Louis Donovan (strikethose) wrote in repose, @ 2016-03-06 18:16:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | *log, aidan mclear, louis donovan |
log: antique store - louis/aiden
Who: Louis and Aiden
What: A visit to the antique store.
Where: Repose Antiques
When: Recently
Warnings/Rating: N/A
To say the store had been dreary lately was the understatement of the year. March, now, and things were only slowly beginning to pick themselves up after the post-Christmas rush, the collectors quietly filtering out from the Capital and its suburbs to pick through the store's leaning towers of artifacts.
Louis had only inherited the store, but he had come to feel very much a part of it since he came to Repose late in the previous year. He had familiarized himself with the stock, and with the store's tendency to randomly produce items he had never seen before. He had become accustomed to the strangeness of some of the objects, and avoided those things like the plague, generally.
His aversion to all things occult manifested in a staunch denial that anything at all odd ever happened in the store, or that any of the objects (even that terrifying baby doll) represented anything but old, strange things.
It was easier. It just was. His life was too complicated just now to let in the occult, not after last year, and not with his ever-increasing lack of sleep. It was hard not to feel panicked by the insomnia. The last time he'd been insomniac had been...well, best not to think about it. He was free and clear of all that business - that was the point of being exorcised in the first place, wasn't it? It was like going to the hospital when there was an emergency. Even if it wasn't real, you had peace of mind, after.
Those bad months with the dead god were real enough, but he was confident they were behind him. Sam was in the hospital, Cris seemed to be teetering on the edge of something very bad, and his love life was in a shambles. And he had a business to run. A business that definitely did not truck in magical objects. There was no fucking time for an anxious, panic attack false alarm over a simple bout of sleeplessness. It didn't mean anything. He wouldn't let it.
With Oliver working at Sonrisa these days, Louis sat behind the counter from morning until night. And since the customer flow hadn't entirely reverted to full blast just yet, he was doing a lot of reading. Today, he'd dug a copy of De Quincey's ode to British/Eastern hedonism out of the dusty antique pile in the back. It had been someone's presentation copy, once, bound in lovely soft calfskin, excellent condition. He might actually keep it for himself. And while stories of addiction did remind him of people he knew, it was all so Victorian that he could successfully sink in and not think. He eventually wound up tipped back in his undersized wicker chair behind the long glass counter, one long leg tucked beneath, another stretched out, the book splayed in one long hand, thumb squarely planted over the O in Opium.