"Michael," Christopher whispered, the word nearly a prayer as it slipped from his lips, only to be swallowed by the deafening roar of the rain.
They were standing--kneeling, really--on the edge of the terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Their wedding day. The day Christopher had meticulously planned for eighteen months, down to the shade of the napkins and the vintage of the champagne. And now, the napkins were sodden rags, and the champagne was mostly rainwater.
The forecast had promised "sunny intervals." This was not a sunny interval. This was a monsoon.
Their guests had been ushered inside the grand ballroom, their empathetic faces pressed against the glass doors. But Michael, looking up from the altar where Christopher was late arriving (damn that cufflink), had shaken his head. Then, he had slowly begun to smile.
"Chris," Michael had shouted over the wind, a mad grin splitting his face. "It's our wedding day. Do you want to do this?"
Christopher, the man who owned color-coded binders for his daily schedule, the man whose tuxedo was a tailored masterpiece, had stared at his fiancé. His fiancé, who was already half-soaked, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead.
The answer, of course, was yes. It was always yes.
So, Christopher had descended the stairs. Each step felt like a ritual. The velvet was ruined; the satin lapels were heavy and clingy. His carefully styled waves were now just a tangled, wet mess. He had shed his custom-made Italian loafers, feeling the grit of the terrace tiles under his bare feet.
Michael was waiting.
They stood, facing each other, the water roaring around them. It was comedic, really. Christopher's pocket square was a sodden sponge. Michael's tuxedo jacket looked like it had been dipped in tar.
And they couldn't stop laughing.
The photographer, a remarkably brave woman named Chloe, was crouching nearby, her camera encased in a plastic bag, trying to capture the absurdity of it all.
"The ring," Christopher shouted. He fumbled with his wet vest, the fabric slick and treacherous. For a terrifying moment, his numb fingers couldn't feel the gold band. Then, he pulled it free.
He took Michael's hand. Michael's skin was cold, but his grip was iron.
"Christopher, I take you to be my husband," Michael yelled, the words torn away by the wind, but the meaning clear. "In rain, in sun... definitely in rain."
Christopher laughed, the sound almost a sob. Water trickled down his nose and into his mouth. "Michael, I take you... to be my husband. I promise to buy more umbrellas."
He slid the wet gold ring onto Michael's finger. Michael did the same for him. The rings felt heavy and solid against their cold skin.
"Then, in the face of this deluge," said the officiant, a sturdy woman who had refused to move, "I pronounce you husbands."
They didn't just kiss. They collapsed into each other. It was a tangle of wet fabric, saltwater, and desperation. The kiss was a vow--a promise that they could handle anything the universe threw at them, even a category-one hurricane on their wedding day.
Suddenly, Christopher felt something lift him. It was Michael. Michael, laughing like a maniac, had scooped him up.
"Christopher, prepare yourself!" Michael roared.
Christopher didn't have time to process what that meant.
He saw the pool. The infinity pool that looked like it merged with the churning grey ocean.
"MICHAEL, NO!" Christopher shrieked, but it was too late. He was airborne.
The impact was shocking. The water was warmer than the air, but the sudden submersion was an assault on his senses. For a split second, it was total, muffled silence.
And then, he surged upward, gasping.
The first thing he saw was Michael, popping up beside him, his bow tie hanging askew, looking like a drowned, joyful retriever.
Chloe was there at the pool's edge, her camera raised. Click.
"You're insane!" Christopher yelled, wiping pool water from his eyes. "This tuxedo was tailored!"
"You look beautiful," Michael grinned, pulling Christopher closer. Water lapped at their chests. "The best tailored wet man I've ever seen."
They were soaking wet. They were fully clothed in thousands of dollars of formal wear. And they were inside a swimming pool in the middle of a rainstorm.
They kissed again, a slower, deeper kiss, cushioned by the water.
Inside the ballroom, the guests were pressing their hands to the glass, cheering. Sarah, Christopher's maid of honor, was weeping openly.
Christopher pulled back, looking at his husband. Michael's blue eyes were bright with triumph.
"So," Michael whispered, his nose brushing against Christopher's. "Think they'll let us into the reception like this?"
"We're the grooms," Christopher said, feeling the warm glow of laughter spreading through his chest. "They have to let us in."
He kissed Michael one last time. It wasn't the wedding Christopher had planned. It was, however, the only one he ever wanted.