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Chapter 29: The Wedding Fight
Fecha de publicación:
2026-10-10 12:17:04Milo wanted blue shirt wedding.
Eleanor wanted big white wedding with 200 people and cake that was taller than Milo and flowers that cost more than Milo's old apartment rent for a year. They fought. Not mean fight like Milo and Lucien fight about Tokyo call, but wedding fight, which is different because it has love inside fight and cake tasting inside fight. It started on Monday after Provence, when Eleanor came to penthouse with wedding planner who had tablet and cold smile and said "Beaumont weddings are 200 people minimum, in cathedral, with white suit." Milo, in blue good luck shirt, black nails, ring shining, said "I want blue shirt wedding in lavender field with 20 people and pancakes." Wedding planner looked at Milo like he was stain on white tablecloth. Lucien sat between them on couch, holding Milo's ring hand, trying to be diplomat CEO, but failing because he loved both. "Mother," Lucien said to Eleanor. "Milo wants small." "Milo wants small because he thinks he doesn't deserve big," Eleanor said, French accent sharp, but eyes soft on Milo. "But he deserves big. He deserves cake taller than him." Milo picked at black nails. "I don't want cake taller than me, I will be scared cake will fall on me. I want pancakes, like you make, Eleanor, with blueberries that look like my freckles." Eleanor's heart broke a little, because pancakes with blueberry freckles. Wedding planner tapped tablet. "We need to decide venue. Provence house can hold 200 if we put tent." "I don't want tent, I want lavender that is not purple but we say purple," Milo whispered, but planner didn't hear because she was talking numbers. Lucien squeezed Milo's hand. "We want Provence, small, with lavender, with pancakes, with blue shirt, not white suit." Planner said "Blue shirt wedding is not Beaumont tradition." Milo stood up then, small, in blue shirt, ring shining, freckles bright, and for first time, he used his gallery voice, his photographer voice that he learned when he told cute boy "he is not single, he is very taken." "Beaumont tradition was cold fridge and no photos on walls and no mold on suit," Milo said, voice shaking but loud. "And Lucien changed tradition. He has photos on walls now. He has mold on suit and leaves on suit and baby drool on ring. And he likes it. So wedding tradition can change too. I want blue shirt, not white suit. I want 20 people, not 200. I want pancakes, not tall cake. I want my family — Mrs. A and Sarah baby and Lena and you and Henri and Lucien — not 200 CEOs who talk Tokyo. I want my wedding." Room went quiet. Eleanor stared at Milo, then at Lucien, then at wedding planner. Then Eleanor said "Okay. Blue shirt wedding. 20 people. Pancakes." Planner gasped. "But Mrs. Beaumont, 200 people—" "20 people," Eleanor repeated, taking Milo's tiny black-nailed hands. "My son wants blue shirt wedding with pancakes and freckle blueberries. So we have blue shirt wedding with pancakes. Beaumont tradition can change. My tradition is now pancakes." Lucien exhaled, CEO diplomat failed but boyfriend won. Milo hugged Eleanor, crying into her lavender perfume. "Thank you," he whispered. "I was scared you would hate blue shirt." "I love blue shirt," Eleanor said, hugging him back. "Blue shirt is why my son smiles like idiot. I love blue shirt more than white suit." Wedding planner left, tablet cold, no 200 people, no tall cake, no cathedral, just blue shirt wedding in Provence with 20 people. After she left, Milo sat on floor, ring hand on chest, breathing fast. "I fought wedding planner," he whispered to Lucien. "I fought rich lady with tablet and I won." "You fought for our wedding," Lucien said, sitting on floor with him, in suit that now had floor dust. "You said 'my wedding' and 'my family' and you included Mrs. A and Sarah baby and you said our fridge has photos. You fought like you own our wedding, because you do." Milo nodded, still shaking. "I want blue shirt and pancakes and 20 people and you in white shirt with no tie, not suit, and I want to take photos of our wedding myself, with tripod, because I want to remember how I saw it." "You can take photos of our own wedding," Lucien said. "You can wear blue shirt and take photos and I will wear white shirt and get lavender dirt on it again, like barn." They planned wedding on floor, with no planner, just them and Eleanor and Henri on video call from Paris, who said "blue shirt wedding is good, white suit is boring, I wore white suit in 1980 and I was asshole, blue shirt better." Guest list: Lena and girlfriend, Mrs. Alvarez and grandson, Sarah and baby with mismatched socks, Eleanor and Henri, Milo's mom from Ukari who Milo hadn't seen in 3 years but called crying when she heard ring with freckles, and 5 friends from photo class, and Lucien's best friend from college who once said "Lucien never smiles" but now saw photos on walls. 20 people. Exactly 20. Milo counted on fingers with black nails and ring shining. Food: pancakes with blueberry freckles, rice and beans from Mrs. A, expensive cheese bought with baby money, salty soup that Lucien finally learned to make not salty, and small cake, not taller than Milo, small cake with blue frosting like Milo's shirt and tiny silver freckles on frosting. Venue: Provence stone house, lavender field that would be purple in June, because wedding in June, when lavender really purple, not November grey-green. Music: Milo's homeless playlist, but happy now, and one French song Henri and Eleanor danced to in 1980. Photos: Milo with tripod, camera that started everything, taking photos of his own wedding, because he wanted to see wedding how he sees love. Lucien listened to all and said "yes, yes, yes, like bench yes, yes to all." Eleanor cried again and said "I will make pancakes with freckle blueberries, 100 pancakes, for 20 people, 5 pancakes each, with extra for Milo who eats 10." Henri on video call said "I will bring old brass key again, to give to Milo again, because family key needs to be given at wedding again." Milo wrote guest list on fridge, with black marker, messy handwriting, ring hand shaking with excitement, not fear. He wrote: OUR WEDDING: 20 PEOPLE, BLUE SHIRT, PANCAKES WITH FRECKLE BLUEBERRIES, LAVENDER THAT WILL BE REAL PURPLE IN JUNE, SMALL CAKE NOT TALLER THAN ME, PHOTOS BY ME, RICE AND BEANS BY MRS. A, BABY WITH MISMATCHED SOCKS WILL BE FLOWER BABY. - M Lucien added: He fought wedding planner with tablet and won. He said 'my family' and included Mrs. A and Sarah baby. That is my family now too. Blue shirt wedding in Provence, June, 20 people, pancakes. Perfect. - L That night, Milo couldn't sleep, counting guest list again and again, 20 people, 20 people who loved him, who thought he was warm now. He woke Lucien at 3 AM. "Lucien," he whispered, ring shining in dark. "What, my love? You want salty soup?" Lucien mumbled, half asleep, messy hair. "I want to marry you in blue shirt," Milo whispered. "I want to marry you and own you forever, like bench." Lucien woke up fully, kissed his freckles in dark, 47 on nose, counting in dark by memory. "You will marry me in blue shirt," Lucien whispered. "In June, in lavender that will be real purple, with pancakes, with 20 people, with baby drool on your ring again, with your camera on tripod taking photos of our own wedding." Milo fell asleep with ring hand on Lucien's chest, counting 20 people in dream, blue shirt wedding, pancakes, lavender real purple, small cake not taller than him, and Lucien in white shirt with no tie, getting lavender dirt on purpose. And Lucien stayed awake a little longer, looking at Milo's ring hand, at freckles in dark, at fridge that had wedding guest list now, and thought "my wedding will be blue shirt and pancakes, not white suit and cathedral, and that is perfect, because my love wears blue shirt and loves pancakes with freckle blueberries." Outside, November rain, but Milo dreamed June lavender real purple, and that was enough to be warm.
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