Invite-Only

When it came to enjoying the finer things in life, there really was no need to make things harder for yourself than necessary.

Sure, some buns lusted after fame (literally or otherwise). Some just dreamed of being recognized by strangers everywhere they went, being stopped for photo ops or autographs on the street, and having every reporter and blogger in Burrowgatory hang on their every word. The buns who had that, and the ones who wanted it so desperately, were two of the types of people in attendance at this year’s masquerade.

Then there was the category that Morgaine fell into. The buns who didn’t have that - and who, more importantly, didn’t need it. Morgaine had never been particularly ambitious, or at least not ambitious beyond their means. They liked their job, took pride in their craft, and enjoyed the perks that came along with it. Perks like getting to soak in the atmosphere of Angora’s annual masquerade, with a front-row seat to the glitz, glamor, and any potential drama, in exchange for hardly any more effort than they would spend in the course of a regular evening of work. No millions of followers on Bunstagram or other verification of fame (or notoriety) required.

The buns who drifted by Morgaine’s drink-serving station made the occasional sympathetic comment (well-meaning or not) about how they had to work through such an event, but Morgaine? Morgaine was thriving. 

Some snooty bitch whose skirt had way too many layers had criticized the service earlier; she was smart enough not to do so in earshot of Angora, but not so smart that she could avoid tripping on her stupid long skirt in front of the serving staff as she tried to flounce away. One of the other waitstaff had just swung by to excitedly relay information about the various hook-ups they had observed already (several in progress, more guaranteed to come over the course of the night), and a different server had already spotted at least one intoxicated spat brewing between a couple who couldn’t keep it together between glasses of champagne. When Angora held an event, it was a capital-E Event, and if you attended, you didn’t walk away without a lingering impression, in one way or another.

Also, Morgaine had spent an age saving his money and browsing shops and tailors to put his outfit together for the occasion, and he was living for the chance to show it off even as a member of the fancy gala staff waiting on the even fancier guests. He’d managed to snag a cape for the ensemble and was strongly considering whether he could petition his boss to get it made part of the regular work uniform for the bar. Practical? No. Delightful in spite of the impracticality? Certainly. Swish swish.

Morgaine hummed to himself as he swept up the empty glasses left behind, loading them onto a cart waiting to be taken back for cleaning. Even Angora didn’t have access to an endless supply, and the exclusivity of the masquerade didn’t mean that it was small. Considering the turnout, odds were good that they’d end up immediately cleaning and reusing at least some of the dishes and glassware being passed around. They didn’t mind; the pace of the evening so far had been busy, but not overwhelmingly hectic. 

Over his humming, he caught snatches of conversation between the guests and other servers.

“Somebody’s fucking in the garden.”

“No way. It’s way too early in the evening, nobody’s that drunk yet.”

“Oh, honey. It’s never too early for some people.”

“Not too early to be drunk, or not too early to fuck?”

“Both!” Scattered laughter followed.

“You should go get another look,” Morgaine called over. “See if you can tell who it is. It’s good blackmail material.” He grinned to show that he was (mostly) joking, and received more titters of laughter as the waitress waved him off and collected a new tray of drinks before returning to her circuit of the room.

“Why don’t you go get a look yourself, if you’re so interested?” Asked a voice from nearby.

Morgaine started slightly, but he had quickly placed the speaker before he even turned to look at them. Wychwood had situated themselves in a casual lean on the nearest decorative table, grinning from behind a glittery silver mask in a manner that Morgaine would have described as… oh, puckish. Puckish was a good word. “Mischievous” would have implied a degree of childishness or innocence that Wychwood simply did not possess. Sober, Wych was usually pretty mellow; drunk Wychwood was a menace.

“Who let you in here?” He asked. His tone was deliberately cool, but the smile playing around his lips gave him away.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it.” Wychwood waved their hand dismissively. “I know people.”

“Yeah? People that Angora would invite to be here, for entirely legitimate reasons?”

“You said it, not me.” Wychwood moved closer, just to snatch up one of the freshly-refilled champagne glasses, and took a deep swig.

“You’re supposed to sip that.”

“Mrph.” Wychwood made a noise into the glass before swallowing and lowering it from their lips. “Maybe you sip it. I’m built different.”

“You’re built like somebody who’s already past tipsy,” Morgaine retorted, amused.

“Well, like a wise bun said, it’s never too early.” Wychwood drained the rest of the glass and set it back with the set of full ones. Morgaine accordingly collected it and placed it with the dirty glasses instead.

“Well, why don’t you go and be tipsy with one of your important, very legitimate friends who are definitely at this party which you legally entered? I’m busy.” Even as they said it, Morgaine didn’t expect Wychwood to go, and they also didn’t particularly mind them staying. Company was company, and they couldn’t really complain about company that they often sought of their own accord.

True to form, Wychwood did the opposite of leaving and instead grabbed onto Morgaine’s shoulder to dramatically hang on them. “You’re so meeeean to me,” they said; it sounded like they were intentionally exaggerating the slur of their words. “I could break you in half. D’you ever think about that? I could do that and you choose to be mean to me.”

“Yeah, you’d like to do that, wouldn’t you,” he muttered under his breath. Wychwood heard anyway and tugged on one of his ears.

“You’d like me to.”

Morgaine elbowed them in the ribs. He did it lightly, but they still made an offended, wounded noise and stepped back, catching him by the arm and dragging him along as they did so.

“Wych, I’m working-” He protested, but it was a token resistance at best.

“Yeah, yeah, work will still be there when you get back. Come on, I wanna dance.”

Morgaine sighed, but it was for show and they both knew it. “Fine. One dance.”

Wychwood grinned at him again. “Unless you beg for more of my time after.”

“...Unless that.”

Their grin widened, and they dragged him onto the dancefloor without any further argument.