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Jane frowned, shifting a bit in the tuxedo jacket he wore, still not quite convinced of its fit in spite of the tailor's assurances that it was perfect. The small, upscale store was empty save for the proprietor, the soldier, and the demoman beside him. Tavish checked the fit of his kilt, a matching tartan sash thrown over one shoulder. The American's eyes followed the plaid lines of the heavy wool, tracing them down to the hem of the garment, and the Scotsman's exposed legs.
“I am not wearing a dress.”
“It's not a dress, for the thousandth bloody time! It's a kilt!”
“It's a skirt, and skirts are for women. I am not some kind of blushing bride wrapped in veils and flowers, Tav. I am not wearing a dress.”
Tavish shook his head, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Look, Janey, it's the formal dress o' me father's father's father, me ancestral garb.”
“Formal dress. I'll wear a formal suit, thank you.”
“That's not what I meant and ye ken it, ye daft—” clenching his fists and taking in a deep breath, Tavish tried to calm his rising temper. This wasn't the first time kilts, and his insistence on wearing them for formal occasions, had come up. He'd tried so many times to convince Jane to wear one. He'd played to his vanity, complimenting his legs and wishing they'd go on display. He'd asked it as a favor because of its emotional significance. He'd even tried wrestling him into one. Thus far, he had yet to succeed.
Tavish's eye slid along the lines accentuated by Jane's tuxedo jacket, admiring the way it perfectly hugged the masculine shapes of the broad man's muscular body. A smile slid across his lips, teeth peeking through as they parted slowly. “I just dunnae ken why ye refuse tae be as manly as possible while yer all pretty in yer fine silk shirt and yer lovely tailored jacket with a flower in yer lapel.”
“Are you trying to suggest something, Tav?”
“Nothin'. Nothin' at all. But when I'm standin' in a room full o' friends and family, I'll be the most cocksure man in the room; feelin' the cool breeze against his bits, swingin' free without a care tae be given. Only thing between me and everyone seeing me tackle being a hangin' length o' wool. That level o' confidence, lack o' concern, there's nothin' more the man than a bloke who does what he wants without a care.”
Jane chewed over the notion, his eyes turning back to the full-length mirror beside him, and looking himself over. He pictured it, the pleats draping at his knees, sash over his shoulder, and the freedom of anatomy such garb allowed. He looked back to Tavish, smiling because he knew the demoman was enjoying that exact sensation at that very moment. He bit at his lip, resisting the urge to take a peek in the store. Turning back to the mirror, he frowned. “But your plaid is important, isn't it? It's your family's design.”
“Aye, each clan has a tartan, though they used to be based on where ye hailed from.”
“Then what would I even wear?” Jane mumbled sullenly. “I don't have a family.”
It was true enough, Jane Doe was a man with no history or relatives. He barely had a name. Stepping behind him, Tavish looked at the mirror. He pulled the sash from his shoulder and draped it over his lover's, smiling to him in their reflection. “Ye do though, Janey. Ye have me.” He pressed a soft kiss to the American's neck, earning a shocked glare from the tailor still standing nearby. “Ye have mum. Yer clan is DeGroot, love.”
Jane's frown softened, his stiff demeanor melting away as he relaxed into the warm body pressing against his back. A smile pushed through as his morose mood lifted; the sight of that tartan across his shoulder, that pattern across his breast making his chest tighten and flutter a bit. It looked right. "Alright."
"Alright?"
"Alright, we'll do this wedding right. We'll both wear kilts with our tuxes."
"Ye mean that, Janey?"
"Of course I mean it! If I'm marrying into this family, I should damned well look like it, shouldn't I?"