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"I'm not wearing a tie."
"You have to wear a tie."
"I'm not wearing a tie."
"Matt. It's black tie. You have to wear a tie. I'm wearing one, you're wearing one."
Matt sighs, all but snatching the tie from my hand, grumbling to himself as he glares at the slip of dark fabric "…Pretentious bullshit…no one even…black tie…such a dick…" He ignores me when I laugh at him, slinging the material around his neck and tying it with, frankly impressive, speed. With a little adjustment, he has a perfect knot sitting just-so against the collar of his ironed (“Why? No one's gonna see it under the damn suit jacket”) shirt.
"You look good."
His cheeks flush a little and he skulks over to the mirror in the corner to look for himself. He stares at his reflection with a look of disgust and declares, "I look ridiculous." He turns his head to look at me again. I uncross my ankles, shifting my weight so my shoulders press a little more comfortably against the wall I'm leaning on, and hitch one leg up to press the sole of my shoe to the faded paint. "This is dumb," he continues, "it's almost summer — in California — it's hot. I changed my mind, I'm out."
"You're my plus one, you can't be out. I'm not dealing with these dicks by myself." It's the closest I'll get to Please, and he knows it.
"…Open bar, right?" I nod, feeling a smile tug at my lips. "Fine. I'm back in."
It takes a soul destroying number of polite smiles and Thank Yous to get to the bar, and so many more to get to the balcony, that by the time I'm slipping out the door my glass is almost empty. Matt's already out there, suit jacket draped over the guardrail he's leaning on, a thin plume of smoke curling from the lit cigarette between his lips.
He turns around at the sound of the door shutting behind me, taking the shot glass from my hand when I'm close enough to offer it to him. "They're monsters," he says by way of greeting. "Or aliens, I haven't decided yet. Alien monsters, maybe?"
I snort at him, roll my eyes and down the last mouthful of my drink, settling beside him with my back against the sun-warmed metal. "You're such a nerd."
"Look, when it turns out that they're some kinda ‘sustained-on-pretentiousness-and-the-misery-of-others’ demons or whatever, you're gonna be thanking me for the heads up," he tells me seriously; then he's throwing his head back, emptying the tiny glass into his mouth and swallowing the drink with a hiss.
"You watch too much Syfy."
"Or you don't watch enough," he quips, looking way too pleased with himself as he takes another drag of his cigarette.
I run a hand through my hair, gazing through the heavy, glass doors, back into the room — the champagne sipping groups are laughing and chatting in a way that looks so damn practised; I can't tell if it's annoying me or making me feel sad for them. "So, these demon-monster-aliens. Tell me about 'em."
Matt slowly exhales the last of the smoke, and drops the cigarette butt onto the ground. "Dunno, man. Destroy and conquer?" He offers, crushing the smouldering paper beneath a shiny shoe. "Maybe we're the last planet that's got the ratio just right; class divisions and whatever."
An absent hum sounds in my throat as I consider it. Matt turns carefully, swapping his empty shot glass for the glass of scotch that he'd set on the guardrail. He swirls it, just to hear the ice cubes clinking, I think.
"I don't know about 'em being the conquering type," I decide.
"No?"
"No…wouldn't work for 'em. Destroying would make too many miserable humans, balance'd be off. Too much misery makes them sick, 's why they're smilin' like that… They like black-tie crowds 'cause it's easy to blend in with people like Mr. and Mrs. Stick-up-the-ass, everyone has those fake-ass smiles, so no one notices the aliens are different…"
"So they got their pretentiousness," Matt prompts, sipping his drink.
"There's misery in that room, guarantee it." I lift the glass in my hand, only to remember it's empty. Matt notices the movement and hands his scotch over without word. I take a swallow that's probably more than ‘fair’ and hand it back, my fingers brushing his on the glass. "…Mrs. Gaudy Gold Rings is wishing her wife was here with her, but her wife hates how she acts around these people so she doesn't come with her to events anymore. Mr. Undeservingly Smug is missing out on reading his kids to sleep to be here… The demons know all this, they can feel it. They pity those people. They don't really like being around them, but they have their own little sprogs to provide for, so they put up with it. They go home — to their realm, their planet or wherever — and pass off whatever they soak up at bullshit gatherings like these so their sprogs don't die, and it's worth it to 'em… But the demons don't really win either: they're getting sick from all the misery they exposing themselves to, being around it, being away from their own families is making them miserable. They're poisoning themselves to provide, and they don't even realise it."
Matt's quiet for a long moment, a little frown on his face. "…Well that's…tragic," he says at last, digging another cigarette out of the pack in his breast pocket. He fishes a lighter out of another pocket and I take both from him, lighting the cigarette between my own lips, taking a long, deep drag before I hand it back to him. The unfamiliar invasion of smoke burns in my throat and in my chest and I let it out slowly.
I turn my attention to Matt — I can't look at those people, those demons, anymore — watching him blow neat little smoke rings into the air above our heads.
"Hey, Mello?"
"Mm?"
"Congrats on the Pulitzer, man."
"Thanks," I smile. It's the only time all night that it's been genuine.