Street Magic
On the streets of London, there is a particular street magician who performs mind-bending tricks. Even the most observant never manage to catch his sleight of hand. Half the crowd worship his magic without question, and the other half religiously, futilely, try to pick out his faults.
The magician's a gangly fellow with a mischievous, lopsided grin forever on his face, a lovely red scarf around his neck no matter the weather, and black mirrored shades perpetually over his eyes.
Most notable, however, is his little quirk; some people say abracadabra, some mutter gibberish, some even substitute words with a snap of the fingers. He, however, sticks with two words.
With his sleeves rolled up and an empty hand closed in midair, the street magician waves his other hand over the first, eyes blinking unseen behind reflective shades.
"Arthur Pendragon," he drawls, for that is his uniquely odd magic chant.
On any other day, magic occurs and that is that. The crowd would clap, and chatter and ruminate over the odd choice of spell.
Today, however, two things happen at once.
One: his hand opens to a flutter of butterflies that leaves the crowd awed.
Two: far back, in the rear of the group, a blond man with the bluest of eyes jolt at the words. His brows furrow as he studies the street magician.
Like magic, or perhaps destiny, the magician's head abruptly snaps upwards towards him. The background seems to melt away as they're wrapped up in a feeling of camaraderie, belonging, and fraternal love.
Subconsciously, the blond elbows his way up to the front, eyes never leaving the magician, who has frozen mid-trick.
"Do I know you?" he asks, mystified, and the world starts ticking once more.
The street magician only grins back like it's an inside joke between them, and the blond can do nothing more but stare as something deep within his mind stirs and tries to wrestle its way out.
The rest, as they say, is history (literally).