#a.nsw

[avgxst]

"I don't uhm-- I don't do the uh, cannabis."

August turns, a furrow in his brow. “It’s just a— ah, cigarette.” He steals a quick drag as if to prove his point; August preferred to smoke occasionally over his balcony but, the building the ledge overlooked was currently under construction and the noise was dreadful. Smoking inside his apartment wasn’t an option, so August found himself stood in the nearest alley by his building. Despite his reply, the stranger before him remains, and August fidgets a bit beneath the attention. “Would you..” He slowly sifts through his pockets, fumbling with the packet of Camel’s before offering a cigarette, “—Like one?” 

[avgxst]

"Um.." That was all he could manage after seeing the familiar male standing next to him but somehow he cannot seem to recall. The latter was reading a magazine, right in the very bookstore where he happened to look for something for a gift. One glance at a sports magazine with his own face on the front cover of it got him distracted. But with the stranger standing in his way, it's impossible to reach for it. "Excuse me.." He said quietly.

August had passed by a rather extensive bookstore on his way home and, while squashing his anxiety, stepped inside for just a peek. He’d skimmed through the Non-Fiction shelves, very carefully avoided the Self-Improvement section, and lingered for quite a while in Literature. Inevitably, August purchased a novel from both Kerouac and Burroughs and whilst exiting the store, new goods in hand, the male realized he’d skipped the magazine shelves entirely. 

The tabloids were his guilty pleasure, and August held one in his hands with such concentration, he hadn’t noticed that he was blocking a section of the shelves. That is, until a voice spoke up, low and quiet yet rang alarms in August’s ears. He glances up, eyes wide and staring. “Oh!— Uhm, sorry,” sidestepping, quickly August then begins spewing apologies. 

[avgxst]

" i just need you to write us something beautiful ".

"I don’t know what you mean by that," August replies, each word with increasing vehemence. With his torso leaning over the piano, August buries his face into crossed arms resting against the sheet music rack. His knee bounces beneath him with growing frustration; the notes, the melody were there yet August, try as he might, couldn’t grasp them. 

[avgxst]

"It’s complicated." He wrote, turning the book to the other.

August flits his stare between the stranger and his fluid handwriting. “Complicated indeed,” he comments, canting his head. Yet before his curiosity can venture him to question further, August catches himself.