[personal profile] imagines
Damn, does it feel good to write again. I did homework-type things for almost three hours straight and thought I deserved a reward. My brain is now doing its best impression of a wriggly waggy-tailed puppy.

Title: Silvertongue
Rating: All
For [livejournal.com profile] barefootboys prompt #15. DH spoilers, kinda. Um, are we still warning for those?
Summary: What the fortune-teller knew.

The boys are sharing candyfloss and the pale one is clutching a teddy bear almost as large as himself. She'd place them at twelve, maybe thirteen, though her eyes are so old she can't see much but the deathgrip they've each got on the other's hand

(death, yes death, that's what it will all come to)

and the grins on their faces. They're heading for her booth, the dark one digging in his pocket for change. She resolves to lie, no matter what she sees in their palms.

The dark one drops glinting silver coins on her table. "That enough for a palm reading each?" he asks. His hair is very long, down past his shoulders. He likes his hair that way

(makes his mama mad, oh yes, makes him look like a sweet little girl, just perfect for the boys)

so she doesn't tell him he needs a haircut. She picks up the money from her velvet tablecloth, squinting as she tries to make out the letters. Foreign stuff, she guesses, and drops it in the cashbox the carnival gave her with the booth. Silver is good no matter what its shape.

"Of course, dearies. Come on in and sit down. I'll make you some tea and throw in a reading of the leaves. It's a gift for you both. You're celebrating, aren't you?'

They glance at each other as they step into her booth

(tell her)

(how'd she know? don't tell her, what will she think)

and perch on a purple-and-gold couch, skinny legs touching.

"It's been two weeks since something really good happened, that's all," explains the dark one.

She pats his hand. "That's wonderful, dearie," she says, and of course she knows what the good thing was, because

(she doesn't know, but i love you, i do)

(nobody knows, but i love you more)

it's in their eyes, all of it. She ducks behind gauzy curtains til she finds her kettle on its small burner, and she brews the best darned pot of tea she's made since the day her man came home from the war, brings it to the boys in tall steaming mugs, lets them rest and sip and lean closer and closer together.

She forgets she's supposed to be telling (lying about) their futures, and tells them love stories instead, all the right loves and wrong loves and in-between loves she's had in her life, and doesn't mind that the one about her beloved ballet madam raises their eyebrows just a bit. She knows what they need to know.

When they've finished their tea and the dark one has let his head fall against the pale one's, she takes each boy's palm in turn and

(they will both be killed)

spins the wildest, prettiest futures she's created since the day she read Tarot for a girl fated to be hit by a car on her walk home from a carnival many years ago.

She sees them watching her strangely when she reads the tea leaves for them, as if they can see the horror she's pretending isn't there for their sake. They're just children. They don't need to know

(ah, but we already know)
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