Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You were supposed to die that day.

If you had known you would be kidnapped and chosen as food for carnivorous monsters, you would have shown kindness to the clown being harassed on the streets.

Tied up now, your head throbbed, pain blooming around your scalp as you tried to process what was happening in front of you. Your vision slowly adjusted to the darkness. Faint voices drifted through the air.

“Anyone intere… one?”

“Hm. No.”

“I’ll pass on this.”

Were they bidding on you? Selling you to someone? Your mind raced, questions piling up as you instinctively tried to move, every nerve screaming for you to run.

“Very well,” one of them said. “Then we can either relocate her…”

Silence followed. Stares burned into your skin as you tried to speak, to bargain, to negotiate.

“Or we can devour her.”

The words froze you solid. Everything became too much. Your senses overloaded, your fight-or-flight response flaring before collapsing in on itself. Slowly, your heart calmed. The frantic pounding faded. You had never dissociated this fast before. 

They noticed it. Your body slackened, your breathing evened out.

“Huh. Interesting,” said the tall individual draped in purple. He approached and knelt in front of you on one knee, taking a strand of your hair and twirling it around his fingers. “She’s not struggling anymore. Already accepting your fate, dear one?”

Around you, the others prepared to feast, positioning themselves like vultures. Their eyes never left you as they closed in.

“Must’ve broken her vocal cords when Doctor hit her earlier~” Green eyes gleamed as he yanked your hair forward, forcing you to meet his gaze.

You stared back with dull indifference.

It irritated him. Humans usually screamed, begged, fought. You did none of that. With a sharp motion, he ripped the tape from your mouth, clearly expecting a cry for help.

Instead, you whispered, “How… how long would this take?”

You would power through it. Just like every other day. You had survived on nothing but luck before. You could turn yourself off again. Let them tear you apart piece by piece.

Stunned silence filled the tent.

Then laughter erupted.

You lowered your head. How long had it been since someone laughed at your misery? Since you were made a joke in front of the entire class? Humiliated, watched, judged?

Because of that, you learned to trust no one but yourself.

Being in the spotlight made you weak. You overthought every mistake. You acted the way others expected. Different masks for every gathering, every conversation, every space. Attention made your chest tighten. Eyes on you meant judging your every move.

“You’re funny,” the man said. “I take back what I said earlier, Bil.”

The purple man stood, crossing his arms, a grin stretching across his face and revealing rows of sharp teeth.

The others clearly disagreed, but none dared to speak. He was the leader. You could tell.

The blue one untied your ropes. You flexed your hands, stretching your fingers, checking yourself for injuries.

“Follow me.”

“What?”

“I don’t like repeating myself, little one.”

“Ah— yes. I’m sorry…”

You stood quickly, stumbling once or twice before finding your balance. As you neared the tent’s exit, you turned back to those still inside and bowed slightly before hurrying after the man in purple. You caught glimpses of displeasure and amusement behind their masks.

Outside, your eyes wandered. Rows of vibrant tents surrounded you, green, red, blue, glowing faintly under dim lights. It felt unreal compared to what had happened inside.

“Why haven’t you run off?” he asked, stopping in front of a purple tent. He turned toward you, one hand holding the fabric entrance open.

You halted. Were you supposed to run? With legs this weak? Where would you even hide if they were to come after you? They were taller, faster. If they wanted to hunt you down, they would.

“It’s futile,” you said quietly, staring at the ground.

Laughter echoed in the distance. Cars honked on the road beyond the circus. People were heading home from work. The circus had long since closed its gates.

He hummed in response and stepped inside. The tent was dim, a small stage set up within. He motioned you toward the backstage area, where props and cardboard sets were stacked messily.

“Thank you,” you said, finally finding the courage.

It felt absurd to thank someone who had almost killed you. Still, you clung to the idea that there was something to be grateful for every day. This, somehow, counted.

“You’ll die either way, little human~”

He wasn’t wrong. He was only delaying your sentence.

He sat, crossing his legs, forearms resting on the table, fingers pressed to his temple.

You exchanged names. He introduced the others briefly, and you nodded, committing them to memory. The one you were to serve was called Jester. A strange name, but you weren’t in any position to question it.

He showed you where you would sleep. A thin mattress on the floor. No partitions. You would be fully visible as you slept.

It was awkward. But it was better than nothing.

The orientation for your almost-death ended there.

You lay down stiffly at first, then slowly relaxed as exhaustion claimed you. Your muscles loosened, your eyelids grew heavy, and despite everything, sleep took you.

Jester watched you sleep.

Your small, delicate frame shifted restlessly on the thin mattress, knees drawing closer to your chest as if even unconscious you were trying to take up less space. Your hair tangled against itself, catching beneath your cheek. Your brows knit together in silent distress.

It was… endearing.

He dismissed the thought immediately. He would never admit it out loud.

After a long moment, he turned away. The tent fabric whispered as he stepped out, the night air cool against his skin. He headed toward the black tent where the others waited.

“Pierrot,” Jester said as he entered, voice light but final. “Accompany our new assistant tomorrow.”

Pierrot stiffened. His mask tilted slightly, confusion bleeding through the cracks. He had only just recovered from his last encounter with humans. Now this?

“…Fine,” he said after a pause, unease thick in the word.

Discussion followed.

Harlequin suggested using you as an errand runner. Quick, disposable. Ticket Taker, ever practical, claimed he needed assistance managing the circus finances. Doctor scoffed. He didn’t need help, but he wouldn’t refuse it. Less work for him.

Pierrot said nothing. He didn’t need an assistant.

Not yet.

By the time night fully settled in, an agreement had been reached. You would assist Ticket Taker with the finances after retrieving your belongings. A test if you'll run, whether they admitted it or not.

Jester returned to his tent.

You were still asleep.

Curled in on yourself, breathing slow and shallow, clinging to your legs as though they were the only solid thing left in the world. Something in his chest tightened, sharp and unfamiliar.

He sighed quietly.

Taking a blanket meant for emergencies, he draped it over you, careful not to wake you. Then he grabbed a few spare pillows and slid them beneath your head, adjusting them until your neck rested more comfortably.

A few strands of hair had fallen across your face. He brushed them aside, tucking them gently behind your ear. His fingers lingered longer than necessary, tracing through your hair in slow, absent strokes.

The night stretched on.

For the first time since you entered the circus, no one watched you with heavy hunger in their eyes as him.

And something dangerously close to pity.

Chapter Text

Morning arrived on schedule.

You groaned as you pushed yourself upright, the ache in your body slow and unfamiliar. Your eyes opened to fabric instead of walls, muted colors instead of your ceiling fan. It took a moment for panic to rise.

Then it sank in.

Right. You weren’t in your house anymore.

Your gaze drifted to the blanket wrapped around you, the pillows cradling your head. You frowned. You didn’t remember using any of these. For a fleeting second, you wondered if you had sleepwalked, stealing something that wasn’t yours.

The thought made your chest tighten.

You stood, stretching the stiffness from your limbs, then carefully folded the blanket. You straightened the pillows, arranging them neatly to the side, as if order could undo what had happened.

As you began rolling up the thin mattress, fabric rustled behind you.

The tent opened.

You snapped your head up.

Pierrot stood at the backstage entrance.

The silence stretched.

You remembered him on the street. The kicks. The laughter. How you stood there and did nothing. Watching and allowing felt the same now. Your stomach twisted as guilt crept up your throat, thick and suffocating. You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes dropped to the floor.

“Let’s go,” he said at last.

You nodded quickly and followed.

Outside, the circus was already stirring. Lights flickered to life, vibrant and loud, clashing with the morning traffic beyond the gates. Others moved about, setting things up with practiced ease. Some looked like they didn’t belong here either.

You walked toward the city you knew, its noise wrapping around you like nothing had changed. Pierrot multitasked effortlessly, handing out flyers to passersby while keeping pace beside you, advertising the circus as if this was just another morning.

When you reached your home, he paused, surveying the area before following you inside.

The house stood quietly. Victorian. Two stories. Greenery spilling over stone, vines curling up the archway like they were trying to reclaim it.

“Is there something you’d like?” you asked, slipping off your shoes as you went in, already rolling up your sleeves and heading toward the kitchen.

“No,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

You stopped. “Oh… alright.”

You went upstairs but before turning the corner, you glanced back. Pierrot was already gathering things from the fridge and pantry, packing them into plastic bags with swift efficiency. At least he understood. You wouldn’t be here much longer.

Packing didn’t take long. There wasn’t much left that mattered. By the time you dragged your luggage downstairs, the clock read 3 p.m.

Pierrot must have heard you struggling. He appeared immediately, wordlessly taking the heavier bags from your hands.

At the entryway, you reached for your shoes. The pair you needed was stacked awkwardly on top, just out of reach. You stretched, fingers brushing the edge uselessly.

Without a sound, Pierrot stepped closer.

His body pressed gently against your back as he reached past you, long arm lifting effortlessly. Heat bloomed where you touched. You froze, breath catching in your throat.

He was warm and too close. Too close for comfort.

For a split second, you were acutely aware of how tall he was, how easily he loomed, how strange it was that anyone had managed to hurt him at all.

He handed you the shoes.

You turned, flustered, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you.”

He nodded.

You left together, Pierrot carrying most of your belongings. The afternoon sun burned bright overhead. People stared as you passed, curiosity and disbelief following you like shadows. You expected it.

The walk back was long and quiet. Only the howling of winds and chirping of birds can be heard in this town.

“I’m sorry about—”

“You’re living alone in a—”

You both stopped.

Giving him a polite smile, you gestured for him to go first, forcing your feet to move again.

“Y-you’re living alone in that big house?” he asked.

“Yes.” You swallowed. “It was supposed to be me, my husband, and my daughter.”

The words felt brittle.

They died in the ocean. Taken by waves that never gave them back. No bodies. No closure. Just endless searching and an empty shore. You were supposed to celebrate your daughter’s fifth birthday this year. Your tenth anniversary with him.

If fate had looked away for just a moment longer.

“I was twenty when I got pregnant,” you added quietly, noticing his puzzled look. “You can do the math.”

A soft chuckle escaped you, hollow and strange. The wind passed between you, brushing your hair across your face. You tucked it behind your ear so you could see the path ahead.

“Life has its ways of playing tricks on us,” you said. “Whether we like it or not.”

You arrived later than expected.

Jester and Ticket Taker were already waiting by the entrance. Jester stood with his arms crossed, posture stiff and sharp. Ticket Taker, in contrast, lifted his hat in greeting as you and Pierrot approached. Even so, you could tell Jester was irritated just from the way he held himself.

Every step toward them felt like walking to your execution. Pins prickled beneath your skin. You felt the tension sharpen as Jester closed the distance, his gaze dropping immediately to the oversized luggage and grocery bags Pierrot was carrying.

“You two took longer than intended.”

“We walked all the way here…” You replied.

Jester’s smile thinned.

“Did I tell you to walk from here to there and back?”

Your jaw dropped. Slowly, you turned toward Pierrot, who looked just as confused as you felt. A quiet sigh escaped you. Arguing was pointless. Defending yourselves wouldn’t change anything.

“We’re sorry,” you said quickly. “It won’t happen again.”

The words came easily. They always had.

Lowering your pride and apologizing had been your instinct since college. It worked. It kept things from escalating. It wasn’t insincere, exactly, just necessary. Survival disguised as politeness. Still, the habit made your thoughts spiral, wondering what you’d done wrong this time.

“Hm…” Jester murmured. “Next time, darling, don’t make me wait.”

He leaned in close, head tilting slightly, a wide grin stretching across his face. There was no concern in his tone. No warmth.

You stepped back instinctively, swallowing hard as he lingered a moment longer. Do they not have any sense of personal space?

Your thoughts snapped back when you realized Pierrot was still carrying your heavy load.

“Ah,” you said quickly, “I should fix my things. Is there anything I can help with right after?”

All three of them exchanged glances. The long delay meant the circus was already preparing to close again for the evening.

“Hm,” Ticket Taker said at last. “How about joining me in calculating this month’s table?”

You nodded immediately. Numbers were your strength. Statistics made sense in ways people never did.

With that settled, Jester dismissed you and Pierrot, instructing you to unpack and make the circus your new home.

Enjoying the cold wind passing through you with ease, you walked toward the tent together. You offered to help carry the bags, but Pierrot shook his head and refused. You shrugged, helpless to argue.

Once inside, he set everything down backstage. He unzipped your luggage and handed you clothes one by one as you folded them neatly, sorting and arranging them inside the small closet provided.

The quiet stretched.

“How did they die?” Pierrot asked suddenly.

The question caught you off guard. You looked towards him, searching for words that would mellow out the truth, easier than the reality lodged in your chest.

“It’s a long story,” you said slowly. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”

He nodded.

Chapter Text

It was my fifteenth autumn when I met him.

He stood at the front of the classroom while the teacher introduced him, hands fidgeting nervously as he bowed a little too quickly. His voice stammered when he greeted everyone, and he nearly tripped over his own words.

Cute.

…Wait. No. Absolutely not. There was no way I found this kid cute.

I shook my head sharply, as if I could physically shake the thought loose, when I suddenly heard my name called from the front.

“YES?!”

I shot up from my seat. Every eye in the room turned toward me. My eyebrows knit together in confusion as I tried to figure out what crime I’d committed this time.

“Yonah Milton will be sitting beside you,” the teacher said calmly. “Your bag seems to have claimed that seat so far, yes?”

Oh. So that’s his name.

Weird.

I nodded absentmindedly and sank back into my chair, cheeks warm from the embarrassment filling up. Great. I sighed and moved my bag aside just as Yonah approached, wearing a sheepish smile that didn’t help my dignity at all.

“H-hello…” he said as he sat down.

Why was he sitting at the very edge of his seat? I rolled my eyes. He was probably one of those anime kids who randomly dropped cringe Japanese lines into conversations. I started judging his entire existence while sketching aimlessly in my notebook.

Time crawled.

Eventually, boredom swallowed me whole. I slumped sideways, resting my cheek on my arm as I stared at Yonah while he wrote notes. It was strange for someone to transfer schools in the right after enrolment season.

He was… different.

Blue-tinted hair brushed his shoulders. A small mole rested beneath his left eye. Rectangular glasses framed soft features that made him look like the type of older brother who always put his siblings first. His outfit was simple, too. A loose white polo, gray pants. Gentle. Serene.

I wonder what his room look like—

“Excuse me,” he said suddenly. “Is there something on my face?”

He stopped writing and looked straight at me, eyes meeting mine as he pointed at himself.

“NO!” I snapped, sitting up too fast. “Not at all. Sorry. I just got distracted.”

I avoided his gaze, heat forming on my cheeks.

Days like that continued where I’d catch myself watching him, studying him like a piece of art. At first, he’d get flustered and look away, ears turning red. But over time, he grew bold.

“Keep staring,” he’d say casually. “People might think you like me.

Or worse—

“I’ll kiss you if you keep that up.”

He’d follow it with an innocent smile, like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade. Cheeky brat.

I hated how it made me freeze. How my heart would skip. How it would make me panic and feel somewhat giddy inside.

Still, we were just friends. That was all.

Then one day, he came back from lunch looking unusually confident.

And that was terrifying. Knowing him, the next thing he would say was bound to be something far worse.

“I’m running for student council president.”

He didn’t even sit down before blurting it out.

Silence.

...

Somewhere, birds chirped. Seconds turned to minutes passed.

I stared at him. “Did you… hit your head?”

“No.”

“With your grades right now?” I added flatly.

“Yeah.”

I broke.

Laughter bubbled up and spilled out before I could stop it. I leaned back in my chair, wiping tears from my eyes as I cackled.

“Your grades are sinking faster than quicksand!” I said between laughs. “Your notes won’t save you! You’re insane!”

About that...

Yonah Milton won student council president.

Standing on stage, bathed in light, he looked radiant. Confident. Brilliant. When they announced his name, applause thundered through the auditorium.

He searched the crowd.

Then he found me.

His smile widened instantly.

As the ceremony ended and people began filing out, someone tapped my shoulder. I turned.

Yonah stood there, grinning.

“Hello there,” he said smoothly. “My number one supporter.”

He even winked. Shameless idiot. His sarcasm was already getting under my skin.

“Congrats,” I muttered, looking away. “For winning.”

He stepped directly into my line of sight, leaning down until his face was too close for 'just friends.'

“I’d appreciate it if you looked at me while we’re talking,” he said, pouting slightly.

My heart betrayed me.

“Yeah, anyway.” I took a step back, finally facing him properly.

“I’m glad you won… so, are you going to start catching rulebreakers now?” I teased.

I reached for his necktie, fingers curling into the fabric as I straightened it, smoothing out an invisible crease, making him look neat, composed. His hair was slicked back with a few strands hanging out on the front. It suited him, honestly. Far too well.

“Speaking of rulebreakers,” he said, voice low and amused, “I seem to have one right in front of me. Excessive jewelry and hiking your skirt up are against the rules, y’know.”

He caught my wrist gently, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against my skin. The touch lingered just long enough to stop me momentarily.

“I. Don’t. Care.” I enunciated every word, heavy and unyielding, before swatting his hand away and smirking like a proud lion.

“Hm…” A pause. Then, “First warning. Join me in the council office later, alright?”

That mischievous smile spread across his face like a crime scene confession.

My jaw dropped. Unbelievable. I just knew he was relishing my suffering. I swear, he was enjoying every second of it.

As I climbed the stairs to the student council floor—yes, if you’re wondering, they had an entire floor to themselves—I could feel my thighs burning under the weight of my bag. Sweat trickled down my forehead, each step heavier than the last.

By the time I reached the door, I was huffing, chest rising and falling as I knocked three times. I cracked the door open slightly and saw him inside, working alone. Stacks upon stacks of paperwork surrounded him, a paper tower left behind by the former council president. He was already deep into it, studying the mess with unsettling eagerness, trying to understand the school’s current state.

As the door opened wider, he looked up and smiled, waving casually, as if he hadn’t just given me a warning earlier.

I returned a tight smile, one that barely reached the surface of my sincerity.

“Do your schoolwork here until I finish,” he said.

“…Fine.”

Honestly, it was better than going home early. At least here, no one would hover over me, checking every answer, questioning whether I’d truly mastered the subject. I snapped a photo of the room and sent it to the family group chat, letting them know I wouldn’t be home early.

Time slipped past without me noticing as I buried myself in homework. I was nearly done when I suddenly felt someone behind me.

Close.

Too close.

My focus shattered as I turned my head, and there he was.

If I leaned in even a fraction, we would’ve kissed by accident.

From this distance, I could see the fine curve of his lashes, the way his glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, and a few loose strands of hair falling into his face. His eyes never left mine as he leaned in slowly, deliberately.

I realized it all at once.

I pushed his face away immediately and bit the inside of my lip, fixing my hair as if that could undo what almost happened.

“Uh… yeah. Sorry about that.”

He cleared his throat and returned to his desk.

So he felt it too? Shit. That makes this worse.

“Shall we head home now?” he asked as he began packing up his things.

“Yeah, sure!” I replied, finishing my last assignment and slipping everything into my bag.

My heart pounded with every step I took towards the door, waiting as he turned off the lights and unplugged the appliances.

“Let’s go?”

You nodded.

The walk home was awkward. But the train ride was worse.

Not a single word slipped past either of your lips. The silence sat between you, heavy and uncomfortable, pressing against your ribs. You didn’t know how to act, or where to look, or what version of yourself you were supposed to be now.

By the time you reached your neighborhood, Yonah suddenly stopped. He tilted his head upward, eyes tracing the sky. You followed his gaze and found the full moon hanging above you, pale and unbothered.

Pretty.

You lifted your phone and snapped a picture without thinking.

“The moon looks beautiful tonight.”

Your fingers slipped. Your phone nearly hit the pavement.

You both weren’t stupid. You were trend-inclined. You knew exactly what those words meant, and you knew he knew it too. Slowly, you turned your head toward him, caught somewhere between disbelief and denial.

“Do you know what you’re saying?” You mumbled.

He turned to face you.

The night breeze slipped between the two of you, cool and quiet. A streetlight cast its glow over the sidewalk, framing the moment like a scene from a romance drama, with the two of you stranded at its center. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, louder than it had been all evening. Your smile wavered.

“What do you mean? Did I say something wrong?”

Chapter Text

Stunned by his obliviousness, you marched home, leaving him behind.

Upset, but why?

There was no reason to feel this way at all. Did you expect him to like you back? Did you really think whatever this was existed beyond your own thoughts?

You kept walking, faster now. Your chest felt tight, your head louder than your footsteps.

Then it hit you.

You like Yonah.

You love him.

The realization landed hard, stealing the air from your lungs. It made your head spiral with denial and questions.

“Hey—”

He caught up just before you reached the gate, fingers closing around your wrist, gentle but firm enough to stop you. You turned sharply, ready to demand what he wanted.

Before the words could leave your mouth, he lifted your hand and pressed his lips to your knuckles.

The world went quiet.

“I was kidding,” he said softly, almost embarrassed. Then, after a breath, “But… do you feel the same way as I do?”

You couldn’t answer. It felt unreal, like a prank timed too perfectly, like the ground had shifted without warning. Your lips parted, a response forming—

He stopped you with a small shake of his head.

“I’ll wait,” he said, smiling, steady and patient. “Don’t worry.”

And just like that, he let go, stepped back, and bid you goodnight.

Leaving you standing there, heart racing, wondering when liking someone had started to feel this exciting and yet, scary.

It was awkward at first when you started dating.

There were misunderstandings, small fights that felt big at the time, moments where pride nearly won. But you chose each other anyway, again and again. That choice carried you through high school, into college, and into a life you built side by side.

You had a baby just before graduation. You planned everything carefully. The future felt solid in your hands, like something that could not possibly slip.

Then one day, it did.

You were sent abroad for family emergency. Temporary, you told them. You promised your husband and your daughter that you would bring them with you soon. The community was better there. The environment was safer. It would be good for your child. Just a little more waiting.

While waiting, you built the house you and your husband once dreamed of.

A Victorian home, just like the one you used to talk about in passing. Tall windows that let the light spill in gently. Carved railings, wide staircases, rooms meant to be made memories with. You chose every detail with care and love.

On the day they were supposed to arrive, a massive storm struck the ship they were on.

The call came like a blade. Your heart sank as the words settled in. The ship had gone down. The search turned up nothing. Their bodies were never retrieved. They were listed as missing, you knew what that meant.

The house never became what it was meant to be.

The rooms stayed quiet. The nursery was finished but untouched. Sunlight pooled in corners with nowhere to go. Vines crept up the archway outside, patient, untrimmed, like time continuing without care.

You lived there alone, surrounded by a future that was almost within your grasp.

You cried for days. Then for months. Grief hollowed you out until breathing felt like work. Time passed because it had to. Slowly, painfully, you learned how to live around the absence they left behind.

You moved on, not because you stopped loving them, but because you had to.

“That’s how it came to be,” you said as you finished folding your clothes. You checked the time. It was already 10 p.m.

“You were probably bored by my story,” you added with a small smile, lowering your head as you patted the clothes flat.

“No, m’lady. That was very strong of you,” he replied solemnly as he finished on his end. “Ticket Taker is waiting for you,” he added before standing and heading toward the tent’s exit.

Pierrot still hadn’t warmed up to you despite your apology. That was expected. It would take time.

You hummed in response, standing up and brushing the dust from your thighs. You stretched as you walked out with him, the quiet hum of the night greeting you, punctuated by faint rustling sounds. Small animals, most likely.

Pierrot left not long after, telling you to head to the black tent. Ticket Taker would be waiting there.

As you neared the tent, you heard voices. Jester and Ticket Taker were talking. You stopped in your tracks. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but the conversation sounded important, so you stayed just outside, waiting for a pause.

“I plan to make her a pet. Something to keep myself entertained,” Jester’s voice carried through the canvas. “These mindless fools grow boring once they become monochrome.”

Your stomach twisted. Were they talking about you? You had noticed the others dressed in pink, how robotic and hollow their movements seemed. Your theory had been right. They were taken against their will.

“And once that finally subsides?” Ticket Taker asked.

You wanted to know too. What would happen when you stopped being entertaining?

“Devour her.”

The words were simple. Easily said and done.

Your knees nearly buckled. You had known, deep down, from the moment Jester took you in. Your hands trembled, your breathing grew uneven. You didn’t know where to go. You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to go home, but where was home now?

Was it wrong to still hope there was some sliver of humanity buried in their monstrous hearts?

You missed being a child. Crying into your parents’ arms when fear overwhelmed you. The certainty that someone would protect you. That the world was, at its core, kind. You missed being held, being told everything would be alright. That everything would be okay.

Then the tent curtains shifted.

You froze as they opened, finding yourself face to face with Ticket Taker, who had been about to come collect you himself. Your hands clutched your chest. Jester noticed too, stepping closer, his gaze locking onto you, pale and wide-eyed.

“Seems we’ve got ourselves a little mouse, Bil,” Jester said, stepping out behind Ticket Taker. One arm crossed, the other resting against his wrist, his index finger curled thoughtfully at his chin.

“I j-just arrived,” you stammered. “Pierrot said you’d be waiting. I didn’t want to disturb you, it sounded… important.”

Your eyes darted everywhere but at them. You wanted to explain. You wanted to run. You wanted to cry, to call out for your parents, your friends, your lover. Would they hear you? Would they come before it was too late?

You wanted to beg. To ask them to let you go. To leave alive.

Nothing came out. Tears welled in your eyes.

Jester was the first to move. He cupped your cheek and wiped away a tear with his clawed finger. You sucked in a sharp breath. His claws were sharp. Too sharp.

“Oh dear,” he said, amused. “We haven’t even done anything, and you’re trembling over a single sentence.”

He flicked his hand, the tear flying off into the dark.

“She’s all yours now, Bil,” he added as he walked away.

You watched until he disappeared. Then it was just you and Ticket Taker. He gestured for you to enter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, removing his vest and hanging it on a rack before rolling up his sleeves. Even now, he never removed his mask.

“I’m… alright. Right now,” you replied. “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I just didn’t want to be rude.”

You followed him inside. He seemed more serious than Jester, stricter somehow. Your gaze drifted to his desk, cluttered with papers, and you couldn’t help but think of how your husband used to work, stacks everywhere, it was chaos compared to Ticket Taker's desk.

A small chuckle escaped you.

Ticket Taker glanced up, likely mistaking it as laughter directed at him. You immediately waved your hands in apology.

“I just remembered something,” you said quickly, embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he replied, handing you papers and a stack of cash. “Here’s this month’s revenue. I need help calculating the costs and projected net income.”

He slid a money-counting machine toward you as well. You nodded, thanked him, and took your seat across the desk.

“If you need help, feel free to ask,” he said before returning to his work.

The two of you sank into calculations. A few years ago, this would have driven you mad, second-guessing every number, crying over missed steps.

For a circus, the money was staggering. But with daily performances and costly tickets, it made sense. If they kept this up, they wouldn’t just survive. They’d amass a fortune.

Jester was supposed to head back to his quarters when he stopped mid-step. After a brief pause, he turned and changed course, making his way toward Pierrot’s tent.

Inside, Pierrot sat atop one of the barrels, methodically sharpening his knives. The soft scrape of metal against stone filled the space until Jester’s presence drew his attention.

Pierrot looked up.

“I apologize for coming late,” Jester said.

“It’s alright,” Pierrot replied.

He set the knives aside and stood, closing the distance between them.

“How was she?” Jester asked, arms crossed. “Did you learn anything?”

Despite being physically stronger, Pierrot held deep respect for Jester and his decisions. Still, something about this felt different. He hesitated, just briefly.

“She’s fine,” Pierrot said. “She lives in a large house. She used to work as a diplomat but quit. Now she works at a café nearby. She's 25 years old. ”

In that short span of time, he had gathered quite a bit. More than he let on. All without you realizing.

“Anything else?” Jester pressed.

Pierrot paused. Then, “No.”

It was a lie. But lying was not unfamiliar to him.

Jester noticed. Of course he did. Pierrot was hiding something. They had talked, somewhere between the walk home and earlier moments. Jester was certain of it.

But he didn’t push.

He simply nodded, acknowledging the answer, and thanked Pierrot for his time before turning to leave the tent.

He would find out soon enough.

Time had a way of unraveling things on its own.

Chapter Text

Before the sun could even make its appearance in the sky, your alarm dragged you awake. Your back protested immediately, a dull ache lingering from last night’s session with Ticket Taker and hours spent computing tables.

You sat up and stretched, a yawn slipping out as you rolled your shoulders. The thin mattress beneath you offered little comfort. You missed your old bed, soft and wide, the kind that didn’t leave your shoulder feeling half-dislocated by morning. But were you worthy of that kind of luxury now? You doubted it.

Routine followed out of habit. You fixed the mattress, gathered your towel and clothes, then stepped outside the tent. The early wind kissed your skin sharply, sending a shiver down your spine. Cold lingered heavier at night than during the day, you noted absently.

The circus grounds were still unfamiliar. Rows of tents blurred together, colors blending in the dim light. You walked, turned, walked again. Nothing looked right. After what felt like circles, you gave up and slumped onto a nearby seat.

You hadn’t even fully relaxed when a voice cut through the quiet.

“Oh? If it isn’t one of Jester’s… pets.”

You looked up.

Green. Dark, taunting green. Harlequin.

It took him a moment to finish the word pets, as if savoring it. As if choosing the most insulting version of the word. You noticed that. The deliberate pause. The way his eyes lingered. He was the one who had yanked your hair days ago.

“Ah… hello,” you said softly. Unsure whether to sit or stand, you ended up rising awkwardly.

“Up so early, hm?” he asked, strolling closer. His gaze slid over you lazily, the towel on your shoulder, the clothes in your arm, the basket of toiletries. “Ah. Lost, aren’t you?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but he beat you to it. You nodded.

“I can’t find the trailer,” you admitted, a small, embarrassed laugh slipping out. Asking him for help felt wrong, especially after how he’d treated you before.

“Oh, dearest,” he said lightly. “Allow me.”

His hand closed around your wrist.

It wasn’t rough, but it was firm. He guided you past the tents, not far at all, and suddenly there it was. The trailer.

“Oh! There it is,” you breathed, relief brightening your voice. He chuckled, and Harlequin went so far as to give you a full tour of the trailer—pointing out where the food was stored, showing every utensil in its place, and finally leading you to the bathroom. 

“There you go, ma’am,” he said, releasing your wrist.

You turned to thank him and stepped into the bathroom, but before the door could shut, his hand pressed against it, halting it midway. 

Then he stepped inside.

The door locked behind him.

“H-Harlequin…?”

“Just a ‘thank you’?” he murmured, setting your basket down on the counter. He moved closer, slow, deliberate, until your lower back met the sink and there was nowhere left to retreat. One hand braced beside you. The other lifted your chin, forcing your eyes to meet his.

Up close, his gaze burned. Brighter than the harsh bathroom lights.

Your heart thundered against your ribs. You felt it everywhere. In your chest, your throat, your hands. He could do anything to you here. Tear you apart, and no one would know.

“I don’t think I understand what you mean,” you said, turning your head away.

“And I don’t do favors without return,” he replied.

A clawed finger traced from your chin downward, unhurried, stopping just over your chest. Not pressing hard enough to hurt.

“I wonder,” he murmured, smiling, “is this beating because you’re afraid… or because you’re enjoying it?”

You clenched your fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms, refusing to look at him. Only the sound of breathing can be heard between you two.

Then he stepped back.

“Oh well,” he said cheerfully, as if nothing had happened. “I was only teasing.” He waved. “If you need help again, come find me. Green tent.”

And just like that, he left.

You stood there long after the door shut, breath uneven, mind reeling.

It took several minutes to steady yourself.

Only then did you finally undress, turn on the water, and sink into a hot shower, letting the heat wash away the lingering tension that clung stubbornly to your skin.

You stood in front of the mirror, a towel wrapped around your chest, hair dripping wet. You checked your face for any possible signs of wounds. It was practically carved into you by your mother never to get hurt—because you were her prettiest child. As you grew, every time you came home with a wound, she would scold you, apply ointment, and remind you how you were less than flawless. It made you insecure. Deep down, you never meant to cause those wounds at all.

As you inspected yourself, you noticed a bruise on your neck. You sighed. You’d try to request some ice later. You dressed in a plain white fitted top with sleeves and baggy pants, following the tight-and-loose, loose-and-tight rule in fashion. The fit was simple enough to let you move comfortably in case you were told to do something.

You dried your hair with the blower, placing the hairdryer on a holder and tilting it toward you. Your makeup was simple. When you finished, you felt pretty—confident, even—despite almost dying a few days ago. You admired yourself for a few moments before clipping your hair up into a ponytail. One last look, and you headed out.

As you stepped forward, you caught someone in your peripheral vision. Turning, you saw a tall, dark figure in a cape and a beak mask. This must be The Doctor.

“Oh! Did I take too long?" you said, opening the door wide so he wouldn’t have to.

“No, not that much,” he replied as he passed by. He smelled of incense, the kind that lingered in the cathedral your family had attended religiously since you were born. Nostalgia washed over you. Your eyes couldn’t help but follow him as he went inside.

Just as he was about to close the door behind him, you called out. He stopped, his head turning toward you.

“You smell good.”

You walked off immediately after, not even sparing him a moment to reply. The sun was rising, and you were determined to help as much as you could in the circus—to prove your worth, hoping they wouldn’t kill you too soon.

You headed to the black tent, pushing the curtain aside as you entered. It was dark—no light pierced through, even as the sun slowly rose. You looked around, walking carefully.

“Jester?” you called out. You didn’t like how dark it was. Vulnerability crept in when your senses were limited, and you felt as though someone was watching your every move. Only your footsteps echoed. You let out a shaky breath and called again.

Suddenly, someone leaned close to your ear, their hands gripping your shoulders.

“Looking for someone, dear human?”

You swiftly turned your head. It was Jester. Relief escaped in a sigh, your shoulders relaxing. It would’ve been better if you had your phone, but unfortunately, they had taken that hostage too.

“I was looking for you.”

“Oh?" He tilts his head.

"And what does my little human need me for?” His grin was ever-present. Was smiling all he did? It was uncanny—like everything about him was surface-level. Or maybe it was just you who thought that way. You slid his hands off your shoulders, surprising him. He lets out a light laugh, leaning closer to your face.

“Getting bold now, are we? Yesterday, you were about to break into tears—”

“Is there anything I can help with while I’m here?” you cut him off quickly, unwilling to be reminded of that moment. Your hand was still on his, though you seemed to forget. Jester noticed, and for someone who dislike humans, he slid his hand away from your grip. Only then did you realize you were still holding him. You muttered an apologetic “oh.”

“For starters, I do not like being cut off while I’m talking,” he said, stepping closer. His voice dropped into something darker, more menacing, sending a tremor through your fingertips. You stood your ground, keeping eye contact, though your brows furrowed. That alone amused him—you looked like a red panda trying to intimidate him, pretending you were on par with him.

“Second, do not touch me freely,”

“And I would like it if you put a respectful tone in that mouth of yours when speaking to me, dear one. Perhaps even calling me sir would do, no?” His words dripped with mockery, though you couldn’t tell if he was serious—or both. You broke the staring contest first, lowering your gaze to the floor, defeated. Quietly, you nodded, agreeing to his demand. It reminded you exactly where you stood in the food chain.

“Use your words, darling,” he murmured, lifting your chin with a finger. “And look at me when I’m speaking.”

“Yes. I understand… Sir.” The pause was slight, deliberate. You debated whether to follow his script, but survival won. That seemed to please him. His fingers left your chin.

“Good girl.”

He turned, walking toward the exit of the tent.

“I need you to clean the stage in my tent for the morning show. Make it quick. After that, Harlequin said he’ll need your help setting up props for his act.”

Jester’s eyes never left you as you swept the wooden stage—watching the way you bent over to pick something up, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear, the way sweat slowly traced down the side of your face. Even the small moan that escaped your lips as you stretched caught his attention. If you were one of the Fools, there would be no problem taking you here… but no. He would play this game of patience, just this once, and see how it unfolds.

When you finished your tasks in his tent, he followed you to Harlequin’s, where you carried out the usual routine of sweeping, mopping, and setting up props. Nothing much happened—until Harlequin suddenly pinned you against the wall, about to offer you a candy apple. Before you could react, Pierrot’s knife sliced through the air, striking the apple before it reached your lips.

Shock froze you in place. You had just witnessed their rivalry for the first time. If Pierrot had missed, the blade would have struck you instead.

The day ended with you not only capturing the interest of two individuals—but you have yet to realize it.

Chapter Text

The routine had become a cycle of dust and spreadsheets: sweeping the floors, mopping the stage, repairing frayed props, and finally, tallying the day's earnings. While the work wasn’t strenuous, the monotony was heavy. You were a ghost in the machine, rarely called upon for the actual performances, as the troupe mostly had things under control.

Harlequin and Jester were the ones you dreaded helping. Being near them felt like being caught between two apex predators, a constant game of push and pull that left you on edge.

As it so happened, today was a day when no one needed your assistance. Despite your long stay, you realized with a jolt that you’d never actually seen a full performance. Sitting on a weathered bench, you contemplated sneaking a peek behind the curtain when the crunch of gravel caught your ear.

It was Pierrot. Just as you rarely saw the shows, you rarely saw the performers outside of their acts. Jester was a constant fixture since you worked backstage at his tent, but Pierrot was a more elusive presence.

You waved. The bridge between you and the performer was being built slowly—inch by agonizing inch—but you were grateful for the progress. It had started with simple, cheerful greetings as you passed his tent. At first, he’d only offer a curt nod before retreating into his work, leaving you feeling slightly dejected. But persistence paid off. The nods became waves, and then came the day he was actually waiting for you at the entrance. When his eyes had landed on you, he’d offered a genuine smile, even stepping forward to help carry your supplies as you chatted about schedules and simple likes.

You were fond of him. He lacked the demanding, erratic energy of the others. Even the Ticket Taker, while professional, was a man of few words; your longest conversation with him had been your first day of work.

"How are you faring?" you asked, scooting over to offer him a spot on the bench.

"I am doing fine, my lady," Pierrot replied, accepting the seat. "I would ask the same of you."

"I'm alright. It just gets a bit tedious, doing the same thing every day." You leaned back, closing your eyes to catch a stray breeze.

Silence with Pierrot wasn't a vacuum to be filled; it was a sanctuary. You didn't feel the need to perform or second-guess your work. But a memory flickered in your mind—the image of a knife whistling through the air as it hits Harlequin’s candy apple.

"I’ve been wanting to ask..." You fidgeted with your hem, worried you were overstepping. "Why did you throw your knife that day? When I was with Harlequin?"

Pierrot’s expression clouded. A flash of genuine distaste crossed his features at the mention of the other performer, though he masked it quickly.

"My lady..." He paused, his voice dropping an octave. "It is best you do not accept anything from the circus members."

"Does that include you?" you teased, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Yes... Ah, no!" He flustered instantly, his long fingers tangling together. "In that case... do not accept anything that is said to be from me. If I have something for you, I will find a way to give it to you personally."

The weight of his words sent a flush to your cheeks. The softness Pierrot reserved for you was a fragile, precious thing—it scared you. You found yourself terrified of making a mistake that might shatter this version of him, the one who acted as your anchor in this chaotic place.

Noticing your sudden quiet, Pierrot reached into his pocket and produced a small strawberry candy. He didn't just hand it to you; he took your hand in his, pressing the sweet into your palm. His hands were vast compared to yours, but incredibly warm.

"Are you alright?" he murmured, his fingers lingering, gently clasping yours. "Did I say something wrong, my lady?"

The heat in your face deepened. "No, not at all, it's just—"

"I will need your assistance with today's shopping."

The voice was like a bucket of cold water. You both stood abruptly as the Ticket Taker approached.

"Get dressed," he instructed, his tone as clipped and efficient as ever. "I will see you outside."

Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel. You and Pierrot exchanged a lingering look, a silent farewell before you headed back toward the purple tent to change.

If you were finally leaving the grounds, you decided you weren't going to do it in your work rags. It wasn't against the rules to look nice, and for the first time in a long time, you wanted to look good for yourself.

After your shower, you dressed quickly. You chose a sheer blue lace top, tied at the front, its light fabric drifting in long, uneven hems with every movement. A white satin skirt fell straight to the floor, glossy and smooth beneath the light. Paired with white pointed heels for height, a small ivory shoulder bag, and minimal gold accessories, the look was soft, clean, and effortlessly elegant.

Your hair was swept into a voluminous updo, curls pinned high with soft tendrils left free to frame your neck in gentle spirals. It was a textured, romantic look.

You had expected to match Ticket Taker, assuming he’d be in his usual blue circus uniform. Taking one last look in the mirror, you headed out. The afternoon sun was high, though softened by a thin veil of clouds.

He was already there, waiting by the exit. He stood with a quiet authority, checking his watch and tapping his foot with slow, rhythmic impatience.

"I'm sorry, I took a while to prepare!" and you froze.

This was the first time you had seen him without his mask. He was the first of the circus members to reveal himself, and the sight was disarming. He was undeniably handsome, his hair pushed back with a few stray strands falling over his forehead. He wasn't in uniform, either; he wore sharp, business-casual attire. You had been wrong on two counts: he wasn't in blue, and he certainly wasn't trying to blend in.

He noticed your lingering gaze and cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to break your trance.

"An hour late," he noted dryly. He hailed a taxi, and the ride that followed was heavy with silence. You weren't close, and the lack of a mask made the proximity feel strangely more intimate.

When the taxi pulled up in front of a high-end women’s boutique, you were stunned. You glanced at him for an explanation, but he ignored your questioning look, ushering you inside.

An attendant led you both to a private room, presenting new arrivals of silk, jewelry, and shoes. Every time you glanced at Ticket Taker to check the budget, his answer was the same: a short "Yes."

Assuming these were gifts for someone else, you picked three items—styles you personally loved, justifying it by thinking they were "universally appealing." As the attendant left to wrap the purchases, the room fell quiet.

"So..." You took a sip of the provided champagne, the taste of green grapes crisp on your tongue. "Who’s the lucky girl?"

"What do you mean?" He didn't look up from his own glass.

"We aren't shopping for the circus. Why are we here?"

"For you."

The response was immediate. No pause, no hesitation. You sat there, stunned, a sudden wave of regret washing over you—if you had known, you would have picked the pieces you truly coveted.

"Then... it’s a date," you said. The words slipped out before your brain could filter them.

Ticket Taker choked on his drink. You lunged forward to help, but he waved you off, his face flushing slightly as he regained his composure.

"Think as you see fit," he muttered, turning his gaze away.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. He carried the bags without complaint, but his habit of buying every item you so much as glanced at made you stop looking at shop windows altogether. You didn't want to bankrupt him—or worse, have it deducted from a salary you weren't even sure you earned.

As fatigue set in, so did your irritability. When a couple blocked the path with an ostentatious display of affection, you found yourself glaring at them, your brow furrowed in a dark scowl. Later, when a passerby bumped into Ticket Taker without apologizing, your temper snapped. You called them out before Ticket Taker could even react.

Seeking to avoid a scene, he firmly caught your arm and pulled you into a nearby cafe.

"It won't do the circus's image any favors if you're picking fights in the street," he said, though his voice lacked any real bite as he sat across from you.

"Right..." You crossed your arms, your pride warring with the realization that you had been acting as his unofficial bodyguard. He ordered a coffee for himself and cream puffs for you.

As the adrenaline faded, the weight of your actions hit you. You looked up, meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry about earlier."

He remained silent. The cafe hummed with the sound of clattering porcelain and distant conversation.

"I know I risked our reputation. I have no excuse," you continued, your voice dropping. "I have a lot of respect for you and Pierrot. I don't mean to say I dislike the others..."

A pause.

"It's just that I feel comfortable enough with you two to let my guard down. I suppose that’s a bad thing, isn't it?"

You let out a small, awkward laugh and turned to the window. Outside, the city was bathed in the golden rays of a setting sun, leaves skittering across the pavement. It was beautiful, but when you turned back to him, the expression on his face was what caught your breath.

"Still," you whispered, "thank you."

He didn't respond. He simply watched you as the orders arrived, his gaze unreadable but no longer cold. In that moment, it didn't matter that he was your abductor or your keeper; you had said your piece.

Ten minutes turned into thirty.

By the time fifty minutes had ticked by, Ticket Taker was reaching the limit of his patience. He leaned against the stone pillar of the exit, his irritation sharpening into something cold. He wondered if you were taking advantage of the mercy shown to you, testing the length of your leash. He was already mentally cataloging the punishments that might instill a bit more punctuality in you—extra work, perhaps.

Then, a familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

He looked up, and the reprimand died in his throat. You were walking toward him, a bright, guileless smile on your face. In the soft, filtered light of the afternoon, you looked like something that had stepped out of a storybook—ethereal, light, and dangerously beautiful. It made him pause. 

Why had no one asked you for your hand yet?

For a man who spent his life at the gates of a circus, surrounded by spectacle and manufactured wonder, he realized with a jolt that he had rarely seen anything as breathtaking as you simply walking toward him in the sun.

He noticed you staring back at him—eyes wide, taking in his unmasked face for the first time. The intensity of your gaze felt like a physical touch. He broke the contact with a sharp, practiced cough and signaled for a taxi.

The first stop was a high-end boutique. Jester had been the one to issue the command: you needed a new wardrobe, as your repetitive outfits were becoming a dull spot in the circus's vibrant aesthetic.

Inside, as you stepped out of the dressing room to show him various pieces, he found himself unable to find a single flaw. Everything draped over you perfectly, the fabrics catching the light in ways that made his chest feel tight. He kept his face a mask of indifference, offering only curt nods, unable to put into words how much you suited every thread.

When you blurted out, "Then, it’s a date," he felt a strange, unwelcome warmth bloom in his chest. He turned away to hide the small, involuntary tug at the corner of his mouth. If an outsider were looking at them now—the shopping bags, the private room, the way he watched your every move—they would certainly call it a date. The thought was as terrifying as it was pleasant.

As you walked the streets afterward, he found himself unable to say no. Every time your eyes lingered on a trinket or a display, he bought it. He didn't care that he had long ago surpassed Jester's budget; he would simply let them deduct the difference from his own pay.

But then, the atmosphere shifted. He saw the fatigue set into your shoulders and the way your expression darkened when a couple walked by. You looked... disgusted. When a stranger shouldered past him, nearly knocking him off balance, you didn't hesitate to snap at the man.

He didn't want a scene, but more than that, he didn't want you to exhaust yourself on his behalf. He pulled you into a quiet cafe, hoping the scent of roasted beans and sugar would soothe the jagged edges of your temper.

As you sat across from him, baring your heart and apologizing. Ticket Taker remained silent. He watched you through the steam of his coffee, his mind racing. He knew better than this. He knew that humans were fleeting, deceitful, and delicate. He shouldn't be swayed by the sincerity in your eyes or the way your voice softened when you thanked him.

He shouldn't. And yet, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, honey-colored shadows across the table, he found he couldn't look away.

The arrival back at the circus was met with the sharp, observant eyes of Harlequin. The jester-like figure was leaning against the gate, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he watched the two of you approach.

Ticket Taker gave you a short, stiff nod, instructing you to head inside first. Once you were out of earshot, Harlequin’s sneer turned into a full-blown grin.

"Do I sense a date between you and our little rabbit?" he hummed, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.

Ticket Taker didn't miss a beat, reaching into his coat and sliding his mask back into place.

"It was on Jester's orders. Nothing more."

He walked past Harlequin, trying to ignore the way his heart still beat a little too fast. Harlequin trailed after him, already pivoting to a new topic—something about a motorcycle and a "Globe of Death" act—but Ticket Taker wasn't really listening.