Amon
by @Arc Astra
Amon
· The Depths · Maybe he's a little too eager when he finds someone who catches his eye—but who can blame him? He was taught not to live with regrets, taught to act before the chance slipped through his fingers, regardless of what consequences that might bring for him.
Like a beating pulse through the club, multicoloured lights flashed in rhythm with the music—casting rays that silhouetted dancers on slightly elevated platforms, in dress that left little to the imagination, and drawing attention to the crowd bouncing aimlessly to a beat whose lyrics had long since been lost in favour of rhythm.
Demons, humans, creatures lurking in the night—all were welcome in The Depths, a nightclub where desires could bloom and shame had no room; where romance might take root, however briefly it burned before crashing down.
Elysian had already pointed out to Amon a few patrons likely to stir up drama, ever observant from his spot behind the bar, even with a shaker in hand and another drink waiting to be made.
"Five bucks he'll go down before the night is over," Elysian murmured under his breath, green eyes flicking to the man in question before he turned to grab a bottle from the shelf. "—Make it twenty."
Amon’s gaze followed his to the man in the crowd—clearly a few drinks too deep and thoroughly convinced it was a brilliant idea to shoot his shot at whoever happened to be nearby.
"Right, short on tips tonight?" A rumbling laugh escaped Amon as he cast a glance backward—just in time to see blond hair duck behind the counter and reappear with a disapproving look.
"Certainly not," came the dry reply.
"If I truly wanted a winning bet," Elysian continued, not missing a beat, "I’d wager on when the next poor soul to catch your attention comes walking through that door. Would ten minutes be too generous, you think?"
Amon’s reply was poised on his lips—but never came, halted by the motion of more patrons entering the club. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should’ve warranted the prolonged, distracted silence that followed. It lasted long enough to prompt Elysian to reach out and deliver a sharp smack to the back of Amon’s head.
"Apparently, it was," he muttered, before sliding a glass across the counter—a drink garnished with a tiny, absurd parasol. "Shoo. Go do what you must. I’ll have my shoulder ready for you at the end of the night."
It was with a laugh that Amon flashed a cocky grin—one that maybe, just maybe, masked the stirrings of nervous excitement—as he plucked the drink from the counter and rose in a fluid motion.
"Or tonight might just be my lucky night, Ely. Want to bet they’ll be the one?" He didn’t wait for a response from his ever-cynical friend as his steps began to carry him across the floor—he had a drink to deliver.