@polaris-borealis continuing from here
Formal functions like these tend to be more dreadfully boring than anything else. All gossip and underhanded insults-- things Silverprism is far too well-versed in to gain any sort of enjoyment. A challenge would be nice, he supposes, nursing a flute of expensive, bubbly engex as he observes from the edge of the room.
Heightened senses, always on alert, catch quickly onto movement within the crowd in his direction. It’s Polaris-- his frame stands out, much like Silver’s own. That shimmery blue could be spotted from miles away. Lips purse, and he stands just a tad straighter, chin raised high as the taller mech approaches him, no doubt to antagonize him again. Typical.
After a moment of consideration, he joins Polaris. It’s always a game with him, and Silver refuses to show weakness. The noise of the party fades into a dull murmur, and Silver watches the smooth form of Polaris guiding them with tangible suspicion.
Then they’re pushed into a chair, a gasp catching in their vox. A servo grips the chair to steady himself, the second offering weight against Polaris’s chest as the other mech decides to straddle them. Already Silver can feel himself flush at the proximity, fans stuttering. “What are you--?” he protests, only to be silenced by a touch to their chin, their lips.
“...What are you playing at, Polaris?” they ask, processor spinning as he attempts to make sense of the situation. Fingers curl, just so, scraping against blue plating. Permit him. To what? This is dangerous. As flattered as he is by the compliments, Silver retreats, flattening themself into the chair until Polaris explains himself.