meet her. by the time he reaches her, he’s already choking out a laugh through tears forcing their way past stubborn blinks. he takes her bouquet gently from her hands and tucks it into the crook of his own elbow, guides his fiingers between his.

KARASU: [sweetly, only for you] couldn’t let my beautiful bride walk it alone. been walkin’ to meet ya halfway since the day we met. didn’t seem right to stop now. YOU: [heart in throat] tabito-- KARASU: shh. shh, sweetheart. let’s go finish this.

the kiss. good afternoon, mrs. karasu / good afternoon, mr. karasu / high time, wouldn’t ya say?

📸 polaroid of the first kiss as husband & wife, his hands cradling the back of her head, her hands draped loosely around his waist. / polaroid of pomme on her hind legs, pawing at the couple--kisses for her, too, please!

the private vows.

📸 polaroid selfie of the newlyweds, eyes glimmering, smiles stretched wide, faces flushed with the heat of being seen through to your heart and loved all the more for the morsels kept hidden.

the getaway to the reception villa. a vintage cream peugeot with the top down, the late afternoon light pouring upon the newlyweds in their finery as they wind down out of the forest hills toward the sea. coco has pomme tucked into her lap, her ears blown improbably backward by the breeze. karasu drives with one hand, the other resting warmly upon her thigh, and at every bend in the road, he turns and looks at her, stars pooling at his lower lashline. he’s still not convinced that this day isn’t his sweetest dream.

COCO: [flustered under his gaze, smiling privately] tabi, you should watch the road. KARASU: [kissing her ring finger] yeah, yeah. only making sure you’re still real.

the cake. a strawberry shortcake confection / three tiers / a small fondant dachshund awfully reminiscent of pomme / sugar dandelions winding up one side. following the moment of the cutting, a crescent of buttercream finds its way onto the groom’s thumb, and he offers it to his bride instinctinvely, without comment. she takes it into her mouth before she can think to be shy about it, mouth closing around the pad of his thumb, lashes lowering, heat rising at once up her throat. he, in his turn, leans down and takes a small smudge of frosting from the corner of her mouth with a cheeky lick his tongue.

📸 polaroid of the bride’s plush lips wrapped around the groom’s thumb, wide bambi eyes avoiding his own and instead trained on his cheshirish grin.

the first dance. he sways her, and dips her, and still she burrows her face in his neck to hide. ever the bashful fawn.

stolen. a moment of quietude, just before the fireworks. he draws her behind a column of bougainvillea and kisses her, languid, breathing oxygen into her lungs, as he only does when he believes himself unobserved. his thumb passes over the new ring upon her finger. she tastes champagne, and shortcake, and the salt of the sea upon him.

KARASU: sweetheart. COCO: yes? KARASU: [wearing the grin of a fool in love] nothin’, only wished to say it aloud.

the terrace. the bride & groom stand at the champagne tower with their hands joined upon the bottle, pouring together in one long unhurried stream that spills over the topmost coupe and goes cascading down as a golden waterfall. the terrace has dissolved into joyful disorder, beyond it. shidou, zantetsu, otoya somehow shoeless, coco’s girlfriends kicking their heels off to head to the middle of the dance floor, take a dip in the ocean, wander off to a place more hushed with their beloved (or someone new) on their arm.

📸 polaroids taken by rin and hiori of everyone & everything. champagne in mid-fall, drunk boys mid-holler, tipsy girls mid-giggle, a frame of the bride & groom caught mid-something naughty behind a pillar.

the windowsill. the morning is so extraordinarily ordinary. a wedge of sun upon the dressing table, a small breeze stirring the curtain, a thrush taking its breakfast upon the sill, all the same as yesterday. and yet, the bride finds herself, in the middle of having her hair pinned, beginning quite suddenly to cry.

the setting. a forested estate in the south of france, with high pines and slim white birches, a long open glade cleared into the heart of the wood. at its centre stands a grand pavilion of pale stone, its open arches looking out upon the greenery that surrounds. forty white chairs in two careful columns. a long aisle of strewn petals and pine needles. overhead, the thrush prepares to take part in the proceedings as well.

the dress. paolo sebastian, ivory, a long chantilly lace fishtail with three-dimensional blossoms and small embroidered butterflies climbing the bodice. inside the hem, in thread so faint one must know prematurely to look for it: t.k. & you. 06.06.

the second look. hung carefully upon the back of the dressing room door beneath a long sheet of muslin, awaits the rest of the evening in a saree of peach silk, hand-embroidered with small gold florets and a fine border, the choli scalloped. somewhere in the groom’s quarters, beneath an identical sheet of muslin, hangs the kurta meant to meet it. delicate dori-work at the placket, a deep indigo shawl folded neatly over the shoulder.

pomme. the chocolate-and-cream dachshund coming down the aisle in the wake of the flower girl, attired in a slim ivory satin collar with a sprig of baby’s breath tucked beneath the buckle. she’s been given her instructions, but instead trots directly to her mother, settles herself upon the train of her dress beneath the pavilion, and refuses to be moved for the remainder of the proceedings.

the aisle. the string quartet begins, and the bride steps into the open mouth of the glade alone, her bouquet held anxiously to her sternum. the heads of forty guests turn as one, but all she can see is the pavilion at the far end of the aisle, gauzy with sun, and the warm dark figure of her dashing groom standing within it.

she takes three steps. four, six.

and then karasu breaks every line of the rehearsal and walks out of the pavilion to meet her. by the time he reaches her, he’s already choking out a laugh through tears forcing their way past stubborn blinks. he takes her bouquet gently from her hands and tucks it into the crook of his own elbow, guides his fiingers between his.

KARASU: [sweetly, only for you] couldn’t let my beautiful bride walk it alone. been walkin’ to meet ya halfway since the day we met. didn’t seem right to stop now. YOU: [heart in throat] tabito-- KARASU: shh. shh, sweetheart. let’s go finish this.

the kiss. good afternoon, mrs. karasu / good afternoon, mr. karasu / high time, wouldn’t ya say?

📸 polaroid of the first kiss as husband & wife, his hands cradling the back of her head, her hands draped loosely around his waist. / polaroid of pomme on her hind legs, pawing at the couple--kisses for her, too, please!

the private vows.

📸 polaroid selfie of the newlyweds, eyes glimmering, smiles stretched wide, faces flushed with the heat of being seen through to your heart and loved all the more for the morsels kept hidden.

the getaway to the reception villa. a vintage cream peugeot with the top down, the late afternoon light pouring upon the newlyweds in their finery as they wind down out of the forest hills toward the sea. coco has pomme tucked into her lap, her ears blown improbably backward by the breeze. karasu drives with one hand, the other resting warmly upon her thigh, and at every bend in the road, he turns and looks at her, stars pooling at his lower lashline. he’s still not convinced that this day isn’t his sweetest dream.

COCO: [flustered under his gaze, smiling privately] tabi, you should watch the road. KARASU: [kissing her ring finger] yeah, yeah. only making sure you’re still real.

the cake. a strawberry shortcake confection / three tiers / a small fondant dachshund awfully reminiscent of pomme / sugar dandelions winding up one side. following the moment of the cutting, a crescent of buttercream finds its way onto the groom’s thumb, and he offers it to his bride instinctinvely, without comment. she takes it into her mouth before she can think to be shy about it, mouth closing around the pad of his thumb, lashes lowering, heat rising at once up her throat. he, in his turn, leans down and takes a small smudge of frosting from the corner of her mouth with a cheeky lick his tongue.

📸 polaroid of the bride’s plush lips wrapped around the groom’s thumb, wide bambi eyes avoiding his own and instead trained on his cheshirish grin.

the first dance. he sways her, and dips her, and still she burrows her face in his neck to hide. ever the bashful fawn.

stolen. a moment of quietude, just before the fireworks. he draws her behind a column of bougainvillea and kisses her, languid, breathing oxygen into her lungs, as he only does when he believes himself unobserved. his thumb passes over the new ring upon her finger. she tastes champagne, and shortcake, and the salt of the sea upon him.

KARASU: sweetheart. COCO: yes? KARASU: [wearing the grin of a fool in love] nothin’, only wished to say it aloud.

the terrace. the bride & groom stand at the champagne tower with their hands joined upon the bottle, pouring together in one long unhurried stream that spills over the topmost coupe and goes cascading down as a golden waterfall. the terrace has dissolved into joyful disorder, beyond it. shidou, zantetsu, otoya somehow shoeless, coco’s girlfriends kicking their heels off to head to the middle of the dance floor, take a dip in the ocean, wander off to a place more hushed with their beloved (or someone new) on their arm.

📸 polaroids taken by rin and hiori of everyone & everything. champagne in mid-fall, drunk boys mid-holler, tipsy girls mid-giggle, a frame of the bride & groom caught mid-something naughty behind a pillar.