[august didn't have a set destination when he left the academy. he didn't want to leave, honestly, but he had to. so he asked for his grandfather's car and drove. he ended up in a variety of places as a traveler who would read tarot for free. he never liked to take money for it, and he wasn't desperate for cash. anything spirit related would always be free. donations, on the other hand, were wildly accepted.
he's still up north by this point, settled in a small town full of cottage-like houses. he's staying in a bed and breakfast, holed up in the attic to both read tarot and take house calls. people never knew where he came from or what he was doing in their town, but he never caused (too much) trouble, so they let him be. the law is never involved. if they are, they're asking him for help.
then along comes someone he's never seen in town before. he sees him as he's meandering through what they call a grocery store, but is really a glorified gas station. head cocked, august watches him for a while, wandering through the aisles as he does. but the time never comes that he speaks to the other boy, so he leaves, back to his attic, which is exactly the time he receives a call.
he waits, settled cross-legged on the floor, cards placed delicately in front of him. when the other boy walks in, he smiles.]
[ it's a little bit of a dig — back at circe, they'd seen things like divination as the lesser arts, and it's hard to shake the feeling that he's supposed to feel the same — but his heart isn't in it. anton has seen how important knowing your fortune can be. it beats being able to trap someone in a ring of fire or drown them in a tidal wave. if you know you're going to be trapped in a ring of fire, you're already one step ahead of them.
and this isn't circe, he reminds himself; he'd wanted to leave, after all, wanted to see the world outside of their insular community. he doesn't need to try to search for the acceptance of people he's left behind. sitting on the floor is a little... gauche, but he awkwardly lowers himself down, brushing off the floor below him before fully sitting. he's a bit more accustomed to people using tea leaves or water scrying, but anton supposes anything works. it's not his forte, and all he knows is from watching others do it. ]
You do readings. [ obviously, or he wouldn't be here. he puts his hands on his knees, simply because he isn't sure exactly what he's supposed to do with them. criss-cross applesauce isn't usually his sitting position of choice. ] Are you any good?
Would it be better if I did? [he chuckles, leaning back on the palms of his hands,] No, I saw you in the shop.
[yes, yes. the floor is a hardship to work off of, but he doesn't feel like damaging a table that isn't his with candle wax or burn marks. at least on the floor, he can cover whatever damage he makes with a rug, or something. he hasn't gotten that far. so long as he has a place to do it, that's all that matters. the question makes him smile, sly and almost unnerving, but he doesn't answer him.]
[ he knows that's not what's being asked of him, really, that he's supposed to divulge his motivations for coming. but the truth is that he can't quite put his finger on what those are; he just knows that he feels lost far away from the magic and whimsy he's so accustomed to. anton had to leave, and he knows that — living somewhere like that, never being exposed to the world beyond his little community, a person grows restless — but that doesn't mean he knows what to do after leaving. ]
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hooooolaaaaa
he's still up north by this point, settled in a small town full of cottage-like houses. he's staying in a bed and breakfast, holed up in the attic to both read tarot and take house calls. people never knew where he came from or what he was doing in their town, but he never caused (too much) trouble, so they let him be. the law is never involved. if they are, they're asking him for help.
then along comes someone he's never seen in town before. he sees him as he's meandering through what they call a grocery store, but is really a glorified gas station. head cocked, august watches him for a while, wandering through the aisles as he does. but the time never comes that he speaks to the other boy, so he leaves, back to his attic, which is exactly the time he receives a call.
he waits, settled cross-legged on the floor, cards placed delicately in front of him. when the other boy walks in, he smiles.]
It's you.
como estas
[ it's a little bit of a dig — back at circe, they'd seen things like divination as the lesser arts, and it's hard to shake the feeling that he's supposed to feel the same — but his heart isn't in it. anton has seen how important knowing your fortune can be. it beats being able to trap someone in a ring of fire or drown them in a tidal wave. if you know you're going to be trapped in a ring of fire, you're already one step ahead of them.
and this isn't circe, he reminds himself; he'd wanted to leave, after all, wanted to see the world outside of their insular community. he doesn't need to try to search for the acceptance of people he's left behind. sitting on the floor is a little... gauche, but he awkwardly lowers himself down, brushing off the floor below him before fully sitting. he's a bit more accustomed to people using tea leaves or water scrying, but anton supposes anything works. it's not his forte, and all he knows is from watching others do it. ]
You do readings. [ obviously, or he wouldn't be here. he puts his hands on his knees, simply because he isn't sure exactly what he's supposed to do with them. criss-cross applesauce isn't usually his sitting position of choice. ] Are you any good?
mew moew
[yes, yes. the floor is a hardship to work off of, but he doesn't feel like damaging a table that isn't his with candle wax or burn marks. at least on the floor, he can cover whatever damage he makes with a rug, or something. he hasn't gotten that far. so long as he has a place to do it, that's all that matters. the question makes him smile, sly and almost unnerving, but he doesn't answer him.]
Why are you here?
no subject
[ he knows that's not what's being asked of him, really, that he's supposed to divulge his motivations for coming. but the truth is that he can't quite put his finger on what those are; he just knows that he feels lost far away from the magic and whimsy he's so accustomed to. anton had to leave, and he knows that — living somewhere like that, never being exposed to the world beyond his little community, a person grows restless — but that doesn't mean he knows what to do after leaving. ]
Don't worry, I've got money.