After a while he escapes to a window almost covered by heavy curtains in the far end of the ballroom. Hiding himself from admiring eyes behind crimson velvet is a relief, and Judeau relaxes his tense shoulders for the first time that evening. Formal parties don't seem to be his thing entirely.
Taking a sip from the goblet he grabbed from a passing waiter he watches the nobles mingle and dance to waltz tunes that all sound the same. The wine is better than anything he's ever had before, sweet and strong. If he isn't careful he'll be considerably drunk by the end of the night.
He gets ten minutes of blissful solitude before there's a rustle in the fabric and Corkus' face appears in the opening. If he's surprised to find Judeau here he doesn't show it, only pulls the curtains aside far enough to step inside.
Seeing him all dressed up and well combed like that is odd. It feels slightly off, like silk ribbons on a street cat. Not that Judeau is really one to talk. Resisting the urge to unbutton the chafing collar of the close-fitting jacket takes a lot more willpower than it should.
"Caska looks great tonight," Corkus says, gesturing vaguely towards every part of the room at once. "Asked her to dance yet?"
"I'm not much of a dancer."
It's a lie. He's fairly good; average at least.
"You're looking good yourself tonight," Judeau continues, wanting to change the subject. "If I was a girl I'd be all over you."
"Damn right you would." Corkus adjusts the hat on his head, straightening his back. "Not a creature with tits alive can resist me tonight."
"So what about me? If you were a girl?"
He gets a scrutinizing look.
"Nah. I'm not into midgets."
"Ouch."
"You get points for the hair though. I like blondes."
Judeau can't keep back a chuckle when Corkus gives his hair a tug, though it might be more because of the wine than the joke actually being funny.
"You know how to make a guy feel special,"
At this point he'll usually be countered with one of the usual scowling retorts, so when instead he's suddenly grabbed by the arm it completely takes him by surprise.
"Now you listen to me," Corkus growls, and his face is uncomfortably close. "This is our big night, okay? You an' me an' everyone been fighting for this for years, and there's no chance in hell I'm gonna let you mope yourself through it. Now you go dance and have some damn fun or I swear I'll beat your ass. You got it?"
Corkus spits when he talks, tiny drops spattering on Judeau's face. He would wipe them away, but one arm is locked in his friend's grip and in the other hand he's still holding the goblet. The easiest way to get out of this is to just agree.
It's not like Corkus' isn't right, anyway.
"Got it." The gilded silver shines in the torchlight shining in through the window when Judeau lifts the cup in a toast to nothing. "Cheers."
A snort is all he gets for an answer before his arms is released, but it's fine. This means they're settled. No point trying to get the spit of his face now; it has already dried. The sensitive fabric of his sleeve would likely have stained, so maybe it's for the best.
"And get laid. You need it," Corkus adds as an after thought, poking his chest.
Yet another good point.
The curtains woosh when they're draws them apart in one swift movement before Corkus stomps out back into the ballroom, walking out of step with the music. All things considered, he has the right attitude about this, and Judeau smiles to himself before putting the empty goblet down on the windowsill, then follows after his friend towards the dancefloor and the sea of billowing skirts.