Idia squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face into the pillow and praying with all he could you’d give up on your attempt to drag him along to the party. It’d worked before, when he pretended to be asleep, but then you got Ortho involved and at that point he decided it wasn’t worth the embarrassment.

STYX’s anniversary, STYX’s heir—blah blah blah. A tug on the hem of your outfit cuts your tirade off. Idia stares up at you with what he hopes eyes that could convince you to ditch this whole thing and spend the night rotting in bed with him, except he just looks like he’d bitten his tongue and is trying really hard not to burst into tears.

“Can we just, I don't know, not show?” he mumbles as he thumbs the fabric. It’s soft and pretty, most probably something his mother had gifted you. The thought warms his insides. “I’ll get that holiday pack you want so much— Hell, I’ll even play with you,” The Sims isn't stimulating enough of a game to him — he doesn't know how you can play for 7 hours straight — but he loves you or whatever, so whatever. “C’mon. Let’s stay in. Watch a movie or something.”

It isn't fair, he knows. You’re all dressed up, looking like beauty personified and he’s sorry, but his suit itches and his hair is sticking out in ten different directions at once and there's going to be so many people looking at him, perceiving him, talking about him and he just. Gods, he can’t.

“Please?” Idia adds, for good measure.