And at last he smiled. “If it helps, I think the identity crisis was long overdue. Although I will say that a rainbow balloon arch still sounds dreadful.”
“Mr. & Mr. table confetti?”
“Twee.”
“Rose-gold penis straws?”
Oliver laughed. “Tasteless, phallocentric, cisnormative, and the kind of thing you’d have at a bachelor party, not a wedding.”
“A customised portrait where it’s two angels embracing but the angels have our faces.”
That earned me a worried look. “Suspiciously specific.”
“I found it on a website. It’s really cute. In, I should stress, an intentionally kitsch way.”
“You know the word kitsch comes from—”
I did know, we’d been dating for two years and he’d told me before. “Yes, yes, it comes from volkitsch which was a central part of Nazi ideology. I like to think we’re reclaiming it. Like queer and bitch.”
“You know”—Oliver folded his arms—“saying you’re reclaiming something doesn’t actually give you standing to reclaim it or make it reclaimed?”
I deployed a sigh of my own. “Yes. I know.” And then, because I was still a bit shaken by quite how badly this had gone, I heard myself asking needily, “So…are we…are we good?”
“Always,” he said.
And then he stepped over the little maze wall to kiss me.
A FEW DAYS LATER, OLIVER tried to wake me gently with “I’ve made French toast.”
But firstly, I wasn’t sleeping, I was just lying there in sulky dread.
And secondly, it was definitely a bribe. Today was the day we were seeing his parents, and like any sensible person, I did not want to see his parents. “There are some things,” I said, “that you can’t make better with French toast. You’re making French toast worse by association.”
“Well, I can throw it away if—”
“No.” I cast off the covers and made a grab for the plate. “No. I will eat it. But I want you to know that I am eating in the full knowledge that this is a bribe.”
Oliver looked faintly guilty. As well he might. “I prefer to think of it as me doing something thoughtful for you because I know you’re going to do something thoughtful for me.”
“Yeah, that’s literally what a bribe is.”
“No, a bribe is contingent. A bribe comes with expectation. This came after you’d agreed to do the thing I wanted so it’s legally a thank-you gift.”
Moodily, I munched through the incredibly delicious French toast, trying not to resent how incredibly delicious it was. But it was incredibly delicious. Dammit.
Oliver cleared his throat. “While I always enjoy watching you pout and/or enjoy my cooking, we are going to need to hurry a little bit.”
I mopped up the remains of the maple syrup with the last corner of the toast and inched it, slowly, towards my mouth. “We’ve got plenty of time. As long as you’re happy to wear the shirt you’re wearing and not planning to cycle through sixty-five other identical shirts before we leave.”
“Lucien.” There was a note of warning in his voice. “You know my relationship with my parents is complicated. And I feel better able to navigate it if I’m confident in my appearance and my punctuality.”
He might have felt that way. But I’d never seen any evidence that it actually helped. Nevertheless, I’d agreed to this. This being a trip up to Milton Keynes to convince Miriam and David Blackwood that they should （a） come to their son’s wedding and （b） not ruin it. Only in more tactful words so they didn’t feel “attacked.” Clearly, it was going to be a disaster. But Oliver and I had committed to the mutual fiction that it would work. Or, at the very least, be worth trying.
“I’m going to have apologise, aren’t I?” I asked, having showered, dressed, and buckled myself into the car we’d hired so often we practically owned it. On the other occasions I’d been unable to avoid David and Miriam, I’d just not mentioned it and let them get back to pretending I didn’t exist as quickly as possible. But this was different. This was about mending fences, whatever that meant.
“I’m not going to ask you to,” replied Oliver, with fatal ambiguity.
“But, in all honesty, they might expect it.”
Despite the fact it was twenty past ten and I’d deliberately got an early night, I was already flagging. “I mean, I suppose I did tell them to go fuck themselves at their own wedding anniversary, which was probably a bit aggressive.”