Apollo has been keeping an eye on Ares, just to make sure nothing was going to happen between him and Melpomene tonight, or at least, not before something could happen between him and Melpomene. Prefereably not at all, but still, he wasn't about to come second, not to Ares. He'd noticed the pair arrive, Aphrodite looking radiant as ever, and he'd smiled as he recalled their night together. He'd seen the dark haired girl they'd bought with them, he'd admired the way the colour of her dress made her hair seem darker, made her skin looked altogether touchable. When he saw her sitting all by herself later in the night, how could he not join her on the couch?
He sat beside her, his body angled toward her like she, not he, was the sun, and he passed her one of the two glasses of champagne he was holding. "You look like a woman whose night would be improved by a drink," he said, and smiled at her, a caring smile, one that suggested, perhaps, that she open her heart to him. The open-your-legs smile came later; with some women, you couldn't dive straight into that smile. Not every one was Melpomene.