the deafening trill of cicadas on a sticky summer night, getting hooked on the adrenaline rush that comes from needles piercing your skin, a homemade ouija board worn from heavy use, a hidden hole in a chain link fence, the feeling of being watched, the screech of an electric guitar that desperately needs tuning, cramped handwriting filling every inch of every page in a beat-up journal, the heady scent of incense and clove cigarettes lingering in your wake, mismatched socks, turning to look at the movement in your peripheral vision only to be met with empty air.
Lot's been happenin' in Misty Mountain, as of late... Y'all got to come up with the questions last time, and this time I've come up with some of my own. Reblog this post to participate, and get to askin' your fellow Mountaineers the hard hitting questions... I've got a feelin' the inside of your heads are lookin' mighty dark as of late.
đ§: you haven't tried to leave town yet... who's the only person you'd do it for?
đ: if you knew your last kiss was tomorrow, who would you want it to be with?
đ±: buck was a pretender... if you thought another one was walking around, who would it be?
đ§Ł: who have you just wanted to strangle lately?
đ: the world is ending! who are you slipping out of your jeans for one last time?
đ: what's the last meal you'd wanna cook for yourself?
đ: surprise, my kiss was poison! you have two minutes to live, but you finally got to kiss me... in your wildest dreams, who am i?
đ: fmk: buck, [blank], [blank]Â
đ : reveal one awful thing you thought about buck whitaker.
đŸ: reveal one awful thing you think about someone close to you.
đ€š: reveal one awful thing about yourself.
đ¶: have you ever gotten so mad you wanted to to kill someone? who?Â
đ: do you think you're strong enough to kill?Â
đž: what's the worst thing you've ever done while you're drunk?Â
âš: if someone offered you the chance to forget everything that's happened in the last few months, would you do it?
đĄ: tell me off like i'm someone you're mad at.
đŹ: imagine you knew buck would die that night at the water tower. would you have tried to save him?
đą: would you have shot bobby hugh?
đ: would you have shot lou or major?Â
đïž: what do you think you would see if you looked into the Man Eaters head?Â
 đȘ: do you think it's wrong that sheriff buddy is in jail for a crime he didn't commit?Â
 đ„: would you take the fall for someone else's murder?Â
đ: be honest... do you want to bang an abignale? which one?Â
â ïž: if vesta asked you to shoot a gun, and lined up a "witch" in your crosshairs... would you pull the trigger?
đł: if you got a visit from calliope, what would you ask her?Â
August blinks up from his copy of The Shining, brow furrowed in confusion. Eve is watching him the way she does sometimes, her eyes sharp, like sheâs staring right through him to his very core. It never fails to make his chest go tight. âWhat?â he asks, sure heâs misheard her.
Her lips quirk up in an easy smile. âYou should kiss me,â she repeats. âI know you want to.â Her tone is light, almost taunting.
Sheâs right, of course. He does want to kiss her, he has for months now, and heâs not even all that surprised that she knows it. Heâs tried to keep the way his gaze often lingers on her for a little bit too long and the shy, lovesick smiles every time she pays him an ounce of attention to a minimum, but he doesnât think heâs managed very well. As guarded as he can be with most people, sheâs somehow taken a wrecking ball to all his walls. He canât help but wear his heart on his sleeve around her. Heâs been too afraid to do anything about it, though, too afraid to tell her, terrified that it might ruin what they have right now. Heâd rather pine after her than risk driving her away if things were to go sideways, if she didnât feel the same. And why would she? Heâs just the stray dog she took pity on one day for reasons heâs not sure heâll ever fully understand.
The nerves are the only thing that make him hesitate, but he manages a quiet, âOkay,â because thatâs easier than telling her he doesnât think heâs ever wanted anything so badly.
He puts his book face down in the grass. Itâs one of the first truly nice spring days, nature taking a much needed breath after a cold snap thatâd dragged on for too long, the sun sending dappled golden light into the little clearing in the woods theyâve posted up in, her feet in his lap as they lounged, mostly in companionable silence. He scoots closer to her, and she leans in a little too, watching him expectantly.
He lifts a hand, tentatively places it on her cheek. âSorry,â he breathes, knowing his fingers are cold. They always are. She gives him a little eye roll, a silent donât be, but sheâs still smiling.
His heart is racing jackrabbit-quick as he leans in and cautiously presses his lips to hers. She lets out a little sigh and it makes something in him twist up in knots. She smells like vanilla and the clove cigarettes she smokes, a habit heâs recently started to pick up from her.
Itâs soft, lingering, but itâs only a few long seconds before heâs pulling away again, his cheeks burning.
âYouâve never done that before, have you?â she teases, the grin on her face verging on smug.
He lets out a sheepish little laugh. âThat obvious, huh?â
She lifts a hand, rests it on his chest. Feeling his heartbeat, the way itâs pounding so hard he thinks it might just burst right through his sternum, present itself gory and bare to her, hers for the taking. As if she hasnât taken it already. âYouâre nervous.â He doesnât think heâll ever get over the way her eyes sparkle with mischief. She leans in again, just to nudge her nose against his in a quiet little display of affection. âItâs very cute. Want me to show you?â
He nods, small, almost imperceptible, but she must pick up on it because she closes the gap between them again, her fingers curling around a loose fistful of his shirt to keep him close as she kisses him, really kisses him, in a way that makes his head spin. Her lips are confident moving against his, guiding him. Heâs not sure how long it is until they finally break apart again. It feels like both an eternity and entirely too soon.
âCan I take you out?â The question comes out unbidden, slightly breathless, the words leaving his mouth before he has time to even think about them. The clarification comes a little more meekly, âLike on a date?â
She laughs, then leans up to press a soft kiss to his forehead. âYeah, Auggie. You can take me out on a date.â
Heâs pretty sure if he smiled any wider, his face would split in two.
Do you think you're responsible for Bobby Hugh being shot?
Yes. I won't go and say it's entirely my fault, but I don't really think Lou would've shot anyone if I hadn't said those names. It was kinda involuntary, and I don't know why Calliope told me Bobby Hugh and Pity's, but I don't think that's really an excuse or nothing.
are you scared of that youâll get possessed without trying?
Well it wouldn't be the first time it happened, but I do what I can to try and avoid it. I wouldn't say it scares me exactly, but it can be dangerous in more ways than one.
Well, well, well... It's been a little while since we got to have a little chat, huh? We're all just DYIN' (too soon?) to know what's on your minds over here, so - what do you say to pullin' up a chair, and havin' a good little bout of Front Porch Gossip? Some say it heals the soul!
Here's the deal! You're gonna reblog this post to participate - and then you're gonna grace any little nasty question that comes your way with an HONEST answer... or at least as honest as you can stand to be. And don't you forget to send some questions over for me and my lovely Cherie too - you know we can never resist a little gossip.
STATUS: open, capping at 2/4.
EVENT: st. cupid's fest volunteer squad.
TITLE: a showdown between your muse & girty... now kiss.
Unlucky for everyone roped into the whole volunteering shtick (since when had Valentineâs Day become that important, anyway?), the moment Girty was assigned to the grunt-work team, their names might as well have been stamped onto a list of death. Not a quick one either â a slow death, by distraction, by endless (and senseless) chatter. True, agonizing torture.
1) All day, she hadnât done much of anything (sorry, Mabel â sorry, Rosie).Â
2) Her lack of doing anything had bitten her in the ass â boredom creeping in, turning her restless.Â
3) Instead of taking said boredom as a sign to be useful, she'd spent her time scanning the place like some kind of killer robot, desperate to find someone to sink her teeth intoâŠÂ
And in the midst of all the hopelessness â of all the nausea-inducing hearts and cheesy decorations â a beacon of hope. She could practically hear a choir of angels singing. Halle-fuckin'-lujah!
Girty approached silently (which, for someone as subtle as a pink giraffe, was a lost cause), a stupid grin hanging off her bitten lips, pausing to fully slip into character. Then, she spoke screamed directly into their ear. Her voice came out deep, raspy, âQuit yer slackinâ! I ainât payinâ ya tâsit there ân look prettyâŠâ She jabbed a finger in their direction, scratching her butt with her other hand â picturing herself as some old, angry foreman who hadnât gotten laid in a decade. âYâtryinâ to start a fight with me? Huh?â She added with a low growl, leaning in until her face was pressed against the side of theirs. A puff of air to mess with their hair. âYâtryinâ to prove somethinâ, hotshot?â
If it weren't for the fact that anyone with working eyes and/or ears could've spotted Girty coming from a mile away, her sudden voice in August's ear probably would've made him jump right out of his skin. As it was, it still managed to startle him, but only a little. He couldn't say the antics themselves surprised him all that much, though â he'd gotten used to that sort of thing from her by now.
"Trust me, I ain't tryin' to start fights with anyone," he told her, holding his hands up in surrender (hammer still in one of them) as he turned towards her. He'd been unwillingly dragged into more than enough of them already. He was just trying to make it through this stupid holiday relatively unscathed, or at least without more than the minor bruises he'd sustained from Marshall throwing him onto the ground that very first day.
He raised an eyebrow at her, a bemused little smile on his face as he continued, "But it kinda looks like if anyone here's slackin', it's you. Am I gonna have to turn you into Miss Dottie?" The threat didn't hold any actual weight to it. August really couldn't care less whether she was pulling her weight or not, he was only putting effort into building the kissing booth because someone had to, and with all the drama and chaos that had plagued his work group since the start, they were running a bit behind schedule.
For a long, stretched-out moment, Liliana says nothing. The wind howls through the skeletal frame of the water tower, threading its icy fingers through her locks, tugging at the hem of her coat like a petulant child. Augustâs voice lingers in the air and she resents the fact that she can hear it so clearly - resentful, too, that he doesnât immediately move to help her.
Her nails drum against the frostbitten railing, impatience curling in her chest like smoke. She could tell him the truth. That it's just her shoe, a thing of beauty and history, trapped in the unforgiving metal below her. But she knows how that conversation would go - how heâd probably tip his head back, let out one of those half-laughs that always feel like an insult, and tell her to deal with it herself.
No. He wonât help her for a shoe. But he might help her for something else.
Her jaw tightens. The word scrapes its way out, uneven, almost reluctant. âYeah...â A pause. Her fingers tighten on the railing, breath curling in the cold. Then, softer, as if to make her little white lie more real: âIâm stuck. Can you come up here?â
Trust is something that comes in painfully short supply when it comes to August Ives. It's hard to gain, easy to lose. And he isn't all that in the habit of doing favors for people who haven't earned it â it's not like the vast majority of this town are ever doing him any favors. Liliana is far from someone he'd usually put himself on a limb for. And with the restless spirits, and the weird shit that's been happening around town, this whole situation is setting off all his warning bells, telling him to run.
But he also knows it's unlikely anyone else is bound to come wandering along out here anytime soon, and knowing his luck, Liliana will end up becoming the next popsicle just so she can haunt him for the rest of his goddamn life. So after a long minute of consideration, he lets out a heavy sigh and says, "Alright. Gimme a second." And he starts up the ladder, hoping beyond hope that this isn't just some ploy to push him over the railing the second he gets up there.
LOCATION : the water tower.
CLOSED STARTER : @mcthmancometh.
The town below is quiet, the streets empty except for the occasional flicker of headlights cutting through the dark. Misty Mountain sleeps beneath her, curled up beneath winterâs breath, rooftops dusted with frost. Lili sways slightly, gripping the frozen steel railing of the water tower as a gust of wind rushes past, sending a violent shiver down her spine. She isnât sure what brought her here - restlessness, recklessness, or the half-bottle of cognac warming her stomach - but it hardly matters now.
What matters is her fucking shoe.
The moment sheâd felt the delicate heel wedge itself into the unforgiving lattice of metal, her breath had hitched. Rationally, she knows she could slip her foot out, climb down barefoot, and return in the daylight to retrieve it from the metal grate it was jammed in. But these werenât just any shoes. These were Chanel Slingbacks from the goddamn â50s. A relic of craftsmanship, a whisper of a time when women still knew how to be untouchable. She had not spent months hounding her mother for them just to abandon one to the elements like some tragic fairytale maiden.
She exhales sharply, irritation pooling in her veins like ink. The cold nips at the exposed skin of her thighs, her coat slipping slightly off her shoulders as she tugs at her foot, jaw clenched. No use. Sheâs stuck.
And then - movement below. A shadow passing through the honeyed glow of a streetlamp below. Liliana tilts her head, dark eyes sharpening. Even in her slightly hazy state, she recognizes that silhouette. August. Of all people. Her lip curls. It would have to be him. Fucking hell.
Still, desperation is an ugly thing, and she is nothing if not pragmatic when necessary. So she lifts a hand, delicate fingers wiggling in the air, and screams down. âAugust!â A pause. The wind tugs at her hair, loose strands whipping against her cheek. She shifts, foot still caught, mouth pressing into a thin line before she reluctantly - painfully - adds, âI need help!â
The spirits have been restless lately, noisy, but as much as they're talking, the one August actually wants to hear from still hasn't been anywhere to be found. And he's pulled out just about every trick in the book at this point, trying to get into contact with Baylor. He knows it doesn't always work, that sometimes people really are just gone, but with everything going on, the mysterious circumstances under which Baylor died, the fact that August had been so close but so far away when it happenedâ
Well, suffice it to say that he isn't ready to give up just yet.
He keeps ending up at the water tower. He isn't sure what it means, if it means anything at all, if the spirits are just fucking with him, getting some sort of sick pleasure out of sending him on wild goose hunts, but there he is, spending another night tromping around down there, looking for â anything, any kind of a sign, everything in him on high alert. And that's when he hears it. A plaintive cry, his name carried on the wind. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It's not Baylor, obviously, it's a woman's voice, and it sounds familiar, but it's so out of place that he can't quite figure out why until he cranes his neck back and sees her.
Scarier than any ghost he could think of, it's Liliana Serrano who's haunting the water tower tonight, and August can't help but let his shoulders slump under the weight of yet another defeat. "Help with what?" he calls back, eyes narrowed suspiciously. He surveys the situation â it feels like some kind of a trap. "You stuck up there or somethin'?"
Lou exhaled a cloud of smoke like it was the only thing keeping her grounded in that moment, and she let the silence stretch between them, heavy with everything they hadnât said. She hadnât expected August to come, but he had. That much surprised her, which was difficult to do. Though the edge in his voice was rather unsurprising.
She studied Augustâs reaction carefully, almost tender. The tension in his eyes? That was familiar. He didnât trust her, not fully, not anymore. And he probably shouldnât. Sheâd been a ghost to him for years now, but here she was, trying to reach back across the wreckage. Somehow, he still hadnât given up on her. That made Lou feel strange.
"Guess I shouldâve expected that," Lou muttered with a dry chuckle. She leaned back, cigarette dangling from her fingers, and let the words tumble out in a way that felt genuine. "I donât even know where to start, August. But I need you to listen, because-- Shee-it, I think everyone else is done with me..." It was foreign for her to be so real.
She paused, her eyes narrowing as she flicked ash into the dinerâs tray. Her gaze flickered to the door, then back to August, a little less steady this time. "Iâve been seeing things. Weird things. Patterns...Ever since I went to Knox...He ain't back me up, but I know what I seen. I know the occult. Flames and sigils 'n all that." Lou passed August her cup of coffee rather than flagging down the waitress. "I swear I seen...shadows that donât make sense, impossibly tall. People talkin' to me when they ain't there." Lou recalled the museum with Rosie. "And... I'm tryin' to make sense of it. But every time I try to talk about it, people act like Iâm the crazy one. Like I should just shut my mouth, like, like, people ain't dyin'." She leaned in slightly, her voice lower now, like she was letting him in on something dangerous. "And maybe itâs not just me. Maybe there's someone else who sees." Lou gave him a long look.
The confessions lingered, the weight of it hanging in the air between them. Lou didnât look away, her eyes narrowed, waiting for him to process it. It was the first real thing sheâd said to him in years and it had nothing to do with apologies. Lou had a one track mind, and this meeting had everything to do with the kind of truth that only August might understand.
Lou prompted him, "Got anything like that ya might wanna tell me about?" She internally pleaded for him not to call her crazy. She could take it from everyone else. But not him, not August.
August wasn't sure if it was in his head or not, but as Lou talked, he could swear the temperature in the room dropped a good few degrees. She mentioned sigils, and his left hand reached for his right wrist, wrapping loosely around the pentacle inked into his skin. He knew what most people thought when they saw some of his tattoos, that carrying around all those symbols would only serve to further the August Ives is a Satanist agenda, but what no one ever seemed to realize was that the pentagram, the Hecate's wheel, the witch's knot, hell, even the upside-down cross â they were all symbols of protection. And he didn't keep covering himself in them just for show, even if it's what he'd claim if anyone bothered to ask.
He could feel his own pulse under his thumb, jackrabbit-quick as she leaned towards him, looking at him like â like she knew something. And for a second, he couldn't help but let that hunted feeling show in his eyes. The pit in his stomach. The fear at being found out. But he'd had plenty of practice at hiding his weaknesses, and it passed quickly, settling back into something more carefully neutral.
If Lou were anyone else, August would be laughing it off right now. He'd make some kind of a sarcastic joke, roll his eyes, quickly change the subject and move on. He wouldn't let them anywhere near the secrets he'd been choking down and keeping locked up tight all these years, the things he knew, the things he'd seen and heard and felt.
But Lou wasn't anyone else. And even after all this time, August couldn't bring himself to lie to her. And he sure as fuck wasn't going to join the assholes in town who were questioning what she'd experienced. So he didn't laugh it off, and he didn't look away, either. He weighed her question for a long minute, trying to figure out how much he should say, how much he could. Finally, all he got out, his voice soft and dead serious, was, "I don't think you're crazy."
WHAT:Â lou rolls into tastee's w her sunglasses on serving you're not gonna believe this shit!
It seemed everyone in Misty Mountain had decided Knox was right and Lou was wrong. It drove her up the damn wall. But if there was anyone who would listen to her, or would've once, it was August. She'd slid a note under his door instructing him to meet her at Tastee's around midnight. She figured, it was about a fifty-fifty chance he'd actually show. So, Lou kept her sunglasses down as she flipped through the newspaper, guzzled coffee, and chain smoked. She was so immersed in the obituary and missing persons sections, she almost hadn't noticed August slide into the diner.
Lou leaned against the warped table, her cigarette burning down to the filter as she stared at August from across the booth. He was really here. The overhead light flickered like it had a grudge against her, she glared at it, then folded her paper closed. August had always been too quiet and it set her nerves on edge in a way sheâd never admit. Even back when they were at their closest, she felt lucky to even get a response for him when ranting about things like The Pope Lick Monster from Kentucky. Though, she actually hadn't had the chance to tell him about the new creature yet. Maybe she never would. And that was on her.
"Uh, I guess I should start by sayin' thanks for comin'. Want coffee or somethin'?" Even after all this time, Lou had enough respect to push her sunglasses off and up into her hair.
"And sorry." About Eve. About ditching you guys. Most people weren't worth an apology, Lou could tell if they wouldn't even try to accept it. But August was worth one, even if he didn't take it. "I wanted to..." Go to the funeral. The sentiment died on her tongue. She looked away from Auggie, frowning. It felt a lot easier to just jump into business....
"If I tell you what I really saw in the woods last summer, would ya listen?" Slowly, Lou fixed her eyes back on August. Expectant. Neurotic.
Admittedly, August hadn't known quite what to think when he'd found the note under his door scrawled in Lou's familiar handwriting. He'd stopped holding out hope that she might reach back out a long time ago, when just about all his attempts at doing so had continued to go more or less ignored and unanswered. He was bad at letting shit go, it was true, but sometimes â sometimes he could only cling on for so long before it just started hurting too much. Sometimes cutting your losses was all there was left.
Despite all the work he'd had to put into learning to let Lou go, though, there was never a single world in which he'd have received that note and not done anything it asked him to.
It was a few minutes after midnight already by the time August skulked into the diner, and he wasn't too surprised to find Lou had beaten him there. Seeing her posted up in the booth flooded him with a mix of emotions he didn't really have the time to dissect at the moment. He was sure the wariness was written all over his face as he slid into the booth across from her, and it didn't lessen any as she started talking. If anything, the apology only had him more on edge, especially the lack of elaboration that followed. There was a lot Lou could be apologizing for in that moment, he thought, and he'd like to say he didn't need apologies for any of it, butâ
It'd been hard. It'd been really fucking hard, and she'd been gone, and August didn't know if she even had any way of fully grasping just how lost he'd been these past few years.
He didn't know how to get into all that. He didn't know if he even really wanted to get into all that. But what he wasn't expecting was the question that followed, the subject change, and fortunately, it was enough to grab his attention and pull him out of the feelings he'd been starting to spiral down. His brow furrowed a little as he sat up a little straighter. "Yeah. Yeah, 'course I'd listen," he told her, soft but earnest. He didn't know many of the details, but he'd heard enough of the rumors that had been floating around to know it wasn't good. He'd thought about reaching out to her about it, but â well, it hadn't exactly gone that well the last time he'd done so. "Coffee would be great, by the way," he added, glancing at her mug.
Abilene stood still, watching him closely as he spoke, her arms crossing against the chill. The sharp scent of pine and the faint echo of footsteps from the church drifted between them. She couldnât tell if his guardedness was a defense mechanism or just who he was. Either way, August wasnât offering much, and it grated against her already frayed patience.
Her lips pressed into a line, considering his words. Careful, measured. Like someone walking a tightrope.
âThat all?â she asked, her tone low, but there was a lilt of challenge in it. Not accusatory - at least not fully. âYou just gave him a ride and called it a night? Seems odd youâd even be out there to run into him like that.â
Or maybe her blood just turned cold whenever Major's name was mentioned.
Abilene tilted her head, studying him, searching for cracks in the armor. She wasnât sure what sheâd find if she pushed, but she couldnât ignore the knot in her stomach. Baylorâs death had left a mark on the town, sure, but this was Misty Mountain - people werenât just sad. They were suspicious. There were whispers, theories, and accusations swirling like leaves in a storm, and Augustâs name was tangled in them. It didn't help one bit either that Abilene had found herself entangled in a bear attack that night. Everything just seemed... odd.
âIâm not trying to say youâre guilty of anything,â she added after a beat, softer now. âI just - people talk, and I figured youâd rather say your side of it to me than let the whole town run wild with theirs.â
"I'm kinda an odd guy, in case you hadn't heard," August said, dryly sardonic, one corner of his lips tugging up into a faint smirk. That was putting it far more kindly than most people in Misty Mountain bothered to. The rumors about him were pervasive, and it figured it was only a matter of time before they cycled back into some sort of relevance. After what happened at the hospital that night, he wasn't surprised.
He crouched down again, this time to pick Jackal up. The tiny cat squirmed in his arms for a moment before settling into a comfortable position, rumbling away with purrs against his chest. The warmth grounded him, and when he looked to Abilene again, some of the sharpness around his edges had worn away into something more like resignation. "That really is why I was at the hospital in the first place that night. But while we were waitin' for Major to get checked out... Rosie and Bobby Hugh came wanderin' in and they had this hare-brained scheme to go try and talk to Baylor. I stupidly managed to get myself roped into it, but the hospital staff caught onto us and kicked us out before we ever even saw him. That's all. Believe me or don't, it's no skin off my back either way." He wasn't about to beg her or anything, but admittedly a part of him couldn't help but hope that Abilene had gotten to know him well enough by now to bother seeing through all the bullshit.
His eyes dropped to Jackal again as he gently scritched behind her ears, and after a moment he added quietly, "I just wanted to find out what happened, same as anyone else. I wanted to ask him if he was okay. I don't see what's so wrong about that."
WHERE: the church, baylor's funeral
WHO: @mcthmancometh
Hushed conversation fell upon the sanctuary, everyone standing and shuffling their way down the pews to talk to their neighbors, share stories of the dearly departed, and shake their heads with the profound sadness of a light snuffed out far too soon.
Knox stood to shake hands, head bowed and nodding along with the lamenting. But he couldn't shake the wrongness of it all. Why, when this place had once been his sanctuaryâ the one place where everything felt like it made senseâ did it now feel tarnished? As if its shiny veneer had been ripped away, exposing its rotting underbelly.
He found himself absently rubbing his chest, just over the place he'd been slashed, and blinked back into existence. The air felt too tight, the space too small, to hold so many people, and so, with his head still bowed, Knox made his escape through the back door.
A breath left him in a fog of icy air as he pressed his back against the building and sucked in several more greedy gulps. It was only once the initial stifling panic had subsided that a prickling of awareness crept along his spine and Knox looked up, realizing far too late that he wasn't alone.
His head whipped around, gaze falling on August Ives. Knox straightened, slipping immediately back into the mask of the son of Pastor Carrigan like he hadn't just burst through the doors of the church like he was being chased out. Instead, he turned his defensiveness into suspicion, eyes narrowing on August as he tried and failed to place him at the service. He hadn't been looking, but that was beside the point. No poking holes in his defense, thank you very much. "What're you doin' out here?" The question might have been accusatory if not for the sheer exhaustion weighing Knox down, the charade harder and harder to uphold. It seemed impossible as they stood here now that they'd ever been friends, Knox's father's own quiet prejudices rubbing off on a young, impressionable son until they had become his prejudices as well. He couldn't even truly recall their specifics now that he thought about it. His gaze averted, then, feeling suddenly uncomfortable in more ways than he could identify. Instead, his eyes stared ahead toward the woods and dared not return to the night he'd spent in them. "Th' service is practically over now."
August had never exactly been a regular at any of the churches in town, and there were multiple reasons for it, but one of the biggest was how visceral and potent the feeling of unwelcomeness was whenever he dared step inside the hallowed grounds. He was used to not belonging places â it was a feeling he'd been saddled with his entire life â but there was something about the pews and stained glass and hushed voices in particular that made his skin crawl. It was just about the only place where he sometimes couldn't help but wonder if maybe the townsfolk were right about him. Maybe he really did have a little bit of the Devil in him.
He'd had a plan for Baylor's funeral: sneak in after everyone was already inside and settled, stay in the back near the doors, hopefully slip out more or less unnoticed before things wrapped up and everyone else started leaving. He wasn't trying to disrupt anything. If anyone asked, he was there to pay his respects, just like anyone else. And he managed to make it out without much incident, right up until he paused just outside the back door to light a cigarette before he went on his way only for someone to come bursting out right after him.
Knox seemed â out of sorts, to say the least. Not that that was any of August's business. It took a second to figure out that Knox hadn't actually been following him out, that in fact Knox hadn't even seemed to notice him, and he'd just taken a careful step backwards to try and sneak away before that changed when Knox looked up and August watched his whole demeanor change in real time. The sharpness to Knox's eyes was like a knife in the heart, and August didn't answer the question immediately, because just like always, he didn't know what to say to the guy.
After all, how do you tell your first real friend that you still miss them like burning when they wrote you off like it was nothing years ago?
"I was just headin' out," he finally managed, his voice quiet and verging on defensive. "Wasn't really too keen on the inevitable post-funeral chat session." He hesitated before tentatively adding, "Are you okay?" Again, none of his damn business by any means, but he couldn't help but ask. Something about Knox in that moment just felt off, and even though he knew it wasn't exactly reciprocated, August's heart couldn't help but ache for him just a little bit, despite it all.
