Chapter Text
Seung-gil hates people. Far as he’s concerned, the world can burn; the less morons to deal with, the better.
They say it’s cause his Ma’s a pro skirt, a street walker. A chippy who entertains all kinds of fellas in the house, like a grocery store open 24-7. Well, who the hell is ‘they’, and why the hell should he care? It is what it is, after his Pa flew the coop with some other broad. Ain’t like his Ma loves him any less; she just has a lot more to love in her spare time.
That’s why Seung-gil got into voodoo. It’s pliable, malleable. Controllable. It’s a rush, manipulating the little dolls to his wishes, getting them to do exactly as he commands. The Huns got the right idea, using magic in the war. What Seung-gil doesn’t get is why Uncle Sam didn’t fight fire with fire. He could’ve been a real asset with his black magic, maybe even made Sergeant Major.
But no, the Americans took a whole ‘nother route with magic. Made it evil, made it the devil’s handiwork. Propaganda at its finest. It’s just as well for Seung-gil. Gives him the perfect reason to hide in his new apartment, away from crowds and sunlight and hatred for all things magical.
And then Phichit breaks down the proverbial door and ruins everything. For a small town sorcerer, the guy’s a live wire, his easy grin a zing of lightning to Seung-gil’s cold, weary soul. It’s too much; far too much to take at one go. He tells Phichit as much—hisses at him, really—not that Phichit listens, or cares. Every few days, the madman brings food and grand tales about speaks and booze, flappers and dappers. Every few days, the soft-spoken Yuuri drops by with him, with a smile and a gentle “I hope you’ve been well”.
Truth told, Seung-gil likes the company. Even takes on Phichit and Yuuri’s suggestion of selling potions for a few clams, money unstained by his Ma’s little sideshow acts in their old family home. (Not that he’ll ever tell the two mugs.)
So he trucks on, growing—dare he say it— content with life.
Until, one day, a man swings by. “I want the strongest spell you’ve got,” he says.
Well, Seung-gil thinks. About damn time.