Chioniphobia

Colorful

He blames the clock for the last part. He isn't sure which room it's in, but it chimes every hour far too bloody loudly for his liking. At least the revelers shut up for a bit when it does: if he had to listen to the clamor of voices, the screeching music, and the clock banging on over all of it, he might go mad.

As if to accentuate this point, the musicians start up a particularly raucous song that's as loud as it is tuneless.

He takes off his hat to cover his ears, because he is all out of bothers to give about anyone who recognizes his non-human status. Anyway, everyone who might notice presumably won't be able to tell anybody else, not after tonight. If Grim would just. Show. Up. Already.

He flinches as someone grabs his tail, or where his tail would be if he wasn't in possession of only two legs at the moment.

"Meet me in the purple room," a voice slurs, and he wrinkles his nose at the stench of alcohol on her breath. He's glad it isn't Grim: hammered or not, he doesn't want to break his façade of fearlessness in front of her.

"Aren't we already in the purple room?" he points out, disentangling himself from a pair of wandering hands.

The woman giggles, and his rabbit ears flatten at the shrill irritation of the sound. "This is the violet room, silly!"

"...Right," he says, resisting the urge to ask What's the bloody difference? "Um, see you there, I guess."

She laughs and weaves away, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

"Fancy not knowing the difference between purple and violet," another, familiar voice teases.

A spark of indignation coupled with a heavy feeling of finally! and a lighter-but-still-significant feeling of about bloody time, he turns around to see the Grim Reaper.

She's dressed entirely in red, which he would've thought gauche but for his current surroundings. Her costume is at least somewhat tasteful in construction: a scarlet gown with no frills, no ribbons, and only a slight train; a crimson cloak, with a hood that encircles her raven hair so as to enhance the vividness of her complexion; and a single piece of jewelry, a blood-colored gem hanging from a red ribbon around her neck.

"You look like you've been beheaded," he comments.

She smirks. "Thank you, but you haven't seen the real pièce de résistance."

Grim whips out her mask with a flourish. She puts it on, and any elegance the costume might have had is immediately ruined. He's almost lost for words.

Almost. "That thing is ugly as sin."

She removes the mask and waves her hand dismissively. "You're too kind."

"Yes, I am," he mutters, raising a horribly overdecorated goblet to his lips and taking a gulp of wine that tastes far too cheap for such an expensive party. "What took you so long?"

She shrugs, twirling the mask carelessly in her hands. "I wanted to make a grand entrance."

And make an entrance Grim had, for he could see the stares being drawn to her even as they spoke. She could, too: he notices her eyes flicker at the surrounding crowd before she looks back to him.

"Having fun?" she asks.

He takes another, longer draught of wine. "Like a hen in a fox den."

"Or a rabbit?"

He rolls his eyes, and she cackles as she replaces her mask.

"Now, if you'll excuse me," she says in a voice like velvet, "I've some business amidst all this pleasure."