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"Are you done yet?"
"Hold still," Couri chides. Fein shifts his weight to be even over his feet, which gets him a poke in the shoulder from Couri, but keeps in place after that. "Almost."
"How long does it take to tie a tie?" Fein complains. He buries his hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting, his eyes on the windows lining their peripheral.
"It'd be easier if you'd hold still." Even as he speaks, Couri pulls the tie's knot up to tighten it. The gentle pressure, present but nonrestrictive, settles Fein. He pulls his eyes down to Couri's face, his soft infectious grin.
Fein rolls his eyes without heat behind it. "Thank fuck that's over." He steps back to circle the edges of the room, but Couri catches his tie in a fist and stops him halfway through the motion. "What?"
"Tie chain?" Couri prompts him.
Fein groans in complaint. The slightest pressure on his tie pulls him in to Couri. He fishes the tie chain out of his pocket and holds it out.
He does have to admit it looks nice: one side of the pin is a deep pink, the other rich royal blue, the chains between them a striking, nearly purple black. It draws his powder blue suit and pink tie together into something cohesive, coherent, him.
Couri needs both hands to untangle the chain. Fein rocks back on his heels, back to cataloguing the room around them.
Warm hands securing the pink side of the chain draws him in again.
Couri is practically glowing in black and purple and gold under the bright lights. His suit jacket is slung over his shoulders as is his preference, the sleeves dangling like an extra pair of arms at his sides. The clasps of his vest are polished bright, his shirt and pocket square a dark saturated purple, and his own tie embroidered with a gold spiderweb pattern.
From this close, though, Fein has a better angle on Couri's hair. There's not a strand out of place—nothing out of the ordinary. He's put on a thin gold circlet for the occasion, fine chains shining against dark brown. It complements the strands of silver that, were a casual observer close enough to see them, might be mistaken for premature grays, but Fein knows are spider silk.
He looks impeccable and just as cleanly presented as ever; Fein can't wait for the photos of him announcing their speakers tonight to come in.
"There." Couri steps back to assess his handiwork. Fein tugs at the lapels of his jacket, trying to get used to the feeling of the stiff fabric. "Perfect."
"Glad somebody's happy with it," Fein mutters.
"You know you like it, c'mon." Couri grins up at him.
"I like that you like it," Fein allows. "I like that it's for the fundraiser. That good enough?"
"Mhm." Couri holds up a finger to signal him to wait, and turns his attention to the table of appetizers next to him. He holds a dessert spoon up of salsa, probably, toward Fein expectantly. "Here."
Fein tilts his head in confusion, but leans in to take the contents. It is salsa, one of the fancy ones with chunks of tomato, and he pulls a mild face as he swallows. "What's that for?"
Couri shrugs brightly. "You seemed peckish. Can't I just have fun?"
"Whose spoon even is that?"
"Mine? Duh. I'm not a barbarian, come on."
Fein rolls his eyes. Of course Couri picked up a spoon back all the way back at their own table just to mess with him—although it makes him wonder, like always, if it plays a part in some larger plan.
He doesn't bother asking. The odds are Couri wouldn't answer anyway.
"Are you done?" Fein whines instead. "Can I check the perimeter now?"
"Yeah, let's go," Couri replies with an indulgent smile. Fein sets off with long strides to the main door of the room, Couri barely a step behind him.
They have the mid-sized event space to themselves for a little bit longer. The tables are already set, name cards laid out, and appetizers spread along a table by one wall. Oliver will be downstairs, checking in with the caterers and security. As unfortunately human as he is, he's discreet and organized enough that he's contracted with most high-profile avatars in the region before—without knowing what he's working with, of course. He knows to give his more eccentric clients the space they need.
Fein checks the locks on the doors, reacquaints himself with the view out each window. The gala for last season was held here, too, and the space already feels familiar.
"I'm famished," Couri announces—he's looking nowhere in particular but Fein is the only one in the room. "Can't wait for people to start arriving."
Fein makes a vague questioning noise. "Tonight? Seriously? We usually keep these… a little chill." Mixed company makes things difficult; the knife's edge of a facade for the humans' benefit and necessary defenses if the avatars retaliate is a hard balance to strike.
Couri gives him an amused look. "Well, some of us can feed without killing someone, hm?"
"I don't have to kill someone," Fein shoots back. "It's just more fun. Literally how many people have I killed this year? Like, maybe a dozen. C'mon." It's a side effect of perfectionism: if the hunt isn't good, he'll call it off. In his opinion, it only makes the flavor of a true, perfect hunt even sweeter. It keeps him sharp.
"And how many have I killed?" Couri says it with overdone innocence, his closing argument in court.
Fein scoffs. "The same dozen. Not getting your hands dirty doesn't keep them clean."
"What? Can you hear yourself?"
"Shut up," Fein huffs.
Couri wiggles closer, takes Fein's arm, and Fein continues his patrol in step with him.
They return to the doors quickly; this room really isn't all that big.
"Happy now?" Couri says, fingers tapping idly on Fein's arm. "Feel okay for the night?"
"I'll be fine." The space, although technically neutral ground, is his. A disproportionate number of their friends, allies, and associates are of the Hunt, and anyone worth their salt—as their friends all are—will be able to smell Fein on this place in an instant. His strategically-placed name card near one corner and Couri's place next to him will go even further to keep him calm.
"Good. Try to act human, alright? Maybe eat something." Couri's tone is light enough Fein gets that it's a suggestion, not a true order. It's not integral to Couri's plans.
"Fine. Not a vegetable," he pitches back.
Couri pats his arm affectionately. "We'll get you someday." Fein's gaze snaps to headlights outside the window. "Well. Shall we greet our first guest?"
Fein gestures to the door. "Lead the way."