In the Woods
Title: In the Woods
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Fluffy AU
Rating: E
In the woods was a clearing, and in the clearing there was one huge tree, an oak tree with a trunk more than ten feet around, a tree that had stood for centuries and would surely stand for centuries yet. One side of the tree had a huge bare branch, a branch that was dead and which never grew new leaves in the spring nor shed them in the autumn. It pointed its deadened shape to the sky, permanently wagging its finger at the sky which had broken it; legend had it that lightning had struck the tree one hot summer night. Carl’s mum swore she could remember the storm, she said it had happened when she was small, and that, what was more, it was the storm that had made her grandma psychic. Legend in Carl’s family was that Grandma Jones had been watching the storm from her back doorstep, with her hand on her hip. The lightning had hit her on the elbow, and had exited her body through the tips of her fingers. She was lucky to be alive, was lucky that the lightning had not entered her body some other way and travelled to her heart. After that, Chrissy insisted, Grandma Jones had been psychic, and she had especially always known when there was a storm coming. “She could smell it,” Chrissy said.
“Mmm, alright,” Carl said the first time she recounted the story to Peter. He took another biscuit from the tin and dipped it into his tea, waiting for a second too long and losing part of it to the depths of the mug.
Peter, though, was delighted, and he looked up at Chrissy enraptured from his place on the carpet. He’d insisted on sitting there. The small room had only three seats - a chair that was Chrissy’s and the tiny two seater sofa, which Carl was sharing with his sister. She’d offered to let Peter sit there, but Peter had made himself at home on the floor. Carl thought it was maybe partly because the cats liked to lie there and were currently falling all over him in their hurry to make him pay attention to just them and not the other one, but also partly because he was much too tall for the tiny sofa. Even Carl regularly felt much too tall for the tiny sofa.
Peter was a newcomer into their lives back then. Not so much of a newcomer into Carl’s - they’d been seeing each other on and off for around eight months, catching up with each other when they happened to be in the same place for a while. But Chrissy, who never usually asked about Carl’s boyfriends (what a word) seemed to have a soft spot for Peter and had insisted on meeting him. And so there they were, in the wilds of Wiltshire, for the weekend. Chrissy had made some of her usual unspecified stew - curried, this time, with chickpeas and tons of tomatoes - mopped up with some of her homemade bread. Carl was pretty sure Peter liked Chrissy as much as she seemed to like him.
Anyway, Peter remembered the tree when, three years later, they got engaged. It had happened a bit by accident. They were living together then, in Peter’s flat in Luton. He’d moved out of London; he’d been earning enough money to buy somewhere but wasn’t keen to stay in London - and could scarcely afford it anyway. Luton wasn’t much cheaper but it was a bit. The flat was above a hairdresser and a motorbike repair shop so it was pretty quiet and Carl had learnt to love it. He’d moved in a few months after Peter had, when he was sick of either not seeing Peter or travelling for over an hour every day to get to work. The truth was he could work anywhere, so he jacked in his job in Hackney and moved to Luton. He was temping there, mostly, somewhat supported by Peter’s earnings, and, with his encouragement, was also working on music properly, for the first time ever.
Carl had always written music, had always fucked about with a couple of battered guitars, but he had thought it was little more than a hobby, and certainly not something he thought he was good at. But Peter liked his songs, and he knew someone in a pub who held open mic nights, and Carl had played a few and then a few more and he loved it. He’d made friends with a couple of people - Jay, who played drums, Adam, who played bass, and Billy, who was a bit of a musical genius and who, when drunk after a few whiskies, talked a lot about the four of them putting together an EP that he would produce. Carl thought it was just chat, but then Billy had actually booked studio time one weekend for them.
It was nothing like Carl had imagined. There was so much sitting around. He and Adam played cards for money until Carl, fifty pounds down, jacked it in, throwing the cards down in defeat.
“Woohoo,” Adam said, counting out the notes and then folding them safely into his wallet. “Any time you fancy a repeat…”
“Not likely,” Carl said, and watched Billy do his thing on the mixing desk. It was fascinating, and boring, and tiring. He slept that night in the deepest sleep he’d had in months and then the next morning he woke up early, but still not earlier than Peter, who had taken to writing from 5am until 8, and then editing for the rest of the day. He was in the spare room in the flat, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and one behind his ear too. Carl leaned down and kissed the back of his neck.
“Be back later,” he said. “Maybe about 5?”
“Okay,” Peter said, twisting in his seat. “Have a good day.”
Carl saluted, and walked out, wallet and phone tucked in his pockets, whistling one of the songs they’d been working on. Jay was waiting outside in his car and they chatted as they went, talking about the previous day.
“We’ve got to have a name,” Jay said. “I supposed it could all just go under your name, though.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Carl said. He lit a cigarette and pressed the button for the window to go down. “You’re all on it too.”
Jay shrugged. “Not bothered, meself.”
Carl laughed. He felt light, happy with friends and with the work they were doing. In the studio, Billy had brought hot coffee and chocolate twists. The day passed quickly, Carl going last and spending several hours trying to get everything right, hunched over his guitar so that, when he finally stretched his body out, four hours had passed and he was hungry, tired, and had a raging thirst.
“There’s mixing to be done,” Billy said, winding a cable up. “But I can do that.”
“Thank you,” Carl said, and clapped his arm. “It’s been great.”
“Not over yet,” Billy said. “We need a name and a photo for the front cover.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Carl said. “I’ll think about one.”
“Curry?” Jay said. “There’s a really good place about four streets away.”
“Definitely,” Adam said.
“Count me in,” Billy said.
Carl checked his phone, but there wasn’t anything from Peter. He was probably still writing. He shot off a quick text anyway. “Yeah, alright.”
They packed up and turned off all the lights, leaving the studio space as quiet as they’d found it. The door locked on a deadbolt behind them. The street was quiet; the only sound was the busier road at the end.
And there was Peter, huddled in a doorway across the street. He beamed when he saw Carl, and Carl, touched, couldn’t help returning the gesture. He jogged over.
“Ello,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
Peter leaned down for a kiss. “I needed a walk, so I thought I’d come and surprise you. I’ve only been waiting about thirty minutes.”
Carl pulled a face. “I did say I didn’t know what time we’d finish.”
“It’s fine,” Peter said, and gestured towards his pocket, where his current Agatha Christie was jammed. He only read Agatha when he was editing his own novels. He said that in the usual run of things he couldn’t stand her, but when he was editing she was just the sort of mindless rubbish he needed. Carl didn’t pretend to understand. He couldn’t conceive writing a whole, entire novel. He’d read all of Peter’s, obviously, and he loved them, but he still didn’t entirely understand how they came about.
“We were going to go have curry,” Carl said, gesturing over his shoulder at the others.
“Room for a little one?”
“Should think so,” Carl said, and they went back over the street together. “Alright if Peter comes?”
“Course,” Jay said, and unlocked the car.
Squashed in, they drove the five minutes to the Golden Bengal. By the end Carl had a name for his band, but he decided he’d keep it to himself for a bit longer.
“We’ll get the bus,” Carl said at the end of the meal when Jay offered them a lift. He lived the other side of town. Billy was close enough by to walk, and Adam could cadge a lift. Carl hugged each of them, said thank you again, and then down the hill with Peter to a cold, lonely bus stop.
“You’ll be a famous rock star before you know it,” Peter said once they’d got on the bus and were sitting upstairs at the front.
“Unlikely,” Carl said, letting his hand make its way on to Peter’s thigh. “I’m a bit too old for that.”
“Nonsense. Jane McDonald was thirty five before she got famous, you know.”
“Who the fuck is Jane McDonald?” Carl asked and then, when he saw Peter open his mouth, said, “I wasn’t really asking!”
Peter laughed. He’d shaved the sides of his hair again. Maybe yesterday, maybe today. Carl hadn’t had too much of a good look at him last night as he’d been in bed when Carl had got in. Carl reached up and touched one side.
“Did I miss a bit?” Peter asked anxiously.
“No,” Carl said. “I just like it.”
“Thanks.” Peter paused. “Anyway, you get rock star famous and then you can marry me and keep me in the manner to which I’m accustomed.”
“I will if you want,” Carl said, yawning, not hearing the entirety of the words.
Peter hadn’t either, but then they realised it together and looked at each other with wide eyes.
“Yeah?” Peter said, his eyes darting over Carl’s face.
Carl laughed, then strangled it, then nodded. “We should.”
“Get married?”
“Get married,” Carl agreed, and put his hand in Peter’s.
“Very agreeable,” Peter said, and although he just squeezed Carl’s hand, the minute they stepped off the bus he stopped, cupped Carl’s face in his hands, and kissed him thoroughly.
A couple of days later Carl rang his mum to tell her, and Peter told his parents via email, and Carl messaged Lucie, and then they sent out a Facebook message to a bunch more important people.
“Now we can start planning it,” Peter said, beaming.
“What kind of wedding would you like?” Carl turned on the sofa, his knee nudging Peter’s thigh. “Big white wedding, top hat and tails?”
“Yeah, if you want.” Peter laughed. “Bridesmaids in technicolour?”
“I quite like the idea of a rainbow of important people. In different coloured shirts or dresses?”
“Yeah, that’s a nice idea.” Peter tapped his lip with his finger. “You know what I’d love?”
“Mmm?”
“To get married at your Mum’s. Under the tree.”
Carl thought about it. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.”
In the event, it turned out you weren’t allowed to just get married anywhere you felt like. You couldn’t get married outside or in a temporary structure. Peter and Carl were lamenting this in the pub one evening with Drew and Gary.
“Alright,” Drew said, sipping the head off his pint. “Friend of mine wanted to get married outside, right? So they got legally married a few days before at the registry office, and then they had a lovely ceremony with all their friends on the beach.”
“We could do that,” Carl said.
“We could,” Peter said. “And if we did that, we wouldn’t need an official person doing the ceremony, right?”
“I guess not.”
“So,” Peter said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Drew, will you do the ceremony for us please?”
Drew choked a little bit on his beer, and Carl laughed at him, and then when he said yes, he’d be honoured, Carl stood up and hugged him.
Peter then decided that the first time he said his vows he wanted it to be in front of everyone, so they decided to have the big outdoor wedding first and then go make it legal three days later. Carl didn’t care which way around they did it; he just knew he wanted to do it.
The wood belonged to Chrissy’s farmer neighbour, who was only too happy to rent it and the field nearby to them. Peter and Carl arrived on the Wednesday. They’d borrowed a camper van from a colleague of Peter’s and parked it at one side of the field.
“Well,” Carl said, once everything was set up. “Not the most salubrious of settings for a wedding night.”
Peter waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll still show you a good time.”
“Best offer I’ve had in a while.”
Peter laughed and came over for a kiss.
On Friday everyone arrived, in cars and vans, with tents and gazebos to put up. The tents were along the left, and they ranged from the tiny hiking tent that Gary had borrowed off a friend to the floral bell tent Lucie owned. The tree was towards the back, towards the right hand side, so in front of that they put all the other tents. They had a campfire pit, a tent filled with alcohol, including a beer keg, a tent filled with teacups, a million different types of tea and hot chocolate and coffee, and cupcakes, and the wedding cake, a tent with face painting items and temporary tattoos and finally the music tent. Carl was going to play a set; the others ran through a quick soundcheck with him on the morning of the wedding.
Lucie was in charge of decorating the tree, so Carl hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t seen Peter for the past hour or so; he was getting ready in their camper van, while Carl was in Lucie’s tent, being fussed over by her and their mother.
“You’re such a fucking hippy,” Lucie said when she decided he was ready. She leaned and kissed his cheek. “This is amazing.”
“It’s what we wanted,” Carl said, nodding. He was wearing a lilac shirt, open at the neck. His mum was in blue and Lucie was in indigo, her cowboy style shirt tucked into her jeans. He tugged them both in for a hug. “Thank you.”
Chrissy was close to tears. “Oh, it’s so lovely.” She squeezed him tight.
It was time. Lucie stepped outside, looking for where Peter was. She turned back, smiling. “I think we’re all ready.”
“Okay,” Carl said, and took a deep breath. He followed Lucie out.
Peter was in red. His sisters, orange and yellow respectively. They were standing all together looking like the same person cloned, all smiling at Carl like he was the sun. Everyone else was already seated under the tree, so it was just the six of them in the meadow.
“Alright sunshine?” Peter asked.
“Think so,” Carl said, and took his hand.
The music had started up - their song, obviously. They walked across together, hand in hand.
“You nervous?” Carl asked.
“Terrified,” Peter said quickly.
“Me too.”
“It’s daft, innit? It’s only us.”
But it wasn’t, everyone turned to look at them of course, and it felt so much more important. Carl’s dad was smiling from the front row, and even Peter’s parents were making the effort. Jackie was smiling, her face wobbling slightly, and Carl made sure to smile at her.
From the front, Drew, resplendent in a bottle green shirt, was holding open a file Peter had made with all the words in.
“Should’ve been a priest,” Peter muttered.
Together, they slowly made their way down the aisle. Carl could see so many important people, so many people who wanted to share the day with them. He was teary before they even reached the front.
“Welcome,” Drew said. “On this very special day.”
He was absolutely the right person for the job. Carl squeezed Peter’s fingers.
Halfway through their vows, it started to rain. Everyone stopped, looked upwards, heard the pitter patter of the rain on the leaves, and waited for the deluge. It didn’t come. The leaves were protecting them from the rain. Everyone rustled a bit, and Carl slipped his arm round Peter’s waist and nodded at Drew.
“As I was saying,” Drew said, grinning. “Peter, repeat after me…”
Afterwards, Carl lit a cigarette and passed it to Peter when he’d taken a drag. Peter was leaning against the tree, his head tipped backwards. Carl stepped up to him, kissed the underneath of his chin. The photographer - Katia - snapped a photo, and Carl already knew it would be his favourite photo of them all.
Pairing: Peter/Carl
Genre: Fluffy AU
Rating: E
In the woods was a clearing, and in the clearing there was one huge tree, an oak tree with a trunk more than ten feet around, a tree that had stood for centuries and would surely stand for centuries yet. One side of the tree had a huge bare branch, a branch that was dead and which never grew new leaves in the spring nor shed them in the autumn. It pointed its deadened shape to the sky, permanently wagging its finger at the sky which had broken it; legend had it that lightning had struck the tree one hot summer night. Carl’s mum swore she could remember the storm, she said it had happened when she was small, and that, what was more, it was the storm that had made her grandma psychic. Legend in Carl’s family was that Grandma Jones had been watching the storm from her back doorstep, with her hand on her hip. The lightning had hit her on the elbow, and had exited her body through the tips of her fingers. She was lucky to be alive, was lucky that the lightning had not entered her body some other way and travelled to her heart. After that, Chrissy insisted, Grandma Jones had been psychic, and she had especially always known when there was a storm coming. “She could smell it,” Chrissy said.
“Mmm, alright,” Carl said the first time she recounted the story to Peter. He took another biscuit from the tin and dipped it into his tea, waiting for a second too long and losing part of it to the depths of the mug.
Peter, though, was delighted, and he looked up at Chrissy enraptured from his place on the carpet. He’d insisted on sitting there. The small room had only three seats - a chair that was Chrissy’s and the tiny two seater sofa, which Carl was sharing with his sister. She’d offered to let Peter sit there, but Peter had made himself at home on the floor. Carl thought it was maybe partly because the cats liked to lie there and were currently falling all over him in their hurry to make him pay attention to just them and not the other one, but also partly because he was much too tall for the tiny sofa. Even Carl regularly felt much too tall for the tiny sofa.
Peter was a newcomer into their lives back then. Not so much of a newcomer into Carl’s - they’d been seeing each other on and off for around eight months, catching up with each other when they happened to be in the same place for a while. But Chrissy, who never usually asked about Carl’s boyfriends (what a word) seemed to have a soft spot for Peter and had insisted on meeting him. And so there they were, in the wilds of Wiltshire, for the weekend. Chrissy had made some of her usual unspecified stew - curried, this time, with chickpeas and tons of tomatoes - mopped up with some of her homemade bread. Carl was pretty sure Peter liked Chrissy as much as she seemed to like him.
Anyway, Peter remembered the tree when, three years later, they got engaged. It had happened a bit by accident. They were living together then, in Peter’s flat in Luton. He’d moved out of London; he’d been earning enough money to buy somewhere but wasn’t keen to stay in London - and could scarcely afford it anyway. Luton wasn’t much cheaper but it was a bit. The flat was above a hairdresser and a motorbike repair shop so it was pretty quiet and Carl had learnt to love it. He’d moved in a few months after Peter had, when he was sick of either not seeing Peter or travelling for over an hour every day to get to work. The truth was he could work anywhere, so he jacked in his job in Hackney and moved to Luton. He was temping there, mostly, somewhat supported by Peter’s earnings, and, with his encouragement, was also working on music properly, for the first time ever.
Carl had always written music, had always fucked about with a couple of battered guitars, but he had thought it was little more than a hobby, and certainly not something he thought he was good at. But Peter liked his songs, and he knew someone in a pub who held open mic nights, and Carl had played a few and then a few more and he loved it. He’d made friends with a couple of people - Jay, who played drums, Adam, who played bass, and Billy, who was a bit of a musical genius and who, when drunk after a few whiskies, talked a lot about the four of them putting together an EP that he would produce. Carl thought it was just chat, but then Billy had actually booked studio time one weekend for them.
It was nothing like Carl had imagined. There was so much sitting around. He and Adam played cards for money until Carl, fifty pounds down, jacked it in, throwing the cards down in defeat.
“Woohoo,” Adam said, counting out the notes and then folding them safely into his wallet. “Any time you fancy a repeat…”
“Not likely,” Carl said, and watched Billy do his thing on the mixing desk. It was fascinating, and boring, and tiring. He slept that night in the deepest sleep he’d had in months and then the next morning he woke up early, but still not earlier than Peter, who had taken to writing from 5am until 8, and then editing for the rest of the day. He was in the spare room in the flat, an unlit cigarette in his mouth and one behind his ear too. Carl leaned down and kissed the back of his neck.
“Be back later,” he said. “Maybe about 5?”
“Okay,” Peter said, twisting in his seat. “Have a good day.”
Carl saluted, and walked out, wallet and phone tucked in his pockets, whistling one of the songs they’d been working on. Jay was waiting outside in his car and they chatted as they went, talking about the previous day.
“We’ve got to have a name,” Jay said. “I supposed it could all just go under your name, though.”
“That doesn’t seem fair,” Carl said. He lit a cigarette and pressed the button for the window to go down. “You’re all on it too.”
Jay shrugged. “Not bothered, meself.”
Carl laughed. He felt light, happy with friends and with the work they were doing. In the studio, Billy had brought hot coffee and chocolate twists. The day passed quickly, Carl going last and spending several hours trying to get everything right, hunched over his guitar so that, when he finally stretched his body out, four hours had passed and he was hungry, tired, and had a raging thirst.
“There’s mixing to be done,” Billy said, winding a cable up. “But I can do that.”
“Thank you,” Carl said, and clapped his arm. “It’s been great.”
“Not over yet,” Billy said. “We need a name and a photo for the front cover.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Carl said. “I’ll think about one.”
“Curry?” Jay said. “There’s a really good place about four streets away.”
“Definitely,” Adam said.
“Count me in,” Billy said.
Carl checked his phone, but there wasn’t anything from Peter. He was probably still writing. He shot off a quick text anyway. “Yeah, alright.”
They packed up and turned off all the lights, leaving the studio space as quiet as they’d found it. The door locked on a deadbolt behind them. The street was quiet; the only sound was the busier road at the end.
And there was Peter, huddled in a doorway across the street. He beamed when he saw Carl, and Carl, touched, couldn’t help returning the gesture. He jogged over.
“Ello,” he said. “Wasn’t expecting you.”
Peter leaned down for a kiss. “I needed a walk, so I thought I’d come and surprise you. I’ve only been waiting about thirty minutes.”
Carl pulled a face. “I did say I didn’t know what time we’d finish.”
“It’s fine,” Peter said, and gestured towards his pocket, where his current Agatha Christie was jammed. He only read Agatha when he was editing his own novels. He said that in the usual run of things he couldn’t stand her, but when he was editing she was just the sort of mindless rubbish he needed. Carl didn’t pretend to understand. He couldn’t conceive writing a whole, entire novel. He’d read all of Peter’s, obviously, and he loved them, but he still didn’t entirely understand how they came about.
“We were going to go have curry,” Carl said, gesturing over his shoulder at the others.
“Room for a little one?”
“Should think so,” Carl said, and they went back over the street together. “Alright if Peter comes?”
“Course,” Jay said, and unlocked the car.
Squashed in, they drove the five minutes to the Golden Bengal. By the end Carl had a name for his band, but he decided he’d keep it to himself for a bit longer.
“We’ll get the bus,” Carl said at the end of the meal when Jay offered them a lift. He lived the other side of town. Billy was close enough by to walk, and Adam could cadge a lift. Carl hugged each of them, said thank you again, and then down the hill with Peter to a cold, lonely bus stop.
“You’ll be a famous rock star before you know it,” Peter said once they’d got on the bus and were sitting upstairs at the front.
“Unlikely,” Carl said, letting his hand make its way on to Peter’s thigh. “I’m a bit too old for that.”
“Nonsense. Jane McDonald was thirty five before she got famous, you know.”
“Who the fuck is Jane McDonald?” Carl asked and then, when he saw Peter open his mouth, said, “I wasn’t really asking!”
Peter laughed. He’d shaved the sides of his hair again. Maybe yesterday, maybe today. Carl hadn’t had too much of a good look at him last night as he’d been in bed when Carl had got in. Carl reached up and touched one side.
“Did I miss a bit?” Peter asked anxiously.
“No,” Carl said. “I just like it.”
“Thanks.” Peter paused. “Anyway, you get rock star famous and then you can marry me and keep me in the manner to which I’m accustomed.”
“I will if you want,” Carl said, yawning, not hearing the entirety of the words.
Peter hadn’t either, but then they realised it together and looked at each other with wide eyes.
“Yeah?” Peter said, his eyes darting over Carl’s face.
Carl laughed, then strangled it, then nodded. “We should.”
“Get married?”
“Get married,” Carl agreed, and put his hand in Peter’s.
“Very agreeable,” Peter said, and although he just squeezed Carl’s hand, the minute they stepped off the bus he stopped, cupped Carl’s face in his hands, and kissed him thoroughly.
A couple of days later Carl rang his mum to tell her, and Peter told his parents via email, and Carl messaged Lucie, and then they sent out a Facebook message to a bunch more important people.
“Now we can start planning it,” Peter said, beaming.
“What kind of wedding would you like?” Carl turned on the sofa, his knee nudging Peter’s thigh. “Big white wedding, top hat and tails?”
“Yeah, if you want.” Peter laughed. “Bridesmaids in technicolour?”
“I quite like the idea of a rainbow of important people. In different coloured shirts or dresses?”
“Yeah, that’s a nice idea.” Peter tapped his lip with his finger. “You know what I’d love?”
“Mmm?”
“To get married at your Mum’s. Under the tree.”
Carl thought about it. “Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice.”
In the event, it turned out you weren’t allowed to just get married anywhere you felt like. You couldn’t get married outside or in a temporary structure. Peter and Carl were lamenting this in the pub one evening with Drew and Gary.
“Alright,” Drew said, sipping the head off his pint. “Friend of mine wanted to get married outside, right? So they got legally married a few days before at the registry office, and then they had a lovely ceremony with all their friends on the beach.”
“We could do that,” Carl said.
“We could,” Peter said. “And if we did that, we wouldn’t need an official person doing the ceremony, right?”
“I guess not.”
“So,” Peter said, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Drew, will you do the ceremony for us please?”
Drew choked a little bit on his beer, and Carl laughed at him, and then when he said yes, he’d be honoured, Carl stood up and hugged him.
Peter then decided that the first time he said his vows he wanted it to be in front of everyone, so they decided to have the big outdoor wedding first and then go make it legal three days later. Carl didn’t care which way around they did it; he just knew he wanted to do it.
The wood belonged to Chrissy’s farmer neighbour, who was only too happy to rent it and the field nearby to them. Peter and Carl arrived on the Wednesday. They’d borrowed a camper van from a colleague of Peter’s and parked it at one side of the field.
“Well,” Carl said, once everything was set up. “Not the most salubrious of settings for a wedding night.”
Peter waggled his eyebrows. “I’ll still show you a good time.”
“Best offer I’ve had in a while.”
Peter laughed and came over for a kiss.
On Friday everyone arrived, in cars and vans, with tents and gazebos to put up. The tents were along the left, and they ranged from the tiny hiking tent that Gary had borrowed off a friend to the floral bell tent Lucie owned. The tree was towards the back, towards the right hand side, so in front of that they put all the other tents. They had a campfire pit, a tent filled with alcohol, including a beer keg, a tent filled with teacups, a million different types of tea and hot chocolate and coffee, and cupcakes, and the wedding cake, a tent with face painting items and temporary tattoos and finally the music tent. Carl was going to play a set; the others ran through a quick soundcheck with him on the morning of the wedding.
Lucie was in charge of decorating the tree, so Carl hadn’t seen it. He hadn’t seen Peter for the past hour or so; he was getting ready in their camper van, while Carl was in Lucie’s tent, being fussed over by her and their mother.
“You’re such a fucking hippy,” Lucie said when she decided he was ready. She leaned and kissed his cheek. “This is amazing.”
“It’s what we wanted,” Carl said, nodding. He was wearing a lilac shirt, open at the neck. His mum was in blue and Lucie was in indigo, her cowboy style shirt tucked into her jeans. He tugged them both in for a hug. “Thank you.”
Chrissy was close to tears. “Oh, it’s so lovely.” She squeezed him tight.
It was time. Lucie stepped outside, looking for where Peter was. She turned back, smiling. “I think we’re all ready.”
“Okay,” Carl said, and took a deep breath. He followed Lucie out.
Peter was in red. His sisters, orange and yellow respectively. They were standing all together looking like the same person cloned, all smiling at Carl like he was the sun. Everyone else was already seated under the tree, so it was just the six of them in the meadow.
“Alright sunshine?” Peter asked.
“Think so,” Carl said, and took his hand.
The music had started up - their song, obviously. They walked across together, hand in hand.
“You nervous?” Carl asked.
“Terrified,” Peter said quickly.
“Me too.”
“It’s daft, innit? It’s only us.”
But it wasn’t, everyone turned to look at them of course, and it felt so much more important. Carl’s dad was smiling from the front row, and even Peter’s parents were making the effort. Jackie was smiling, her face wobbling slightly, and Carl made sure to smile at her.
From the front, Drew, resplendent in a bottle green shirt, was holding open a file Peter had made with all the words in.
“Should’ve been a priest,” Peter muttered.
Together, they slowly made their way down the aisle. Carl could see so many important people, so many people who wanted to share the day with them. He was teary before they even reached the front.
“Welcome,” Drew said. “On this very special day.”
He was absolutely the right person for the job. Carl squeezed Peter’s fingers.
Halfway through their vows, it started to rain. Everyone stopped, looked upwards, heard the pitter patter of the rain on the leaves, and waited for the deluge. It didn’t come. The leaves were protecting them from the rain. Everyone rustled a bit, and Carl slipped his arm round Peter’s waist and nodded at Drew.
“As I was saying,” Drew said, grinning. “Peter, repeat after me…”
Afterwards, Carl lit a cigarette and passed it to Peter when he’d taken a drag. Peter was leaning against the tree, his head tipped backwards. Carl stepped up to him, kissed the underneath of his chin. The photographer - Katia - snapped a photo, and Carl already knew it would be his favourite photo of them all.