#auguste;starter

Usually, it wasn’t him in the clubs. It wasn’t the witch that would be sitting at the bar, taking a few shots to try and ignore the majority of what was around him. It wasn’t difficult to do, but Auguste done it so much better with alcohol in him. Really, if it wasn’t for meeting a client here, he would have never stepped foot in the building.

A breath is taken as he turns back toward the amalgamation of dancing bodies, wondering if his client was out there, or just not here yet. The witch was impatient to say the least. Picking up the shot glass he’d just emptied, it’s spinning on the tip of his finger, trying to entertain himself.

Auguste watches, after he’s bumped into, as the glass goes sailing toward someone else. Eyes widen a little-- it was just a shot glass, but fuck those things could hurt. He didn’t feel like getting into a fight, but it lands squarely on their cheek. His head goes into his hands. “My fuckin’ luck...”

There were things about every job that wasn’t good. Auguste knew that. He knew that he couldn’t expect a job to be just peaches. He was a witch after all, but nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for being a barista. There was no hell that was as torturous as this. Dealing with the public directly like this was bad enough, not to mention the customers that decided they needed drama in their day (and so fucking early too!).

But, there was always something that kept his interest in this. And that something had just walked through the door. They were covered, almost head to toe, as if they were hiding. If they were, they were doing a damn good job of it No one around the cafe knew who this person was, and it only made the witch that much more curious, especially with how the name that called them up to get their coffee was never the same. 

This time, and auguste heaves a heavy sigh, it was Iron Man. Fingers press to his forehead, eyeing the person. Grabbing the pen they used for their names, Auguste scribbles out something else on their cup before calling it out.

How long?

A few months? Years maybe. That was his guess. But he wasn’t one to deal with death. No, that was his brother, the necromancer. The coffee he had just gotten is sipped at as Auguste watches the man. Dark brown eyes scrutinize every part of the being. He wouldn’t think of him as human, even though he was, at one point, but now.. 

The witch studies for a moment longer, glancing away for a second to allow his eyes to adjust to the street around him. It wouldn’t do for him to get too interested in studying this spirit and forget that there were cars, things that could easily kill him and put him in the same position as the boy he had found so interesting.

It was so rare to find one wandering around in the city so freely though. Another sip of his drink, eyes squinting in thought. Usually they were stuck to one place, to one person, to one... 

~ ★ ~

Why was he here again?

Auguste waits for his name to be called, his drink order done. He’d actually taken the day off for the purpose of this meeting, and he never took planned time off from his music. Never. Granted, he still had his phone, and a small pad and pen in case lyrics, or a beat happened to pop into his head. If something come up, this little recon mission--

Oh yeah, that was it. He was here to see if what he had heard was true.

Being a witch himself, and being told of someone else that seemed to do what he done, he wanted to see if it was true. Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to believe he was the only one, but simply to hear of someone that seemed to be so willing to be put out in the public was interesting. So it was either this man was damn good at what he done, or he was nothing. Auguste was curious.