"you're not to see him again."
the words reverberate in his ears with an intensity that almost sends them smarting with high-pitched ringing. eron scowls, pouts. the latter is a clear indicator of his sobriety, or, in this case, the lack thereof.
the demigod bartender takes note of this as he passes by, but doesn't say anything. in his millennium of existence, he's provided drink for countless individuals — mortal, immortal, they were all the same — and knows when to stand by, intervene, or leave them alone. besides, the love god is a friend as well as a regular.
eron slumps in the booth. the seat is comfortable, its back constantly sculpting to best support his position — one of the perks of this vip room. yes, it's comfortable, but it's also lonely. he'd give this and any other godly perks up for the night if he could enjoy being completely human for just a few hours.
the fates had forbidden him to take on a human form for the next century. forbidden him to get in contact with jiho.
it was messing with their plans, they said. love personified was a tricky string for them to straighten out, and sometimes it got entangled with other strings. if they didn't get that sorted out, a calamity would befall one of the planes: olympus, the underworld, or earth. it had happened before, and of course it made sense to move to avoid it this time.
why jiho? eron doesn't know. the fates wouldn't tell him. maybe jiho's meant to be the next hero, or maybe some sort of martyr, crushed for the greater good.
eron grabs the bottle in front of him — almost empty — and catches sight of his reflection. there's a wild spark in his eye that even his tipsy self doesn't miss. soon, a smirk grows to match.
fuck the fates. greater good? how about the greater good of eron's night? he doesn't care if the world burns. let anyone else sort it out.
it's funny, really, what the fates did to block contact between the god and his mortal. they took away his dog tag, severed the mental link between the two. any magical means of communication quenched. any magical means.
an easy laugh spills from eron's lips as he digs out his phone from a pocket sewn into his robes. without any further hesitation, he guides his finger to jiho's contact and presses call.
"hey, sweetheart. been a while, hasn't it? i'd love to see you, catch up. i'd like to believe that's in order," he purrs, not bothering to mask the siren-like effect naturally imbued in his tone.
he breathes the address of the bar — it'll look like a small, nondescript building on the outside, but open up to a fully-fleshed, modern interior, lights tinted and some strobing.
"find me in the vip room," he murmurs, running a hand through his hair and letting his eyelids flutter briefly shut. "ask for eron, lovely. i'll see you soon."
with that, he ends the call, pours himself the last of the bottle, orders another one, and waits.
