The master bedroom suite was probably designed by someone else. For one thing, it was pink. Not just one pink, but every piece of furniture from the dressing screen to the chairs was a different horrible shade of pink. The carpet, a kind of electric salmon, had long ago been bleached into submission by sunlight. No less than two candelabras, gag-reflex-pink, lived on top of the fireplace mantle. The walls were papered in a peach floral motif as punishment for your eyes. Magnus struggled to process Klaus' black-clad silhouette next to his lipstick-pink duvet.

“You’re staring,” said Klaus. 

“This is not what I expected,” Magnus gulped. “I mean, your taste is different than what I expected.”

“It came with the house,” Klaus just admitted to sleeping in someone else’s bed. Like, in their sheets. Pre-furnished houses were an invitation for scabies, lice, and horrible decor. The kind of aesthetic where doorframes have three moldings.

Something clicked in Magnus' brain. It was a warning about hanging out in a dude’s bedroom. He heard his inner dialogue, “Is Klaus running game on me?”

Magnus had some experience with this ‘game.’ It was within his own modus operandi to lure a girl back to his room and woo her into sucking his dick or something. “This is the part where I’d change the subject,” he thought.

Klaus pointed to the windows, “My deck isn’t as nice as the ones on the eastern wing.”

“Lame,” Magnus said, without thinking about it. His inner voice confirmed, “Klaus is running game on me.” 

It was refreshing to be on the receiving end of ‘game.’ There was no pressure on this side; all that’s expected was politeness. Hopefully, that’s all that’s expected.

“Have a seat, you want a drink?” Klaus asked.

Magnus' go-to move was to ‘accidentally’ brush fingers when he handed the girl a drink. So far, Klaus' game was basic.

“No thanks, bro. I’m not thirsty.” Magnus took a seat in the melon-colored wingback chair. He heard the clink of glass while Klaus poured himself more rum. Klaus' steps thumped across the carpet towards Magnus.

“The bedroom cocktail bar is impressive,” said Magnus.

Klaus swirled his cocktail, if you call straight rum a cocktail. Magnus fidgeted his knees. 

Klaus kicked Magnus' feet apart with his boot. Magnus thighs swung open. He nervously swallowed.

“Are those the new shoes I bought you?” asked Klaus.

“He’s good,” Magnus thought.

“Um, yeah,” Magnus squeaked.

“The woman who does the embroidery is local. She’s incredibly talented but only does small-batch commissions,” Klaus used the monologue to step between Magnus' thighs. “Do you like them, Magnus?”

Magnus felt how dumb he looked clutching the sides of the chair, legs open as far as they could go while he white-knuckled the armrests, “Not my usual type, but I like the buckles.”

“I observed you prefer flats,” said Klaus. “I prefer a heel, but I wanted you to be comfortable.”

“You can dress me in anything you want.”

Klaus took a long, slow glance up Magnus' body, “I don’t want to impose my tastes on you.”

Magnus kicked Klaus' boots, “I don’t care about shoes. I came up here because you were gonna show me something.”

Klaus set his hand on Magnus' thigh, “I picked out your suit, of which these trousers are a part.”

“Are you going to tell me about my trousers next?” asked Magnus.

Klaus looked him over. “This suit was expensive, be careful when you take it off.”

“When I what?!” Magnus squeaked.