Picture Perfect

Laughing and tucking the escaping strands of bright blonde hair behind his ears, a tall man spun in on his rented shoes and smiled happily at the sky. He was about to start spinning again when he felt a pair of warm arms wrap around his waist. Looking down, his blue eyes focused on the black clad limbs and then spotted the rings on the hand there. Turning around in the grasp, he let another laugh escape his lips and kissed the other man’s forehead.
“Happiest day of my life wouldn’t begin to cover this,” exclaimed the blonde in his faintly Irish accent. That accent contrasted so much with the thick accent of the other man, not that either of the two much cared how their voices sounded.
Nodding enthusiastically, the shorter man spoke for the first time, curly hair swishing around his ears as his head moved up and down vigorously. “I was right!” He just grinned, not going on to explain as he stepped back from the taller man, taking his hand and fiddling with his fingers.
Giving him a mildly curious look, blonde hair falling in front of his eyes as his head tilted a good forty-five degrees to the left, his blue eyes focused on the laughing face of his companion. “About whaaaat?” He didn’t really need to talk, he could have just watched that face for hours. Stopping time and staring forever, would definitely be something he’d be glad to do. Nothing, in his eyes, was more perfect, and as sappy as that sounded, it was entirely true.
Though by his speech and conversational skills, four years old was all that anyone ever thought he was. Always thought of him as a child. Everyone but the man of his dreams.
“You are better than a turkey sandwich, Roro!”
Alright, so it went for the both of them, not just one.
They were just coming from their wedding. A beautiful wedding it was, too. Both of them in lovely (though rented) tuxedos that fit them perfectly and accentuated ever single one of their good features, making them look perfect together. The blonde’s long hair done up nicer than just a ponytail and he’d cut his boyfriend/fiancé/husband’s hair. There had been flowers everywhere. Dublin hadn’t seen such a nice wedding in at least….
Okay, so now their egos were just getting up and running away with all of their thoughts. But, it was indeed an occasion to remember for both of them and all of the guests, and would definitely be remembered for the rest of their lives. Better than the day that the two of them met at their job, and went out for lunch (turkey sandwiches, what a surprise). Better than the day their team leader found a way for them to make it back to the present day from England in the seventeenth century.  Definitely better than the day the two of them fell out of a window as they were attempting to get out of someplace, (the blonde broke their fall, and they ended up with a few minor bruises and a broken rib each) even if they had fun bandaging each other up afterwards.
“Roro?” The blonde man blinked in response to the nickname, tilting his head and looking down. Disorientation was scrawled on his face as he had been lost in the abyss of his thoughts when he was dragged out of it.
“Can we go in, now?”
Blinking in confusion, he looked at the door behind him and laughed. “Wow. I’m out of it right now.”
Taking his new husband’s hand, he led him into the hall. The beautifully painted hall down the street from the church where they’d recently been married. From the church, into the hall, and then into a room full of people there for the wedding reception.
Everyone they’d ever known was there. Everyone but their families, but neither much cared about that. All they cared about, was that after all they’d had to deal with in a foreign time and country, after all the pestering, threats, and annoyance at the hands of their boss, after all the near death encounters from their job, they were finally together. Finally, they didn’t have to sneak out to see each other, or steal hand holds and kisses at work or after.
They could finally be happy. Finally be together. Nothing could ever stop that, now. Nothing ever could have. Neither of them had dated anyone else, or wanted to. Neither of them had ever felt anything but love for the other. Everything was always the picture of perfection, and everything always would be…

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Errol shot up in his bed, falling off and wincing as his backside hit the wooden floor and his head hit the side of his bed, giving a worried look to the smaller bed across his room. Sighing he swiped his hand over his eyes and gave a startled look to the wetness on it. Again he’d had a nightmare and again he’d cried, only this time it wasn’t about Max, it was about Gareth.
Pushing himself up to his feet, he wandered aimlessly, and ended up in his kitchen, staring around it through tear flooded eyes and matted, uncombed or cut, blonde hair. “It was so perfect….” he muttered to himself. “Everything about it. Him, me, the wedding. The ring was even the same. Everything was so perfect-” a brokenhearted sob, “-and I can’t have it.”
He had to cover his mouth with a hand to make sure that the poor child in the other room wouldn’t be woken by his sobs. So pitiful that he couldn’t even have a nightmare without sobbing like a child younger than his adopted one, anymore.
“I’m done. I’m totally, completely done with this. Bloody hell, I want a beer.”
Slamming the door behind him, he headed off to his bar for a drink. Drink away the problems, just like in the old days. Just like when the accent from olden day London still lingered in his voice. Like when he didn’t have a penny to his name, and he just stumbled in and found the nearest cutie that would buy him a meal and some drinks. Just like when he wasn’t the city whore, when he was just getting by as best he could.
Now, he just wanted to get so drunk he couldn’t figure out which of his accents he was speaking in anymore, and so that he couldn’t remember which of his two boyfriends he was betraying by leaving with some idiot.

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Nearly sprawling across the floor with the force of his jump, Gareth struggled to keep himself on his bed. If he fell off, he’d wake Mami for sure, and then there would be hell to pay. When he said hell to pay, he meant that by the time she was done yelling, he’d wish he’d died and gone to hell because it would be better than being with her.
Pushing his hair out of his face with his good hand, he averted his gaze from the other, refusing to see the lump where his ring was, under the glove. Leather didn’t cover a diamond that well, and the metal of the ring was rough, being made in the seventeenth century and all.
He didn’t want to do this anymore. He didn’t want to remember how it was, or imagine how it could be. That nightmare of perfection was just the tip of the iceberg, he was sure. Nothing would get those images out of his head, no matter how hard he tried. He’d wanted everything to turn out so perfectly, and then it had all gotten screwed up in just a matter of moments. Nothing was going to fix that in his mind.
Well. Almost nothing.
He reached out to grab a bottle off the table beside him, and popped the top off. Dumping almost half of the little white pills into his mouth, and swallowing, he smiled contentedly and lay back down again, waiting for them to kick in. Now, he could forget those images. Forget his hand- or lack thereof. Forget the pain of seeing his one true love with another man. Forget the memory of learning that the same “one true love” was a promiscuous slut. Forget everything. Everything would be gone in the colors and the blur.