h3llcat:

Like Marriage, 447 words

“When are you gonna lock that down?”

Mellie’s voice drags Clyde from his daze, an ugly blush blotching his cheeks and spreading down his neck when he realizes he’s been scrubbing the same spot on the bar for who knows how long. “Come again?”

“You’ve been starin’ at ‘im like you’re afraid he’s gonna disappear.” She inclines her head towards Stensland to punctuate her point. He’s making some attempt at cleaning the floor, his small, soft hands wrapped around a mop that is doubling as a dance partner and microphone. He’d recently learned all of Clyde’s favorite songs and has taken to choosing the same three over and over on the jukebox after closing. Clyde never minds. “When are you gonna put a ring on it?”

“Like marriage?” He asks in a higher pitch with a dumb, slow blink.

“Yes, like marriage. Jesus, Clyde.”

Clyde’s brows lift in surprise like he’s never considered the idea before, and truly he hasn’t. Stensland fast become a constant in his life, fitting as perfectly as if he’d always been there. Clyde hasn’t seen a need to change their dynamic, it never felt like they were missing any pieces— but now that she mentioned it… “Hey, Stens!” He calls across the empty bar, waiting for off key singing mimicking a country drawl in an Irish lilt to stop (though shimmying hips don’t). “Wanna get hitched?”

“Okay!” Stensland yells back as easily as if he’s agreeing to Chinese takeout for dinner, and shoots him a thumbs up. “Can I wear a breezy suit or do I have to wear a dress?”

“A suit is good!”

“Okay! Can I have a ring?”

“Yeah! Come ‘ere.”

Stensland props his mop against the wall and trots over to the bar, thrusting out his right hand. Clyde pushes it down and takes his left one instead, bracing it against his own chest as he winds a red stirring straw about his fiancé’s finger. He twists the ends to keep it in place, and Stens proudly holds it up to the light like he’s admiring a glittering gem instead of cheap plastic. He holds it out to Mellie next, and she rolls her eyes as she takes his fingers in hand to inspect Clyde’s handiwork.

“Yeah, yeah, I see it. Don’t get too big for your britches. Now get out of here, don’t you have cleaning to do?” She gives Stensland a push that somehow reads as affectionate. “Y’all are lucky you found each other,” she mumbles against the opening of her beer bottle once he cha-chas away.

Clyde goes back to cleaning the day’s stickiness from the wooden bartop, the smallest of smiles curling his lips.