Dean had expected the aisle to feel longer.
He had expected every step to become a negotiation between his dignity and the very real possibility that he would trip over ceremonial fabric in front of three continents, four royal houses, and at least five people who would never let him forget it.
Instead, the aisle felt strangely peaceful.
Arion's hand was warm beneath his.
Possessive enough that Dean could feel the restraint in the hold and careful enough that he hated him a little for being perfect when Dean was trying very hard not to embarrass both of them by looking at him too much.
Dean looked ahead because he still possessed survival instincts in theory.
"You are staring," he murmured.
Arion's mouth barely moved. "Yes."
Dean almost missed a step.
Arion's hand tightened at once.
Dean's pulse betrayed him so loudly he hoped the orchestra had the decency to cover it.
"You could deny it," Dean whispered.
"I could."
"You didn't."
"I am not lying before the vows."
