Antistache with missing you in a bar please?(I love your writing!)
He spotted him from across the bar, through throngs of tough-looking men with tattoos, piercings, and mohawks. At first it was just a flicker; a flash of pink in a sea of gray-black-browns. But as Anti downed the rest of his drink and peered closer-- perhaps wondering if he’d finally lost his marbles-- he could see it was unmistakably him.
He got up, abandoning his spot at the bar and, with the full knowledge that he probably wouldn’t be returning for it, melted into the crowds of burly, smelly men.
“What’re you doing here?” He found Wilford near the poker table, face red from too much booze and too many raunchy jokes. “I haven’t seen you since-”
“Anti!” Wilford jumped up from his chair, a drunken smile appearing on his face. He clapped Anti on the back, nearly sending the demon pitching ass over teakettle. “It’s been so long, buddy! How’ve you been? I’ve missed ya.”
Anti felt his skin flush green, but he tried his best to keep his eyes hard and his scowl mean. “You don’t get to miss me.”
“Ah, but I missed ya!” Before Anti could respond-- or pull away-- Wilford had an arm around him and was kissing him fiercely. His lips tasted like lollipops and his breath like booze; its familiarity made Anti want to melt. “It hasn’t been the same withoutcha, baby.”
Wilford was drunk; Anti knew this. He didn’t know what he was talking about, and certainly didn’t mean what he said. But he let himself believe it anyway.
