August. Definition: respected and impressive.

In a sentence, “she was in august company.”

Respected, and impressive. Both? At the SAME TIME? Yeah, he did not have that. It would take great effort to live up to his name. And you know what august always says when people suggest he put hard work into something, people!

Great…. Effort.

Sigh.

How did he get roped into this again? Well? Him and Rex bumped into each other at the library. In his wise moment of inspiration, August was like “Hey Rex, what are you up to? Want to do an activity?”

And Rex was like “I often volunteer to do community service. I was just about to do such a thing. Would you care to join me?”

And August was like “Hoo boy, would I?” And Rex… well Rex thought better of him than he would have, himself. He took August at his word. So… here he was. Hooray!

Community service. Servicing the community. For free. Without a court order. In what world was this a thing people did? It was a good thing Rex was handsome.

So now, August was working on his… august reputation. Ba dum tsh.

“So…” August began awkwardly. “Been doing this a long time? Community service? Tell me about that. How are we helping people today?”

‘Don’t be an ass dont be an ass ,’ he inwardly recited. Purposefully moderating his tone to one of an inquisitive person, rather than a dismissive one.

In the shadow of the attack at the mutant manor, Rex had been feeling like once again, his life was upended. It wasn't so much a result of being part of a defense against a terrorist onslaught, but more how the world changed overnight. Magic was at least nominally validated as real, at least this particular brand of magic that the Welldrinker Cult had dabbled in. Reports from around the world started displaying similar snapping events like all the magic-users who'd gained their powers through the Welldrinkers had experienced.

From that day, Rex and many other magic users in New York, who were now leading experts in this type of magic, had banded together to form a society to organize, protect, and even advocate for those who used magic. Because there was no leadership, no charter, no constitution, and no actual authority, everyone ended up interpreting the society's directives in very different ways. Some, like Rex, had thrown themselves into mission-type work, helping to extract or educate mystics in other countries who faced physical persecution for their abilities. It was exhausting and painful, constantly being on the move in every moment of freetime.

Today, though, was not about potentially life and death stakes though. It wasn't about wading into a world of violence, prejudice, anger, and fear. It was about simply helping people.

"We're cleaning up a playground," Rex said to August as he passed him a bag of tools as they approached the site. "I've been wanting to get it done before school's out for summer, but, well, I haven't had the time." A flicker of disappointment flashed across his face before vanishing. There were just so many things he needed to do and not enough time.

He shifted the backpack on his back. "I've been helping out here for a few years now," he said after a moment's contemplation. "Lot of good people here, although the bad ones get all the headlines. They need a place where their kids can go safely and not resort to getting in trouble."

Rex knew cleaning up and restoring a playground wouldn't solve everything, or even many things. Still, it was worthy to have a place people could take pride in. He hadn't just spent the last few years investing in the community's appearance, he was trying to invest in their hearts and spirits.

He stared at Rex. And stared at Rex. And stared and stared and stared, as the man spoke. Something was occurring to him. Something kind of strange. He, himself, was not august. He was August, sure, but he was not august. Rex, though? This guy was respected and impressive. Or, if he wasn’t, he deserved to be. Because he was far better, far more sincere than he could ever be. The guy did community service. He had been doing community service for YEARS. Not ironically. For real.

August had been a rich kid. Was a spoiled adult. All the same, he was aware people didn’t all come from money. Some came from no money. He did not often spend time with them, but they existed. Many had interesting stories. Some were sad. But people came from humble beginnings, story or no. And sometimes, the lack of money made things hard. Led to problems beyond lack of money. Rex was trying to help people, and prevent that. And just give people something nice. In short, he was like… like a dungeons and dragons paladin.

Yeah.

August carried the tools. The whole bag of them. And he made a resolution. He was not going to flirt with this man. He was too good for him. He’d do his best though, to not bring him down. He had volunteered for this activity, he would do what he could for this. Okay? And he was not going to let people be mean to Rex. This was about as self-aware as he could get.

“That’s pretty cool, actually. I respect that.” He said. About everything. “I agree. Let’s help them out.”

He idly wondered if his grandfather had ever helped anyone other than himself in his life. Way to one up the old man.

As they walked, August made small talk.

“So, what do you do when you aren’t helping take care of communities? My day job is concert violinist. Lot of practice, but I enjoy it. What is you? What do you do? Your passion?”

One of Rex's eyebrows briefly twitched, the closet expression he had to a look of shock. August was a bit surprising so far. Just from his previous encounter with the man at the Xavier Sister School and the times he'd seen him at the Veil headquarters, Rex hadn't really gotten the sense that August was the kind of guy who got his hands dirty doing go work.

He gave the briefest of nods in acknowledgement. The man was building good will, to the point Rex didn't mind answering a question.

"I'm a firefighter, but this is my passion," Rex said. "It feels good to help people." On the clock, he was responsible for life and death decisions, where seconds could change entire outcomes. Working in this community? It was purely constructive. He was engaged in church community service programs, he'd volunteered to mentor youths, he was even a stand-in coach for a middle school summer league basketball tournament last year. He could lose himself in the work and know he was making a difference, however small.

They reached the playground and Rex shoved the rusted gated fully open, eliciting a painful screech of oxidized metal on metal. The playground wasn't large. It had a swingset, a slide, monkey bars, a jungle gym, a small area for skateboarding, a few scattered benches, a balance beam, a broken seesaw, and two of those little chair-things on giant springs that you could bounce around on. Beside it was a half basketball court. It was all surrounded by a chain link fence . Graffitti covered everything that trash and rust didn't covered. Some of the bars were broken off the monkey bars and jungle gym. An old, decrepit tire was just laying there.

It didn't look suitable for even adults to be there.

"Let's start by picking up the place," Rex said, passing August some heavy duty rubber gloves, a trashbag, and a spear-like stick for stabbing into trash without constantly having to bend over.

A firefighter. August arched an eyebrow in surprise, then nodded in acceptance. Once again, something for the hood of others. Not what he himself would do. Rex showed his colors again. Fire and passion. Helping others.

“It is unreal how much I respect that,” august stated soberly.

It was unreal, because old august would have had other things to say. Few would have been respectful. That had been before he worked with Rex and others, sacrificing time and a whole load of energy. On a whim. To protect reality. But mainly because he had gotten word something would happen. Something bad. And he had the hots for one of the few who would be affected by the bad. He was still unpacking how his life had changed, all THAT baggage. It was his bag, but he wasn’t going to unpack it on Rex’s floor.

He just followed and walked and carried. They got where they were going.

The gates were noisy. Did they have oil for that? Oily magic? They ought to call Herc. He was probably magical when he was oily—shutthef^*%upaugustchrist. He mentally shushed himself. They weren’t objectifying friends today. Especially ones with complicated romantic histories.

The whole place needed a coating of magical love and attention. More than an oil cans worth. He put on the gloves and took up the spear. He had no magic for cleaning. Good old fashioned elbow grease would have to do. Ugh. He was wearing nice clothes.

“Towards thee I roll,” August held up the spear, and with a slightly crooked smile, he continued the speech, voice lowered dramatically. Ironically. “Thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last I grapple with thee; from hell’s heart I stab at thee…”

He skewered a piece of trash, and stuffed it in the bag.

Cleansing this place better not be the death of him. Their all-consuming white whale of a task.

After several minutes of cleaning, he turned to Rex.

“So.” He started, in a conversational tone. Thrust, point. Stab. He jabbed a Greasy Burger box. “Why did you choose to defend the school?”

Rex conveniently turned away when August stated his respect. Rex didn't really know what to do with a compliment like that so he just rolled his shoulders and stabbed at a plastic bag on the ground. It was always easier for him to throw himself into work, especially physical work, than to deal with social niceties or whatever. Gloria was always far better at such things than he was.

Fortunately, August went along with the idea of cleaning, to Rex's mild surprise. In truth, upon their first couple of encounters, August hadn't struck Rex as the type of man to engage in physical labor. He seemed too...hip? Not snobbish or snooty. Just like a person who'd never really lift a finger to do something. That would have been fine with Rex - he had already been planning to fix up the playground all on his own anyways - but the surprise was welcome.

The guy knew literature too. He wasn't just an airhead.

Rex snorted. "Nice," he said, a faint quirk of the corner of his mouth giving the illusion of a faint wisp of a smile. He stabbed a plastic bottle with a label too faded to be legible and put it in his bag.

Rex didn't stop working when the question came. "It needed to be done," he said simply. He speared a second plastic bag as he made his way to the fence so he could begin on the perimeter. Sure, there were so many reasons he could've said instead. He had been asked. They had saved his life before, he was returning the favor. He had...friends? Amicable acquaintances?...there. It was a school. Children made their home there. Great evil was about to be unleashed. He had the ability to do so and wasn't the kind of man to hide his talent in the ground. He didn't need any of those reasons though - he was in as soon as he learned of the threat. Overthinking was overrated.

"You?" Rex grunted in return. Then he added: "Nice moves in the air, too. Didn't let the gryphon-kid throw you." Heaven above, Rex knew how difficult that kid could be, even without that bestial form of his.

Needed to be done. Again, good answer. The goodest. Wasn’t even a word. But he’s make it one.

There had to be more to it than that, some ulterior motive. He was really that good? No ‘wanted to get into cold steel’s pants’, or ‘some X man owes me a lot of money.’ Just ‘needed doing.’ Okay.

He looked down from a brief, admiring, but also skeptical, look. Stabbed and bagged more trash.

The question gif turned back on him, and his answer was not as good. Not as noble. He let Rex drop the compliment first, then prepared to disappoint him.

“I almost didn’t go…” He said, frowning. A plastic bag got stuffed into a plastic bag. “When I did, I did it sneaky-like. I had been told by the mystics what was going down, and told them I would have no part in helping them do it… then I snuck into their gathering before they teleported in… and just ran through the back ranks, using suggestion magic to tell people they probably ought to go home. It was going to be much safer if they went home. I can’t really make people do things that will bring them harm… had to prey on their cowardly natures to get them to leave… just like I preyed on the big flying mansion destroyer at the end. Told him he would have to expend all of his magic if he wanted to win…. He did. He lost. But… those are all great descriptions of what I did. Why…?”

August got quiet for a minute, and just fell into the pattern of stab, sack, stab, bag, stab, sack. Finally, he turned back to Rex.

“It’s stupid,” he had a silly half-smile. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Rex stopped picking up trash as August spoke. From the first few words, it seemed there was a tone shift. Sincerity. Vulnerability. He turned to the man and looked him over once more.

August could've said anything he wanted - Rex would've had little reason to disbelieve most stories August could've said. Altruistic or even heroic motives would've been expected, or perhaps a more personal or selfish reason, like he had something to lose if the mutants were destroyed.

Rex's opinion of the man rose even more.

He met August's gaze for several moments before shrugging and returning to stab more trash. "You do not need to tell me, if you so choose," Rex said. The Lord knew that Rex wasn't a fan of sharing things, he certainly wasn't going to force another to. "Although if it helps, running around a warzone and charging that wizard with nothing else but some words was certainly one of the bravest things I've ever seen."

Yes, it had been stupid, but stupidity was not mutually exclusive to brave. August's actions in siphoning away members of the invading force could have also been pivotal in allowing the defenders an equal field. "I didn't do that and I had a shield and fire."

He didn’t need to tell him. Sure. He could do that. This was kind of a confession, after all. Probably an awkward one. He could have simply not gone into it, instead of— what, probably overloading the man with way too much information. Rex thought he was brave, after all. It would be silly to go and ruin all of that… right?

He bit his lower lip thoughtfully, and chewed over his thoughts. “Thanks.” He said, after a second. “For the compliment. And yeah. I probably could stand to learn some new spells for offense and defense… rather than using words as my shield. Hrm.” Now he was introspective about his powers. “But words are pretty amazing, too.” He added.

So. Words. Did he confess? Or was he cool with letting it sit and be an open question, even after he had gone out of his way to pique Rex’s interest. Interest Rex gave him an out on.

He thought about it for a second, and stabbed trash.

“Sooo. Uhhh. Three reasons,” august said. “First is lame. Second is better. Third makes no sense, but it is best. I apologize. This is the information overload route. Are you Ready?”

He had done some thinking on this. Some of his reasoning had been flawed, some selfish, and some stupid beyond recognition, but also pretty valid, all things considered.

He really didn’t want to talk about reason one. It went against baseline personality traits. Those were like the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not talk about X, thou shalt hate Y, et cetera. Et cetera.

“I don’t really like talking about my family,” August began honestly. Not sarcastic. But maybe with a hint or humor and self loathing. “They have lied to me pretty much my entire life. I thought my real dad was … my grandpa… most of my life. Don’t ask. My real dad, though… never met him. Super villain. Cold steels arch nemesis, private dancer. Makes people dance when they don’t wanna. Wonder why my magic is how it be. This is the lame reason, by the way. Ready? Okay: I thought if cold steel died, my real dad would be sad. Never even met him, but there it is. The lie.”

He waited a few seconds, then continued.

“That lame lie got my feet moving out the door, but it wasn’t why I went. I’ve met CS once. One time. I ran away. Reasons 2 and 3 are as-follows: Cold Steel is a fracking masterpiece. He’s really hot, and I would be sad if he died. I worried he was gonna. Which makes no sense, because he’s strong. And brave. And noble, and does good things like a goddamn storybook knight. And I don’t know him, and these things are all laughable, and why would he die if he’s so tough, yeah? Such a stupid reason, a crush… but he did.” August looked Rex in the eye. “Need saving. And I did. Me and Carrick seized him out of the sky. When he fell. So I guess I helped. Heh. Oh, and I also really thought mystics attacking a school was poor form and had to stop them because it wasn’t right. So, um. I’m not radioactive, man, I’m just blushing alright?!”

He stabbed something. He had not meant this to be a confessional. This man was religious, wasn’t he? What with the burning crosses?

‘Forgive me, daddy. I’ve been bad.’ Wasn’t that what you said to priests?

“I suppose this makes me decidedly less impressive…” August sighed. But maybe it was good to lose his illusions. Definitely more honest. And his family had made him all sorts of screwed up when it came to the honesty game. None, or too much, too soon. This was… the latter. He fell quiet. After that monologue, he kind of needed a drink of water before he would feel like talking more.

Rex shrugged again after August mused about learning combat spells. "Fighting isn't everything," he said. "Not that kind of fighting, at least." It was something that was worrying Rex. In the past few months, he'd been traveling the world as a first responder as oracles at the Sanctum of the Veil identified new mystics in trouble. Yes, there were times when a fireball came in handy, but more commonly merely providing warmth and light in the cold of night was the best thing for a situation.

Still, without those to fight for freedom and protection, all the help and support meant nothing. Rex himself wasn't one to talk. He'd been pushing himself to learn that kind of magic in order to do that very same type of fighting. "I'll help if I can," he said.

He lapsed into contemplative silence as August opened up, only looking over at the other man when he paused between points.

Rex hadn't heard of this Private Dancer, but since it seemed he was more on the mind-control type of villain and not the kind to burn down buildings, it didn't surprise Rex. It also didn't seem like August was walking in his father's footsteps. Rex started to say as much when he caught the next bit.

Huh.

Rex looked August over again with this new information. That explained some of what Rex had seen out of August. He nodded and grunted. "Maybe in the future, just focus on that last bit, yeah?" he said, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a vague hint of a smirk.

He turned back to stabbing and picking up garbage. His trash bag was nearly full and they'd made it most of the way around the playground. "Shame about your father," he said, deliberately not making eye contact or looking in the other man's direction. There were too many emotions going on in the area. "He missed out on meeting a good young man."

He had bared his soul to the other man. Waiting, patiently, for something, any response to the awkward bits. August was uncertain how the man would react.

Would he take a step back, at the admission?

Would he be disgusted, would he be annoyed, would he try to say what was wrong about him, try to fix him, ask him what was wrong with him, tell him he should get fixed, stay silent, stay loud, or do one of the myriad other options one has when someone tells them something about gender identity that may not be something they’ve ever considered, or been comfortable with.

August sort of held his breath.

Rex chose… Rex chose to grunt, nod, make a comment about focusing on the last part next time. The part about him thinking something was not right? The part about him needing to do something about it? That part?! That part was the least, the lowest, the bottom rung of the ladder, the barest essential reason for someone to do anything!

August was about to open his mouth, and tell him that, because the silence about the meat of his large exposition had been neglected. And one does not neglect— you know what, we are moving beyond that metaphor.

August felt frustrated, and he felt dismissed. The man had cut to the quick of his statements, then smirked about it and gone back to stabbing trash.

August stabbed trash, instead of stabbing Rex, or sharing a cutting word. Then, Rex said something about his father.

August turned, ready for a fight.

The man would not look him in the eye. He disappointed him. By not picking a fight. He chose peace, and said something really nice. The bastard.

Maybe it was all a bit too much, too fast. The confessions, the fact he might be a friend of Dorothy. Maybe Rex was not ready to get swept up in that, this moment. Because he had sent a word cyclone spinning through that rundown playground they were in. And even though Rex had not said anything conclusive upon his opinions of what August had said, they were in a different place now, all the same.

His shoulders loosened. Yeah. He could give Rex a moment to process what he had said.

“Thanks,” August replied. He held the trash spear held aloft, so the crumpled detritus was silhouetted against the body of the sun. He turned, and stuffed it into his sack. “I’m trying. But it can be trying… that’s trite. But true. And I guess we are now part of a special club that goes around trying to help people, and do ‘good stuff.’ In ‘good form.’ Yeah?”

In truth, Rex didn't notice the silent array of feelings happening behind him. His eyes were focused on the last bits of trash on the ground so he could stab them with precision. That part of the playground cleanup was going fairly well at least. It was the easiest part, in Rex's opinion, but also the most visually impressive.

"Trying is all we can do," Rex said with a small smile. "We're only human, after all." The Lord knew that they weren't perfect. Rex himself wouldn't have been in this "club" if he hadn't lost his way so long ago.

"I guess that's as good a reason as any for the...club," Rex said as he skewered the last wrapper and put it in his bulging trash bag. "Honestly, I can't really tell what the purpose of it is, other than keeping mystics connected. Which is good enough, I suppose. Don't really know what other people are doing," he shrugged. He hadn't really spent much time in their weird little library, despite all his trips to it. Usually he was in and out, there long enough to check in and compare notes and data before going on on another excursion. His passport had been seeing far more use of late.

He tied off his bag and plopped it down by the gate. "Alright, looks like pickup duty is over. Next up, you have a choice," he said, reaching into one of the two tool bags for a wire brush, a rag, a spray bottle of rust remover, and some spray paint. He held them out to August. "Do you want to fix the rusty gate or cover up the graffiti-covered slide?"

‘Trying is all we can do.’

Yeeeeeep. Was that Campbell’s, because it sounded like it had come from a can. But yes… it was a good reason for club penguin.

>> "Honestly, I can't really tell what the purpose of it is, other than keeping mystics connected. Which is good enough, I suppose. Don't really know what other people are doing,"

August did not say stripping.

They finished trash pickup in amiable silence. Then Rex presented him with choices.

“I feel artistic.” He said, then clarified. “Destruction of art is also art. Though it’s a shame. This tagger, Claremont, does good work. Looking at that fuzzy blue demon with a Bible, and that white-haired black woman riding that storm cloud. It’s uncanny.” How’d it all fit on the slide?

As August claimed to feel artistic, Rex had a sudden moment of worry. Perhaps this was a mistake? August clarified though and Rex let out a breath he didn't know he'd held.

"Have...fun then," he said. He stared blankly at the graffiti before shaking his head. The giant-sized images were practically blasphemous or otherwise offensive to decent sensibilities.

He passed the spray paint over and with the rest of the tools, he made his way back to the gate and began scraping at it with the wire brush.

After a moment or two passed, Rex felt like he should force himself to get to know his co-mystic better. "So...what's it like being a concert violinist?" he asked, having no frame of reference for what that entailed. It didn't sound like a sustainable, actual career to him.

August went at the graffiti, artistic in the way only an artist can be, which is to say— eh. Art happened. There really was no explaining it.

His art was removing the old art. It got removed. The area got a uniform coat of paint. Stuff happened.

Rex asked him what it was like being a concert violinist.

Good question.

“It takes dedication and a very great deal of work,” August told him. “You have to do a load of practicing, daily, and study music history, theory, performing, all that jazz. Have to sacrifice a lot of free time for it. And before any of that, you have to get the right degree for it. I worked my butt off.”

He looked away from the wall he was painting, back to Rex. He bit his lip a moment, thinking, considering what Rex might possibly be thinking. Pay grade maybe?

“I make a good amount, with the orchestra’s yearly schedule. I do some gig work at weddings and stuff if I want to make extra money. It beats the 9-5 grind. Get to play a lot of good music. Remind me some time to play a Star Trek riff for you, that I practiced once for a Klingon wedding. John Williams has good ones, too. Never done a Star Wars wedding though. Wonder why.”