The way Asklepios set his hand on the Underworlder's own did not go unnoticed. Perhaps Philotes thought nothing of it. Philammon thought a lot about it, especially when his brother asked her to accompany him. It was a casually put question, and done with such charm that Philammon momentarily envied the ease he had with women. It hadn't ever been easy for Philammon, not unless he was on stage. But talking with a woman face to face was much different than singing to her, too. Between the two, he never would have given up singing. But he could still envy the ability to speak with the fairer sex with such effortlessness.
Still, he remained silent. The conversation was theirs, now, and they were welcome to it. It didn't sit well to think about a party with the threat of war looming so close, with the loss of Artemis so recently dropped into their... his... lap. No, they were welcome to that as well. Besides, he'd only just arrived, and meeting his father - who would doubtlessly go, given that it was an Aphrodite-thrown party - was not on the agenda. At least, not like that, in so public a place. He'd much rather stay at home and wait for Oizys.
There were hints of her here and there -- a pair of hole-filled socks balled up in the corner of the room, her small, black sweater tossed over the lamp in the guest bedroom, the CD collection scattered at the base of his stereo system against the wall -- and more and more, he wished she would come home. He missed his friend. He could use her company.