Momus, by contrast, had put very little thought into what he was wearing. He owned two of what he termed "good suits", for when he had to dress up to get into fancy shit, which wasn't often because Momus didn't get invited to many parties. One of the suits, he'd bought in the late eighties and could no longer get away with wearing; still, he kept it in his closet because he figured it had to come back into fashion some day and by Murphy's Law that day would come the moment after he thew the damn thing out.
He had worn the second suit. He actually looked rather smart, although he would tell you he was only here for the free booze.
He had refused to wear a mask on principle - on the principle, that is, that Momus was a contrary bugger who refused to do as he was told - and five minutes after stepping in the door, he was already beginning to regret this minor rebellion. You see, the thing about masks - the crucial thing that Momus, in his stubbornness, had forgotten - is that they make it harder for others to recognise you. They conceal your identity.
Now, Momus, while he hadn't exactly made any outright enemies on Olympus, certainly hadn't endeared himself to a lot of people. There were undoubtedly at least a handful of gods in this ballroom who'd be unhappy to see him showing his face. Momus was a-okay with this. In fact, if he could get a good argument and a nice round of insult-slinging out of this evening on top of the free dinner and drinks, he'd consider it a night well-spent. What he couldn't deal with was... her.
He turned his head from her quickly, faking a cough as an excuse to cover his face and hoping to Hades he'd been fast enough to avoid catching her eye, that when he chanced a look back she'd have moved her gaze elsewhere or become caught up in conversation or...
Fuck.
Chalk another one up for Murphy. Eupheme had definitely seen him.