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“I think I’m going to be sick.”
Enoch sat quietly by the groom's suite window, palm in his hand as he took in the scene outside for the hundredth time that morning. From the second floor, he had a plain view of the wedding pavilion: bunches of wisteria decorated the roof and dripped down the sides, filling the air with their nectar-sweet smell as they swayed in the breeze. The structure’s pillars were adorned with vines of white honeysuckle, with dog-rose bushes rising to meet them where they lined the wall panels. The surrounding grass was speckled with wildflowers: lavender, thistles, amaranth, and countless others joined in harmony to create a delicate sea of watercolor hues. Cutting through the field was an emerald river that sparkled in the sun, whispering softly as it weaved through clusters of mossy stone.
It was peaceful bliss compared to the chaos inside.
“Be sick? Right now? All over yourself?” cried Horace, aghast. “Hugh Apiston, I swear to all that is holy and good on this earth, if you get a drop of vomit on my suit, I’ll smack you so hard that your nose will spray honey across the wall!”
“Technically, that’s his suit,” came Millard’s voice from the bathroom doorway. A towel floated about his head as he dried his hair, the steam leftover from his shower outlining his form in a vague, person-shaped blur. “You just made it for him.”
“Precisely! I made it, and I won’t have all my hard work soiled just because someone doesn’t know how to keep his breakfast in his stomach!”
“Didn’t eat breakfast,” muttered Hugh, who was nearly doubled over, arms clutching his middle. “I think it’s just nerves. Didn’t mean to frighten you, Horace. I’m sorry.”
For a moment, it seemed as though Horace might snap his clipboard in half. But then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and reset his face to an apologetic smile. “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m the one who got snippy.” He stepped over to Hugh and took him by the shoulders. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“...No. No, I’m alright.” Hugh straightened with a wince. “It’ll pass in a moment, I reckon. Nothing to worry about.”
“Good. I’d really hate for my- er, your suit to be ruined.”
Enoch snorted, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. He’d be more annoyed if he hadn’t watched Horace work near-tirelessly on Hugh and Fiona’s wedding attire. By the end of it, he’d lost count of how many times he caught Horace burning the midnight oil as he hand-needled bits of lace or intricate floral embroidery. He’d have dozens of little pinpricks to show for it, too, if his decades of experience hadn’t thickened the skin of his fingers.
“I fear you’re blind to the big picture,” tutted Millard, heading to the suit rack at the far side of the room. His towel bobbed in midair, slung over invisible shoulders. “Worst case scenario, we can replace the suit. But who’s Fiona to marry if we haven’t got a groom?”
“I suppose I'll do it,” Enoch yawned. “Fee’s not quite my type, but I’m sure we’ll be very happy togeth- OW!”
Horace had smacked him with his clipboard. “Hush.”
Sulking, Enoch folded his arms and sunk deeper into his seat by the window. Hugh managed a shaky smile.
“Okay, okay. Enough nonsense. Horace, what’s next on that list of yours?” he asked.
“Hold on, I’ve lost my place.” Horace took the pen he kept behind his ear, clicked it, and started from the very top of his list. “The decorations were checked, the catering’s been taken care of, the officiant has arrived…” He tapped each item as his eyes darted down the clipboard’s length, muttering softly to himself for a while before his voice rose once more. “...Okay. You’re clean, dressed, and I’ve done your hair. You look your absolute best. So now I’ve got to ensure the groomsmen are looking their best as well.”
Hugh shifted his weight from foot to foot. “You’re sure I look my best?”
“Quite sure!” Horace dragged him over to the center of the room, where both of them were on full display for the mirrors that stood by the wall. “Take a gander. You look positively stunning!”
Hugh twisted and turned, assessing his appearance. Horace was right – Hugh did look stunning. His suit, custom-tailored by Horace’s expert hand, fit him perfectly. The warm brown jacket complemented his complexion, highlighting the freckles that covered his skin like splattered paint. His tie matched his eyes, which shone like drops of amber honey, and his lapels were embroidered with shimmering golden flowers. Rather than abandon his goggles – which all attending agreed would be unreasonable, given his sensitivity to light – Hugh had pushed them up to his hairline for easy access, which Horace then did his best to style around.
But, to Enoch’s concern, Hugh also looked his worst. His eyes were wide and shifty, refusing to focus on a single point for long. Shoulders hunched, he held his hands close to himself, each finger trembling with nerves. He was pale, he was fidgety, and a cold sweat was forming on his brow.
Horace, in his frazzled, sleep-addled state, didn’t seem to notice.
“I suppose I do look good,” Hugh admitted, admiring his appearance once more.
“See? Stunning!” Horace patted his shoulder, then stepped away. “...In fact,” he continued, studying his silhouette in the mirror. “I think we’ll all look stunning once I’ve finished my work.”
Hugh nodded – but his forced smile betrayed his true feelings. His arms returned to his stomach, and his face twinged green.
Millard must’ve noticed as well: a moment later, he spoke up. “Keep an eye on Horace, Hugh. He’ll stare at his reflection all day if you aren’t careful.”
Millard’s trousers floated off their hanger as he began dressing himself. Leg, leg, zip, button– THWAP! Suddenly, Millard threw his discarded towel. It smacked Horace in the face, completely covering his head. He yelped, flailing under his fluffy attacker.
“Quick, while he’s disorientated!” cried Millard. “Cover the mirrors!”
Thankfully, Hugh laughed, anxiety easing slightly. Horace, red-faced, tore off Millard’s towel, balled it up, and threw it back at him. Hard. “You’re insufferable!”
“Oi! You ought to calm down, Horace. Stressing so much will make you wrinkle,” snickered Enoch.
Horace whirled around to retort – but instead of words, a shriek of horror burst forth. “Your tie!”
“My tie?” Enoch looked down at himself with a frown. “What’s wrong with my tie?”
“It’s all- hold on, I’ll fix it.” And before Enoch could protest, Horace was upon him. Setting his clipboard aside, he fussed with Enoch’s shirt collar and sharply tugged his necktie loose. “I swear, one hundred and twenty-five is too long to go without learning to do this yourself.”
“I don’t need to learn if I’ve got you to do it for me.”
Horace paused, shooting him a sharp glare. “I will hit you again.”
“Do it. I dare you.”
“Both of you, quiet,” Millard scolded as he buttoned his shirt. “You’ll wake Jacob.”
Oh. Right. Jacob was asleep on the suite sofa. Enoch forgot.
Enoch lay still, resigned to his fate. Chin tilted awkwardly to accommodate Horace’s proximity, his eyes fell upon Hugh once more. He was wringing his hands, pacing up and down the carpet, his reflection appearing and disappearing as he passed the mirror.
For a little while, the only sound that filled the room was Jacob’s gentle snoring.
“Millard?” Hugh asked, voice weak. His eyes were glazed over, barely seeing. “How much longer do I have?”
“...Two hours, according to the clock.”
“What?” Horace tugged Enoch’s tie taut, choking him. “Two hours? Did I hear you correctly?”
“That you did.”
Horace scrambled away from his victim – who took a welcome gasp of fresh air – and pulled a golden pocket watch from his jacket. For the second time in as many minutes, he shrieked. “It’s nearly twelve-thirty! I’m behind schedule! I was supposed to go help Fiona get ready half an hour ago!”
He scurried from the groom suite without another word.
“Wait!” Millard exclaimed. “You forgot your—”
The door slammed behind him. Hugh flinched.
“...clipboard.”
Jacob yawned, sitting up on the sofa. “Whuzhappenin’…?” He glanced about in confusion – at least, that’s what Enoch thought he was doing. It was difficult to tell where Jacob was looking without irises or pupils.
“Nothing at all,” said Millard. “Back to sleep with you, Jacob.”
Not needing to be told twice, Jacob flopped down and resumed snoring.
“Poor thing’s got such terrible loop lag.” Millard sighed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “It’s a wonder to me he got here at all, given how busy he’s been as of late.”
“It’s his own fault for hogging the fame,” scoffed Enoch. “He’s not the only one who helped save Peculiardom. Last I recall, the rest of us were also–”
“Yes, yes, yes, Enoch, we get it. We’ve heard it a thousand times,” Hugh groaned. He reached up to card his fingers through his meticulously styled hair, thought better of it, then let his hands drop. “Millard, are you finished in the washroom?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Wonderful. S’cuse me for a moment.”
Hugh ducked into the bathroom, dropped to his knees, and promptly threw up into the toilet.
“Hugh!” Millard rushed to his friend’s side. Enoch hopped up from his seat, brows knitted. “Are you alright?”
Hugh groaned, hanging his head. “Peachy.” He hacked a spitball into the water. “But could you get me something to drink?”
“Of course. Don’t you move, I’ll be back in a moment.” Millard rose and jogged from the room. The door slammed shut a second time.
All was silent and still for a moment. Then another. Then, finally, Hugh muttered something to himself: “Birds above, I’m pathetic.”
Enoch was sure he wasn’t meant to hear that. He watched Hugh through the doorway, conflicted on whether or not to respond.
He hated to see Hugh in such a state. His friend sat there, boneless, cheek pressed against the seat as he clutched his stomach. It wasn’t fair that he was so miserable on what was supposed to be the happiest day of his life.
Hugh deserved better. So Enoch pressed on.
Enoch slipped near-silently into the bathroom, hopping up onto the counter. He swung his legs idly, eyes trained on his hands in his lap. “...Did you get any on your suit?”
“...Nah. M’all clean.”
“Good. Horace would’ve blown a gasket if you had.”
“Who says I would’ve told him? I’m good at cleaning up accidents. The Bird still doesn’t know I broke her nice glass animal figurines, and it’s been – what, eighty years?”
They both laughed. “So that’s where those went! I thought she just moved them into her bedroom.”
“Nope. I tossed their tiny shattered bodies right into the ocean.”
“You’re a cold-blooded murderer. Those poor animals.”
“They had it coming.”
“Why? Because they were fragile?”
“Close. Because I’m a clumsy bastard and they were sat too close to the mantle’s edge.”
Enoch paused, finally meeting Hugh’s eye. A sheen of bees had crawled from his mouth to carpet his shoulders, buzzing in low, comforting tones. “Do you, um… want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?”
“Oh, come off it. Something’s wrong. You’ve been acting shifty and ill all morning. What’s with you?”
Hugh’s gaze slid down, focusing on Enoch’s knees, then his shoes, then the tile. He closed his eyes. “...It’s hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“...Everything’s perfect. I’ve dreamed of marrying my Fee for nearly a century, and now it’s finally happening. With flowers and my best mates and mounds of food to go around… and it’s all so perfect.”
“…And…?”
“And because it’s so perfect, I can’t help but feel like something is bound to go horribly, horribly wrong. I don’t think I could handle it if anything happened. I can’t even handle the thought. That’s what’s making me ill. Because this is the best thing that’s ever going to happen to me, so the universe is bound to- to make an aquatic hollowgast jump out of the river and attack us, or something.”
Enoch balked. “You’re serious?”
“Deathly.”
“Well,” Enoch began. He pondered how he might phrase his reply, chewing on his words until they were the right consistency. “...I think that might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“What.”
“You’re worrying over the fact that everything’s too perfect. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard!” Slipping off the counter, Enoch kneeled beside Hugh. He slung an arm around his back, careful of his bees. “You and Fee have been disgustingly in love for as long as I’ve known you. If this is what you both want, if this is what’ll make you happiest – just go for it, even if something might go wrong. You’ve made it this far. Past what was essentially the end of the world. No matter what happens, you’ll still have each other. It’ll be okay.”
Hugh sniffled, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. “You mean that?”
“One hundred percent.” Enoch leaned in closer, voice lowering to a whisper. “And if an aquatic hollowgast attacks the ceremony, I’ll trip Horace so you and your bride can escape while it’s busy eating.”
Hugh cackled. “Oh, Lord. That’s horrible. You’re a horrible little man.” Tears streamed down his face despite his smile, dripping from his chin. He grabbed Enoch and yanked him into a bear hug. “Thank you.”
“Hey!” Enoch spluttered, face burning. “You’ll wrinkle my clothes! Horace will have my head on a platter!”
“Mhm.” Hugh dropped his cheek atop Enoch’s head. “Suppose I’ll have to live with one less groomsman.”
Finally, Enoch sighed, leaning into the embrace.
“I suppose you will.”