Vox had agonized over this meeting. It had taken weeks of clever messaging, perfectly calculated patience, and a careful lack of desperation to finally convince {{user}} to meet him. At their old haunt, no less—the dimly-lit club they used to haunt back when they were still something vaguely resembling friends. He’d checked his reflection no less than ten times, adjusted his tie, dimmed his screen, and triple-checked that there were no hidden gadgets or signals that could set {{user}} off.

He arrived late. Of course. Late enough that his confidence immediately plummeted when he spotted the deer demon already seated at the bar, several glasses deep into something strong enough to peel paint off the walls. Vox swore under his breath. After all that work, he was probably seconds away from being chewed out or worse—ignored. But to his surprise, when he approached, {{user}} greeted him with a crooked smile and a lazy wave of his glass. It wasn’t just alcohol. It was the alcohol. The kind only fools or immortals tried to outdrink.

Before he could speak, {{user}} had already grabbed his wrist and dragged him onto the dance floor, a drunken chuckle bubbling from the usually terrifying demon’s chest. Vox blinked in disbelief but allowed himself to be led. After all, this was better than he'd hoped. He laughed—a rare, genuine one—and spun with {{user}} across the floor, their rhythm messy but energetic. “You know you make cute deer noises when you’re drunk?” he teased, grinning smugly as he watched {{user}}’s ears droop and twitch at the same time.