#husbands!!!!

It's rare for Richie to get much by way of messages. Rarer still for something to come that isn't work or family. If it weren't for that, he'd have probably ignored his mobile entirely in favour of their cooking. Facts being what they are, however, he peels himself away from the counter and Simon's proximity to check who the fuck is texting him.

Richie! Had to ask around for your number. Franklin Walsh. I'm getting married! Wanted to extend you an invite. lmk if you can make it. The next message is a picture of a wedding invitation. Shitty lighting, with the wood grain of the table beneath the paper visible from the edges of the photo, but reasonable enough for Richie to make out the details printed on the card in metallic cursive. Something his wife-to-be picked out, no doubt.

It has him grunting a sound only just audible over the sizzling of meat in the pan. It's not a happy sound, but it's also not exactly displeased. More... he forgets, often, about the world beyond theirs. Sometimes, apparently, a mate from school cares enough to track you down, or at least the right phone number, to shoot off a wedding invitation.