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Gil raised his hands very slowly.
“Tarvek,” he said, in a voice that was calm and even and soothing, without being so soothing it could be considered condescending. “Put the death ray down.”
“I will do it,” Tarvek hissed. Gil could see the sweat beading at his temples. His pupils were pinpricks.
“No, you won’t. You love me, remember? And you love Agatha, who would be very upset if I died at your hand.”
“Oh, you think?” Tarvek’s laugh was edged with a mania that matched the fevered look in his eyes. “You must realize how much easier this would be without you around to mess up my plans. I have spent months preparing for this moment, and if I have to get you out of the way to ensure success, then I will!”
“Tarvek, it’s not even our wedding!”
“ Put the waistcoat on, or I will pull the trigger and accept the consequences!!”
Gil heard the two exclamation points, and realized that Tarvek might actually be desperate enough to follow through.
“Okay, okay. I’m putting it on. Here I go.”
Gil picked up the blue waistcoat and pulled it on over the one he was already wearing.
“Okay, my hair is done, I am ready toooookay,” Agatha said as she stepped through the door. “Gentlemen. Is everything alright?”
“Gilgamesh,” Tarvek said through gritted teeth, “is attempting alterations.”
Agatha gave Gil a look of disapproval, but wrapped her hand around the death ray and pushed it aside, delicately untangling Tarvek’s fingers.
“We agreed last time to use our words,” she said to Tarvek.
“Last time it was only a salon in Paris–”
“Oh now it’s only a salon!” Gil protested.
“- this is the wedding of two major political players! All of the fifty families will be there, and the ruling Sparks, not to mention the reporters–!”
“I’m wearing two waistcoats!” Gil interrupted. “On top of each other! I look ridiculous!”
“ It doesn’t matter if it looks ridiculous, it’s what’s in fashion right now,” Tarvek shouted. “Do you have any idea the tightrope I have been trying to walk? The line between success and failure? Don’t you roll your eyes at me–”
“I wasn’t–”
“You were doing it in your head, I can tell!”
“Tarvek, Tarvek,” Agatha said, soothingly, cupping his face in her hands. “Everything is going to be fine. We are going to wear exactly what you say, and Gil will let you style his hair–”
“Oh what–”
“ – without complaint,” Agatha added, loudly. “And everything will go according to plan.”
“ You don’t understand,” Tarvek said, tearfully. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to make sure you two are the second-best dressed people in the room?”
“... second best?”
“You can’t outshine the bride!” Tarvek wailed. “So I had to
downplay
your hips and I can’t emphasize Gil’s shoulders and I have to make sure you’re better looking than everyone else but
not
the
best."
“Is this why you sent Violetta to Paris?” Gil asked.
“Seffie’s coloring limits her to a very specific color palette, but Collette looks good in anything! I couldn’t take the chance!”
Gil stood, poleaxed, as Tarvek turned great, sad eyes on him.
“You do look ridiculous in two waistcoats,” Tarvek said. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Why didn’t you say?” Gil demanded, horrified, and he and Agatha wrapped Tarvek into a tight hug.
“I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“I don’t,” Gil admitted, “but I understand what it means for you.”
It must have been like nails on a chalkboard for him. Tarvek was fighting every instinct he possessed, suffering the agony of deliberately making mistakes. He thought nothing of doing it to himself; he had, after all, spent a large part of his life playing the clown, making sure people underestimated him. But he couldn't bear to do it to Gil or Agatha.
Tarvek sniffled and leaned his head on Gil’s shoulder.
“I can’t style your hair, it runs the risk of making you look too good. I have to let you do it yourself.”
Gil made himself push down the rising indignance.
“I’ll let you do it next time.”
“...promise?”
“I promise,” Gil said, even as his soul shriveled up at the very thought. He was the type to believe a thorough brushing counted as 'styling' and anything over five minutes spent on hair to be a waste of time. Tarvek...didn't.
“You couldn’t outshine the bride if you tried,” Violetta said, making them all jump. She was crouched on the window sill, in full smoke knight regalia. “Collette made a change to Seffie’s dress.”
Tarvek rocked back on his heels, ashen-faced, but Violetta held up a hand.
“It literally shines now, and the glow creates a vaguely hypnotic field that makes everyone want to look at her. People will be psychologically incapable of noticing anyone else’s outfit. You three could show up naked and no one would care.”
Tarvek sagged with relief.
“Oh thank god,” he moaned.
“That’s so sweet!” Agatha cooed.
“You couldn’t come up with a better wedding present for Seffie if you tried,” Tarvek muttered. He was still trembling, but the color was coming back to his face.
Gil couldn’t stop himself.
“Does this mean I don’t have to wear two waistcoats?”
“We’ll still be in photos,” Tarvek snapped. “You’ll wear ‘em and like it.”