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Arch above the floor, stomach floating into throat, hands catch, grip, tighten. Twist and twirl on the bar, spin and spin and spin until the world is gone beyond touch and sensation.
Flight. Once you step into the clouds there is no coming back down. Go higher and higher and higher until your wings melt and you fall back to the earth to lie in a brittle pile of bones.
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Before the performance, while the men set up the tent, the Ringmaster sends them in act by act for one last run-through. He sits up in the top row and gives directions in a low voice to his assistants while the performers juggle and jump and talk to an invisible crowd.
“Breathe, why don’t you?” Francis catches at a stray lock of hair and tucks it back in place, careful not to disturb the carefully styled curls. “If you fall from all the way up there—”
“Shut up,” Arthur snarls. He spins on his heel and marches across the floor again, careful to avoid the creaky boards, and clenches his hands, trying not to growl.
Francis watches him pace for a moment, expressionless. The cut of his costume bares a long strip of his chest, hair curling at the seams, and he rubs at the wings of his collarbone, nails blue. “If you make me fall,” he says.
“I won’t make you fall,” Arthur snaps. “Fuck off.”
They are alone offstage because there may be other acrobatic acts, but they are the best. The Ringmaster commissioned posters of the two of them to advertise for the shows, so they are well-known in the eyes of the public, blue and green, leaping and swirling—flying.
The people know Francis’ face, his curls, the arch of his smile. They know the shape of Arthur’s leaping form. Eyes will watch their every twitch, but still Francis is so calm, quiet and serene in his grace and beauty, and Arthur bristles, clenches his hands into fists, almost growls.
But then Francis steps forward and puts his arm around Arthur’s waist. His fingers press into his spine, firm and warm against the thin material. For a moment, Arthur is frozen, glittering, still. When Francis kisses him—he goes boneless, trusting, and then he pushes away in a violent motion, hissing and bristled like a cat.
“Don’t touch me,” he says.
“You love it when I touch you,” Francis replies. His smile sharpens at the corners.
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Always after the shows, after the tent has been put away and congratulations have been handed out, after most of the performers have fallen asleep, Francis slips from his tent and pads across the lot. He is on the opposite side of their makeshift city from Arthur, though by now the path is ingrained in his mind.
He knows that Arthur will let him in, because Arthur always lets him in, scowling and bristling. Everybody else, he suspects, sees Arthur as permanently green-skinned, sequined, a small, lithe figure who could probably fly in his spare time if he thought about it hard enough. But inside his tent Arthur hides baskets full of thick, loose sweaters and trousers with holes in the knees.
So Francis kisses him like that, knots his fingers in the folds of fabric at Arthur’s waist, and waits patiently for the lines in his body to slowly loosen, waits until Arthur will curl his arms around his neck and let himself stay there. Much as he likes it when Arthur is hard and spitting and angry, it is special when he alone can coax Arthur to breathe, relax, enjoy himself.
He wonders, sometimes, if the other performers know what they are up to. Arthur bites pillows or Francis’ skin to muffle his frantic cries, but Francis doesn’t understand how that could be hidden, how anybody could not feel his ecstasy. And he doesn’t tell Arthur how, in the moment when his eyes fly open and his body clenches, he just clutches at whatever is closest to his fingers and mewls like a kitten.
“The crowd was very enthusiastic today,” he says thoughtfully, afterwards. Arthur lies flat on his back, one of his secret cigarettes dangling from his thin lips, and Francis pillows his ear on his chest and listens to his heart thump. He likes to hear it stutter when Francis touches him.
Arthur pretends that it doesn’t. He always pretends, but secretly Francis thinks he is a terrible liar. “I think Katya sold drinks outside,” Arthur says. He strives for indifferent and fails.
“The homemade brew that they have been hiding in the wagons?” Francis asks, interested. “I thought the ringmaster’s grandson found out.”
“Antonio bribed him.” Arthur glances down at him and then away again. Smoke curls out from between his teeth.
Francis can’t help but smirk at that. He doesn’t understand, quite, how Antonio could like the ringmaster’s older grandson—the boy swore at everyone within striking distance, hit them if he could, or played stupid pranks that tended to backfire. And then Gilbert asked him about Arthur—what do you see in him?—and Francis tries, now, not to bring it up.
“Hmm,” he says, instead of everything else that is in his head. “Perhaps Ivan should make more, then, if it gets us so many customers.”
Arthur snorts and stubs out his cigarette on a heavy crystal platter. Francis has seen him hide it among his sweaters more than once, but he does not ask about the great care of Arthur’s fingers as he packs it up. He is almost afraid that Arthur would not answer. But he is distracted from this line of thought as Arthur slips under the covers and curls into Francis’ side without a word, his shoulders tense.
Ah, Francis thinks, with a secret, growing smile, and slides his fingers through Arthur’s rough hair. It slowly softens under his palm.
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High, higher, highest, until the ground is nothing beneath you, until the net disappears in a brown whirl, until your stomach can come out your throat and then you will fly. But always there is the landing, the catch of a knee against a bar, and you stop, because you cannot fly. You are just pretending for something that will never happen.
On the ground, you tell yourself, there is no such thing as flight. So you jump again and pretend not to look down.
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The nets, Francis has found, are tricky things. One of the men who sets up the tent takes the corners and ties the ends to tall, sturdy poles, and so it hangs there, always, a reminder that it would only take the slightest slip to fall.
All acrobats have fallen at one time or another, of course—you don’t get to be this good without taking a few tumbles. Francis did when he first tried out for the circus, but the ringmaster kept him on because he got right back up and finished the routine, even though he had cracked two ribs in the fall.
When it happens, Francis isn’t Up. He’s stretching, actually, and sort of half-listening to Antonio as he chatters next to him. Tonio is telling him all about the new monkey, the little golden one who stole Lovino’s keys, and how he thinks he can train it to pick people’s pockets on stage to get a laugh.
Francis isn’t really listening. He says “Ah” and “Mmm” when appropriate, but when he curls his hands around the arch of his foot, he watches Arthur out of the corner of his eye. Arthur practices in slim jumpsuits, the sort that somehow still manage to emphasize his little waist despite being the most atrocious maroon color, and he whirls around the trapeze like it’s mounted on the ground, not spinning in the air. He will touch down on a platform for a split second before he’s off again to balance on one hand or fling himself up towards the top of the tent. The people remember Francis’ voice and clever, lower-level tricks, and they remember the green blur flying over the lines.
“And then I think we’ll get a lot of tips, won’t you, Francis, especially if Katya gets out with that vodka again, don’t you think?” Antonio demands, galloping to a close. He doesn’t even sound out of breath—Francis thinks his lungs are actually as large as a tiger’s. “Peter really is very funny even if he likes to play tricks—”
“Play tricks,” Gilbert says. He throws one arm around Antonio’s shoulder and grins down at Francis. He’s probably abandoned his brother to shout people into shape in favor of coming to talk to them. “That devil of a monkey stole three pairs of Nataliya’s underwear and she tried to stab it.”
Francis imagines Nataliya chasing a tiny, cackling monkey with one of her many knives, face red, hair flying about her face, screaming curses in its general direction, and he bursts out laughing.
“That was when—” Gilbert begins, but Francis never actually finds out where he was when this happened, because right then Antonio yells.
It turns out that Arthur misses his catch on the trapeze; his fingertips skid right off, and Antonio and half a dozen other performers see him drop like a stone, right into the middle of the net. Francis is too busy talking to Gilbert, and he doesn’t know what’s happened until Antonio shouts, but then his heart stops dead in his chest and he thinks he’s going to fall over.
Everyone is shouting—except Alfred, who Francis sees out of the corner of his eye, looking bewildered—and Francis gets his feet under him, his knees shaking, and beats Ludwig to the net. He doesn’t even bother for it to be lowered, instead tangling his arms in it and lifting himself up, scrambling to Arthur’s side.
Arthur’s eyes flutter open before Francis can do anything except make the net sway alarmingly. He is dazed, and Ludwig shouts, “Bonnefoy, get down from there!”
Francis ignores Ludwig. He reaches out to brush his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He says, “Arthur, Arthur, cher, can you hear me?”
“Ow,” Arthur says. His voice is very faint. He hasn’t moved much, just remaining curled on the ropes, one hand dangling through the gap. With some effort, his eyes focus on Francis’ face, and he says accusingly, “You made me fall.”
“Did not,” Francis insists, but if Arthur can insult him, then—then he must be okay, he must, if he can speak like this.
“Bonnefoy!” Ludwig roars again. Francis remembers that there are other people present and just barely stops himself from kissing Arthur in front of everyone. Someone tries to catch at his ankle; Francis shakes them off. “Get away—”
Arthur winces and lifts a shaking hand to his forehead, and now he’s panicking at Ludwig’s anger, Francis can see that written all over his face, now he’s just thinking about what happened and—
“Yes, yes!” Francis calls back. “I am coming down. Just get a doctor here!” And though he gets off and has to wait while the men who know how undo the knots and let the net down, and though he is afraid he won’t get through the crowd of babbling, frightened people back to Arthur’s side, Antonio and Gilbert somehow appear behind him and push him through.
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“He twisted his hip a bit, but the doctor says it’s mostly a sprained ankle,” Antonio reports later, bursting into Francis’ tent, Peter under his arm.
Francis makes some sort of sound—he feels it burn in his throat—and collapses onto his bed, pressing his hands to his eyes. For a moment, he wants to cry. Arthur’s back is not broken, his ankle is not shattered, his skull is not cracked, and now all anyone has to do is make sure he lies still and soon Arthur will be all right.
“Francis,” Gilbert says. It sounds like he is coming from very far away, and so Francis peeks through his fingers at him. Over his shoulder, Antonio is trying to keep Peter from getting loose and stealing something. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Francis insists, even though he really isn’t. Gilbert looks at him skeptically.
“The doctor will be leaving in a few hours,” Antonio says, catching Peter’s tail and holding onto it firmly. He looks through his lashes at Francis. “You can sneak in then, if you want.”
They haven’t fooled anyone, Francis realizes, except possibly Alfred F. Jones. But suddenly he doesn’t really care, because Gilbert lets him laugh hysterically into his shoulder and Antonio manages to keep Peter from stealing anything except hugs.
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“You will not,” Francis says from the mouth of the tent, “scare me like that again.”
Arthur glares at him and props himself up on his elbows. He hardly even winces, but he is terrible at hiding it and Francis spots the expression anyway. His heart clenches. “Don’t lecture me,” he snaps, fierce, but somehow the doctor has found some of his baggy clothes and stuffed him in them and his hair sticks up in the back.
“Mon Dieu, Arthur,” Francis sighs, because he can’t think of anything else to say, and he comes over and sits down on the edge of the bed, no matter how much Arthur looks like he wants to hit him. “What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t thinking anything,” Arthur says, in a way that makes it abundantly clear that he was thinking too much.
Francis arches one eyebrow and says, “Somehow, I doubt that.”
“Shut up,” Arthur growls. His face is burning and he drops onto his back, rubbing at his neck with one hand. He doesn’t quite meet Francis’ eyes.
Beneath the blankets, in the lovely green sweater that he almost never wears, he is beautiful. Francis just breathes for a moment, trying to get over that, and then leans down to kiss him, like he should have hours ago, when Arthur first hit the ground.
Arthur lets him, because inside he is small and shaking and scared and terrible at hiding it, and he snags at Francis’ sleeve with his fingers, gripping too hard. He breathes hard through his nose and Francis kisses his cheek, his jaw, the tip of his nose. That’s when Arthur starts to cry, a little.
He isn’t here to do anything except comfort Arthur, however he needs it, so Francis lays down beside him and holds him close, careful not to jostle his lower body. Except Arthur snarls, “Fuck that” and kisses him, trying to wipe his tears from his cheeks with his other hand, clumsy.
“You’re hurt,” Francis tries to say around his lips, but Arthur is in a green sweater, Arthur is vulnerable, Arthur is somehow searching for something that Francis is just beginning to realize that he doesn’t understand.
“Make me better,” Arthur says. He hides his face in Francis’ throat, his eyelashes wet. “Francis, please.”
So Francis does. He is only human, but Arthur is an angel with his wings suddenly cut. He moves slowly, carefully, his hands gentle on Arthur’s wounded hip, and slowly Arthur stops being so sharp, stops being desperate.
“Oh, god,” Arthur sobs when Francis’ fingers are in him, as gentle as he can manage, his lips lingering between his hip and his ankle. His fingers scrabble at his hair and Francis sees him pull himself back, make his touch soft instead of grasping. “Francis—Francis—oh god, please, you’re so beautiful, just—just—”
“Shhh,” Francis whispers against his skin, the trembling muscles of his gut.
Francis thinks about healing, and so he is as tender as he can manage when he takes him, and he keeps asking, keeps saying, “Arthur, tell me, does it hurt?”
Arthur screams, “It doesn’t fucking matter if it hurts, you’re the only one, the only one, do you understand—”
Francis holds on to him, coaxes him through it, stops asking and instead whispers in his ear, tells him that he is gorgeous, he is stunning, he is the most interesting person Francis knows, and it’s okay, it’s okay, Arthur, just come here, let me take care of you.
His fingers leave long, red welts on Francis’ back, but when he shudders and mewls he kisses Francis with soft lips.
“I made you fall,” Francis says sometime later, when he’s carefully cleaned Arthur up and put him back in his sweaters and baggy pants. He makes the concession of slipping his hand onto his stomach, his fingers dancing along his ribs, and Arthur shivers.
“You did not,” Arthur says with one last burst of defensiveness, and then he sighs and admits, “Yes.”
“I’m just too beautiful,” Francis says breezily. “I understand your preoccupation.”
Arthur glares and smacks him lightly on the head. “You laughed. It’s your own damn fault.”
“Hmm,” Francis murmurs. He falls quiet and lays against Arthur’s side, his hand warm under his layers of shirts, and finally he kisses him at the corner of his jaw. “You don’t have to jump so high, next time. I was watching.”
Arthur’s green eyes are inscrutable, of course, but he does not lash out, physically or verbally. Instead, he turns onto his side and pulls Francis’ arm around his back, and lets Francis stay near as he falls asleep, utterly exhausted. His breath is warm on Francis’ neck.
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Flight. Go higher and higher until you can break the bounds of gravity and stay up there until the end of time, until your veins stop screaming, until your head finally relaxes.
But coming down—coming down makes you too happy. You look at the ground and you fall, because of course that happens, who are you fooling? You fool nobody, especially not him, because he sees the skeleton wings and says, There is enough down here, too.
Maybe he is right.