Chapter Text
The liveliest crowd is always the best; here he can bask in the intrigue and amusement he's beckoned, a limelight that he's grown to be enamored with. Here on this stage he can be at the center of focus, pulling in gazes all around so he's all they can see, all they can hear, yet it's all fleeting, leaving more to be desired once the curtains fall against the hardwood floorboards.
At least with this they could come back for more; he prides himself on never doing the same tricks or the same acts over as he relishes in the look of surprise that glints in their eyes. Fallen jaw, widened eyes, flushed cheeks: ah, it's the caricature of amazement that he's fallen so deeply in love with.
Some bring him flowers or simply share their reflection on how his acts have moved them. Some are critics that inspire him to do better, but there are others that makes it all seem worthwhile. He can see the stars dancing in their eyes (amusement, curiosity, or maybe both?) as they rain down compliments and praises, leaving him with a sense of warmth and fulfillment that even he - a genius! - can create.
At least he knows that even as the crowd scatters to go their separate ways, Wataru knows that even if some don't come back, he, with his magic, can live on in their dreams.
'Wataru Hibiki' will be on the tip of their tongues for just that moment and it'll spread with the 'Amazing' he's birth in their hearts.
Surprise, amazement: it's something he wants to see flourish, enough so that it bleeds into every day, every instant. Even if he's not on a stage, he walks around with a stage voice and theatrical gestures no matter where he goes. He must touch the heart of others and plant seeds where flowers can bloom only to grow and prosper with each interaction.
He doesn't mind if his mannerisms and eccentricities are met with disgust or even annoyance from being around someone he doesn't understand, for he is fine with playing the fool. With his use of over exaggerating coupled with his prized sleight of hand, little bits of grandiose magic here and there and a mask set upon his eyes for boot, he is ready to turn the normal grayscale color in people’s lives and turn it into every shade of the rainbow.
And for a while it all seems worth it.
The many hours, days, and weeks he poured into learning new tricks with a new one up his sleeve at each encounter, polishing them to utter perfection with a desperate need to satisfy. It itches at him deep and irritating with his inability to scratch it, only getting worse as he can see that look he hates so much settling into the eyes of all those that once praised him: boredom. It's suffocating like a wave crashing over him, dragging him under with no way of coming up for air.
His attempts become desperate at this point, climbing and climbing as he tries to break free from the stifling disinterest that sits in the eyes of his audience. Each of his efforts are met with a glint, but it's much dimmer than the look he once loved.
"Can't you do any better?"
"You can do something more amazing, right?"
"It's not as cool as the last trick."
The pressure is stringing him out and wearing him thin, weighing heavy on his shoulders as he walks this tightrope to greatness. More, more, he needs to make more; there's no room for unsatisfactory, not when there's more wonder for him to spread. He's got to do better. He needs to be better if this was what he wanted to see those smiles, eyes alight in amazement and happiness for all to marvel at.
There's no rest for a magician, especially when he still has more illusions for him to cook up. He works and works until he's muttering un, deux, trois in his sleep, painting his dreams in rose born from his magic. It's only when he wakes when he feels like performing these tricks, refusing to leave his room until they were polished and perfect by his standards.
Finally, finally he's got it! At last, he'll bring forth that intrigue he so desperately craves.
It's not very difficult to draw in a crowd; with the way he carries himself with magic just on the tips of his fingers and a loud voice that easily attracts attention, it's more than easy to have people sway his way. It's easy to hook them, but the most difficult to keep them entrenched until the very end; with the thought of the crowd becoming bored at the back of his mind, he works to unravel his newest trick.
It was perfect. After hours upon hours, days upon days of practicing the same trick over and over and over until it was etched at the back of his head and even in his fingertips, it came out just the way he wanted it to without any flaws in place. The smile upon his face spreads and he can't help the tickle of satisfaction that dances inside him in the afterglow of his achievement, tilting his head up from the bow it was hung in only to feel the air constrict his lungs.
Where there was once amazement, there's now confusion; frustration, irritation, a little hint of something else…? There's no smiles, no flushed cheeks, no widened eyes. No, it's the complete opposite of what he worked so hard to create, but it's nothing in comparison to the feedback -- or rather complaints -- that he received in response to the trick he worked so tirelessly on.
"What happened? I couldn't follow."
"It was too difficult for me to understand."
"Too complicated."
It hurts.
He can feel his heart sink like a stone in a pond and it aches in its descent as he's forced to take in these words. Has he moved so beyond comprehension with his tricks that he can no longer bring the joy that brought color to his life?
He chokes back the sob that threatens to spill from his lips. He blinks back the tears that wanted nothing more than to bud at the corners of his eyes. Wataru can only smile because that is what a performance does in the face of an audience; he smiles like it's plastered on like a mask, sweeping into yet another bow before he disappears from the crowd, disappears from sight to head back home.
Wataru weeps that night. With all the colors splashed upon the walls and all the clutter of amazing little trinkets lined up here and there in a chaotic disarray, he tucks his head in his pillow that only grows more damp. Such a sight of someone who seems so bright and brimming with splendor at every second of the day seems so ill-befitting, almost so much so that he's thankful for these walls around him. It's like a secret that even a clown such as himself can feel such disappointment and frustration at his own failures; hush hush, quiet to everyone beyond the walls that surround himself -- as it should.
With the world outside turning grey and the sound of the rain, he allows himself to fall into the feeling of blue, embraced by his own sense of worthlessness. When the clouds part and the sun comes out to play at day break, he'll rise with the same smile plastered on his face like clockwork.