by K. L. Noone
“How do you know what beer tastes like?” said Reggie, a father.
“We’re gonna go be ushers now—”
“—see you in there!”
“Oh gods,” Kris said, and actually put a hand on Reggie’s arm, under sunshine. James’s fiancée Stephanie, who’d been taking on the role of photographer at the moment, tactfully left them alone.
“It’ll be okay,” Reggie said. “I’ll hit him for you if someone needs to. But they said he’s feeling guilty. And he’s here alone.”
“Why did I even ask him to—”
“Hey,” Reggie said, taking both his hands, squeezing, holding on: the kind of closeness they’d once had on a stage, in a shared single bed in rundown motels, in a van on tour. “Let’s go get you married.”
They went.
The ceremony itself was small—both Kris and Justin had wanted that—and informal. Lots of family and friends—he spotted a cluster of Justin’s punk-kid music-journalist friends, who waved, plus Willie Randolph, serenely chatting with Justin’s mother and Bren Alvarez; he saw Justin’s family, and Reggie’s wife and the horde of children, and the tatterdemalion cacophonous finery that was a cluster of rock and roll history all dressed up, not too many but the ones who’d known him well, or who knew and loved rock critic and music fan Justin Moore.
Justin’s aunts had arrived exactly on time, stepping casually through the air in swirls of slender smoke and brimstone. Kris had expected maybe the three he’d met, who were indeed all present; Aunt Mara, who seemed to be the ringleader, winked at him, standing in the front. She was wearing jeans and a Starrlight T-shirt; some of the other aunts had put on everything from evening gowns to nearly transparent diaphanous dresses and bare feet.
More of them had come than anyone expected. A small infinite host of fiery magical demons stood at the back, and filled in the space, and glowed: radiance come to settle in a vineyard and watch one of their own get married.
And then it was time. Simple, and easy, and just right.
Kris and Reggie came in together. Charles, who it’d turned out was technically ordained via some undisclosed ancient history, beamed with pride at being up there with them.
Kris, looking out at guests, saw his father: small and grey-haired and red-faced and uncomfortably stuffed into a too-small suit, perched awkwardly alone on a chair. But he’d come, and he was looking around with curiosity, and he felt Kris looking and their eyes met, briefly.
Justin’s littlest sibling and only sister danced down the aisle sprinkling rose petals, and hopped into a chair beside her mother, with extra excited bounces. Isabella had been looking forward to that moment for months, Justin had said.
Justin’s friend Anna came in, wearing something floaty and red that Kris couldn’t’ve described a heartbeat later, because Justin also came in, with his father, and that sight was all that mattered in the world.
Justin was wearing a suit for now—they both were, matching, dark blue that went with the deep luxurious reds—and had painted fingernails to match, and had let his hair stand up in exuberant leaping flames and curls and pirouettes, utterly and fearlessly himself, here in eyeliner and with sparkling eyes, and oh Kris loved him.
The love, carried on empathic wings, drifted outward. Filled everyone up and made them sigh.
Charles said a few words. Kris, holding Justin’s hands in his, didn’t hear them.
Reggie cleared his throat. Held out rings.
Kris took one. Rich gold, under sunshine, in Midwinter air. Mostly plain, not too fussy, but with that design along the center. Flames, and stars, etched in tiny running leaping joy.
He said, softly, “I love you, Justin. I love waking up with you, and making coffee for you, and being here with you. You make me want to write all the songs. Every love song, every day—they’re all for you. And they always will be. I can’t promise you I’ll always remember to do the laundry and I’m not great at cooking, but I’ll always hold your hands when you want me to and I’ll buy you every book you want, and you can help me write lyrics and also sing on any Kris Starr track, any time. I’m here and I’ll always keep trying to make you smile, maybe with all the pizza in New York City—”
Everyone, especially everyone who knew about Justin’s pizza-devouring capacity, laughed.
“—and I love you,” Kris finished, and his ring was on Justin’s finger and Justin’s eyes were shining with delight.
“Kris.” Justin squeezed his hands, looked at the ring, looked up. Grinned, teeth ever so slightly more pointed. “You once looked at me and saw who I was—what I was—and the first question you asked me wasn’t whether you should be scared or what I might do to you. You asked me whether I was okay, and how you could help, and you worried about me teleporting too far. Because you saw me, not the horns or the deception. And if I hadn’t already been in love with you—which I was, obviously—I was then. All over again. For the person you are.”
Kris tried very hard not to cry. Wasn’t sure he succeeded.
“I love the person you are,” Justin said. “And I’m here for you, too. When you need someone to tell you how amazing you are, or to write new lyrics with, or to make breakfast for both of us in self-defense—or whenever you just want me, I’ll be there. At your side. Loving you. I promise, Kris. I love you.”
This time Kris really was crying, and discovered the matching golden weight on his own hand through a haze of incandescent happiness.
“Sounds perfect to me,” Charles said. “So…now I get the privilege of announcing you as…well, husband and husband! Congratulations, you’re married. Now kiss!”
Justin laughed, which meant Kris was laughing too, and then Justin’s hands were on his face and drawing him close, and Justin was kissing him, overjoyed and firm and elated, under a Midwinter sky.
And the cheers rang the horizon like a bell.
* * * *
The party went until nearly dawn. Dancing happened. Musicians picked up guitars and instruments appeared. Mountains of food—British classic, Filipino desserts, New York pizza—disappeared. Jam sessions that’d go down in legend—Kris Starr, Bren Alvarez, Reggie Rocket, Dan Ashley of Mirage, Adam Johnson—ebbed and flowed.
Justin temporarily ran off to change, with help from Anna and James. He came back into the open candlelit barn space looking otherworldly: in white, in a dress that sparkled and shimmered and had a high-low hemline, showing off long legs and lace-up boots; the dress had a corset, and it was sewn with tiny gemstones in flares of blue and ruby and purple and opal amid all the white, and his tattoo twinkled in stars along his collarbone, exposed.
A few gasps landed. So did quite a lot of applause.
Kris ran over and flung arms around his demon, and swooped Justin into an extravagant dip and kiss, just because it all felt so right. So right, buoyed by love.
They danced together, holding onto each other. They handfed each other cake, chocolate mocha and carrot-pineapple and strawberry-cream.
The night swirled and spun, vertiginous as a dream, a fantasy, a shooting star.
Kris’s father slipped away early, but Reggie drifted over and said, casually, “He’s staying in town, he told me. For a day or two. He only had one glass of wine, too.”
Kris nodded, and Justin squeezed his hand, and he thought about the future, and repairs, and moments not without old scars but with new promise, stretching, healing, shaking loose.
He danced with Justin’s stepmother, and the twins, and little Belle. He danced with Reggie, who laughed and twirled him around and then handed him a guitar.
They swung into “Home.” Of course they did; he’d written it for Justin.
Later, in dreamy drowsy firelight, Kris took Justin’s hand and raised eyebrows. Justin nodded, and one hand flicked fire into the air: a demon-portal, a flare of teleporting light.
They stepped through without fanfare—Reggie noticed and waved—and let the party carry on, riotous and wondrous and woven in song.
“So,”
Justin said, standing in their hotel room, wearing a wedding dress, all sparkles and happiness, “you like it?”
“Love it. Love you. Got you something.”
“So did I.” Justin dove for a bag, in a flurry of silk and lace and rustling layers. “Um…it’s a work in progress. It doesn’t even have a title yet. But I wanted you to see it first.”
Kris set down his own box. Took the package. Opened it. Stared.
“It’s not finished,” Justin apologized, mostly and visibly out of nerves. “Or not completely. The first draft is. But not any editing. So if you think I shouldn’t keep going with it…I could not, if you’d rather…”
“It’s a romance.” He touched Justin’s manuscript, neatly typed. Lifted it. Felt it in his hands. “You wrote a novel. About a demon. In love with a rock star. Autobiography?”
“Fiction,” Justin said. “Jewel isn’t me, not exactly. And Crispin isn’t exactly you. But…yes. I thought…I am a good writer, and I love it, and I wanted to tell the world…everything. About me, or a sort of fictionalized version of me. And how much I love you, and how you and your music helped when I felt so different, and how I feel when I look at you…of course it’s a romance. Jewel and Crispin get their happy ending. Willie’s read the first chapter and she says it’s publishable, but no one’s read the whole thing yet. Except now you can. Because, well, it’s for you. My love story.”
“Your love story.” Kris set the manuscript down. “And you’re mine. I love it. And I’ll write you a soundtrack after I read it. Though—did you finish the ending?”
“I thought so,” Justin said. “Why?”
“Because…I got you something, too. Well, two things.” He held out the first one. Justin made excited high-pitched noises at the first sight of the cover—of course those music-industry expert eyes knew exactly how rare this signed memoir was—and then kissed him. Soundly.
“Thank you. I mean…wow. Thank you.”
“Thought you’d like it. And…one more thing.” He took a deep breath. “So we’re married.”
“Um,” Justin said, “yes? You were there?” The stars over his collarbone winked, amused. Right there because Justin had put them there. Because Justin loved him, them, that much.
The hotel room, messy in suitcases and coffee-mugs and stray jewelry, held its breath. Waiting. Kris’s bag had known what it carried.
“So. You know you like…being mine. Belonging. Being able to feel it. And I know we’re not, ah, as kinky as Willie and Charles—”
“I hope this is going someplace, because that’s not an image I want right this second—”
“Just open it.”
Justin did. Then literally put a hand over his mouth.
The coil of leather could be a bracelet, or a necklace, depending on the fastening and the style. It could wrap around Justin’s wrist in deep sensual black, or around his throat, a collar.
“Oh gods,” Justin said. And lifted it out. “Oh gods yes, Kris, yes—”
“It’s meant to be subtle,” Kris said, probably pointlessly because Justin could tell as much. “But…something you can wear. And feel. Whenever you want, not even all the time, but…when you want it. I thought you’d like black. You do like black.”
“I do.” Justin, having recovered somewhat, grinned at him. “Put it on me.”
“Now?”
“Definitely now. This. Me. In this dress.” Those spiced-cider eyes got more hot and smoky. “In that bed.”
Kris’s brain took that image and forgot how to think about anything else. Possibly for all time.
“Please,” Justin added, sweetly but with a hint of impishness. “Take care of me, Kris.”
“Yes,” Kris said, an echo because all the blood in his body had headed to a very specific place. “Yes. Love you.”
“Love you.” Justin stood very still in front of him; Kris took black leather in both hands, which shook very slightly.
He fastened it. Not too tight, but tight enough: a symbol, that collar, the line of black encircling Justin’s throat, above that wedding dress confection in white.
“Yours,” Justin said. “The way I want to be. Belonging, with you.”
“Mine,” Kris whispered back. “And I’m yours, Justin, you know I am.”
“Always,” Justin said. “Now take me to bed. It is our wedding night, you know.”
“Brat,” Kris told him, “I love you,” and tossed him down into bed, in heaps of white silk and lace. Justin’s legs parted willingly; he also had on silky pale blue panties, and Kris laughed and teased him through them, until Justin was moaning and his cock was hot and dripping and slick even through the silk; Kris tugged off the panties and shoved down his own suit and kicked shoes and socks out of the way, laughing, watching Justin laugh.
They came together, moved together, fit together: in a wedding-night bed, Justin’s hair painting the room in rich flame-hued color, Justin’s dress crushed willingly and breathlessly around and between them. Kris pressed fingers over the collar, looped one into it—caught the gleam of his wedding ring in dark decadent inviting gold—and breathed, “Mine, and I love you, love,” and knew that Justin felt it: every giddy rainbow iridescence of emotion.
He slid into Justin like that, and his demon moaned his name, opening and clenching and taking him in; Kris took him hard, claiming, the way Justin wanted, and Justin came with Kris’s cock buried deep inside him, shuddering and gasping.
Kris found that spot again. Pounded into him. Made him feel it all again, made him come again, thanks to those not-human gifts; Justin’s cock jerked and spilled more fluid between them, freely, and the dress brushed Kris’s legs and hips and stomach, and Kris’s finger remained hooked through that collar. Justin cried out, “Kris—!” and tightened against him a third time, weakly, all horns and claws and ecstasy, and Kris groaned and thrust and came in a deep rushing tide that felt like pure white-hot light, flooding out of him, pouring into Justin, holding them together.
Eventually Justin blinked at him and managed, sounding dazed, “I think you win at wedding presents…”
“No,” Kris said, “you do, I’ve got you,” and kissed him, contentment drifting through the room like sticky lace and bows. “Hey, Justin.”
“Hmm? Are we doing that again?”
“Yes. Give me a minute. Justin…you’re my husband.”
“Oh wow,” Justin said, lifting his head up from pillows. His hair danced in tired spirals. “I am. You are. I’m your husband. You’re my husband. We did that. Wow.”
“We did,” Kris said, “you and me,” and kissed him.
* * * *
In the morning he woke before Justin, as usual, both of them splendidly naked, also as usual. The wedding dress lay in a very satisfied crumpled heap beside the bed, keeping a flung pillow company. Justin’s nail polish was a lost cause, and Kris’s body thrummed with pleasant worn-out euphoria, and some seasonal Midwinter coffee was waiting over by the machine, and this was their life: the rest of their lives, woven in music and bliss and fantastic sex and love.
A love story, he thought, catching sight of Justin’s manuscript. Justin had written it. An act of courage: being himself, telling his story. Their story. Sharing it all with the world: all of his loves.
The book smiled back at him, waiting. There for Kris to pick it up, and read.
He couldn’t wait to get started. He wondered whether Justin had a soundtrack in mind, a playlist, songs mentioned in the narrative. He thought that maybe Kris Starr could write some good ones. For a romance.
Justin yawned, stirred, rolled over, and blinked at him. “Good morning.”
“Good morning to you.” Kris bent to kiss him. “Love. Husband. My demon.”
“My rock star,” Justin said. “My Kris. My husband. Maybe that’s the title.”
“My husband?”
“The Demon and the Rock Star,” Justin said. “Or something like that. A Demon’s Love Song. I’m not awake enough for titles. Kiss me more.”
“I can do that,” Kris agreed, “forever.”
THE END
Author’s Note
I’d initially planned to end Kris and Justin’s story with the proposal in Sunlight and Gold, but this Love Wins theme was so perfect that I couldn’t resist jumping into the story of their wedding! They’ll have a life filled with music, love, laughter, and a lot of pizza; they’ll negotiate being symbols of human-demon relations and being celebrities and being themselves. Justin occasionally wears skirts and dresses more often; he likes the way he looks and feels, and so does Kris, quite a lot. And Justin’s novel—like Kris’s next hit single—is wildly successful and phenomenally popular, by turns funny and heart-wrenching and romantic, thinly veiled autobiography that holds up a happy ending like a banner: it’s possible, and love does win.
Like all my stories—and especially this series!—this one has a playlist. Here’re some of the songs, this time around:
Def Leppard, “Animal”
Pansy Division, “Fem in a Black Leather Jacket”
The Struts, “Body Talks”
The Pretenders, “I’ll Stand By You”
The Dixie Cups, “Chapel of Love”
ABOUT K.L. NOONE
K.L. Noone employs her academic research for writing romance, most often LGBTQ, frequently paranormal or historical. Her two full-length romance novels include A Demon for Midwinter, available from JMS Books, and A Prophecy for Two, available from Inkshares, and she’s also the author of multiple romance short stories with JMS Books, and previously with Less Than Three Press, Circlet Press, and Ellora's Cave.
Her non-romance fantasy fiction has appeared in Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress and the magazine Aoife's Kiss. With the Professor Hat on, she’s published scholarly work on romance, fantasy, and folklore, including a book on Welsh mythology in popular culture and an upcoming book on Terry Pratchett. She is happily bisexual, happily married, and happy about happy endings.
