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Generally speaking, Luks didn’t mind cocktail parties. He’d attended many in the past, and while the mix of guests tended to be the most important factor in how well he enjoyed the gathering, he almost always found someone interesting to talk to or some amusing drama to observe. Going to cocktail parties was, therefore, not an activity Luks had any objection to.
Hosting them, unfortunately, was a different matter. A host had to be polite to everyone, had to talk to everyone, no matter how dull. A host had to keep an eye on the big picture, which meant missing the socialite catfights in favor of making sure more hors d’oevres were laid out. And most importantly, a host couldn’t leave whenever they wanted.
“And tonight, tonight is even worse than just being a host,” Luks continued, carefully knotting his bowtie in the mirror above his dressing table. He glanced up to see the reflection of the boy on the bed, listening attentively. “Tonight I’m a host with a purpose.”
Luks paused, searching for any pieces of pale lint that dared to besmirch his tuxedo jacket, and Malachite prompted, “What purpose?”
The older man smirked a little, pleased but faintly amused that the teenager was actually paying attention. “Tonight I’m supposed to be selling myself to the barons, in the hope that they’ll see fit to elect me Premier in a few months,” Luks explained, facing Malachite. He held his arms out. “So how do I look?”
“Yummy,” the boy answered decisively, eyes raking Luks from top to bottom.
The older man had to smile at the sincerity of the response. “I was hoping for something more like, leader-like,” he admitted.
Malachite frowned. “Oh.”
Luks sighed and shook his head. One of these days the beautiful green-eyed boy he’d bought off his father a few months earlier would finally learn when his master was trying to be funny. Of course, Luks reflected, perhaps the people who usually told him he was funny were just sycophants, and the boy was the only one honest enough to point out that Luks wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought he was. That idea in itself amused Luks, but Malachite was still looking confused.
“Come here,” Luks told him, and the younger man immediately slithered off the dark bed to stand before his master. His black trousers and button-down shirt—with the top few buttons undone to show off more of his caramelly skin—were infinitely more dressy than his usual jeans and t-shirt, though obviously not in the same league as a tuxedo. The difference would make him stand out at the party this evening, in what Luks hoped would be a good way—like an extraordinary piece of art, perhaps, or an exquisite dessert. Like everything else currently in the penthouse, from decor to food to music, Malachite was meant to impress the guests and show off Luks’s good taste. Ironically, Malachite was one of the few “items in good taste” that would actually stay in the penthouse following the party; the rest would be carted back out and returned to whatever stores, friends, or relatives had loaned them to Luks, for the purpose of manufacturing the image of good taste for a night. All part of his father’s master plan, of course.
Luks made some unnecessary adjustments to Malachite’s collar. With only a few minutes before the guests began to arrive he couldn’t afford to do any more touching that that, however much he wanted to. Hopefully Luks wouldn’t be too exhausted by the end of the dog-and-pony show to demonstrate to Malachite just how much he appreciated the boy ditching his casual attire. He looked quite good in black.
“Have you ever done this before?” Luks asked absently, trying to decide if three buttons undone would be too much.
“Gone to a cocktail party?” Malachite frowned, standing patiently while his master adjusted his clothing. “A couple times. Your dad had that party...”
“Oh, right, of course.” Luks shook his head—he didn’t feel that nervous, but if he was forgetting things that happened just a few months ago, he needed to focus more. Especially if he was forgetting things that could have a direct impact on tonight’s event. “You had some trouble at that party,” he reminded the boy, catching his gaze. Malachite shrugged with disinterest. “You did,” Luks continued firmly. “I don’t need to point out that if you try to attack any of the guests tonight, I’ll be very upset... do I?”
“No,” Malachite answered, ill-humored, after Luks gave him a little prompting shake.
“Good.” The older man smiled, an amazing sort of expression that was simultaneously pleasant and full of threats. “So just relax, be nice, and it’ll be over in a few hours.” Luks realized he probably needed this advice more than the boy. Just when he was about to admit that, however, the butler knocked at the door to signal that the first guests had arrived and Luks went to greet them, missing the dark expression on Malachite’s face at his words.