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The lamps are turned low, the audience long gone, their polite coughs and forced claps still hanging in the air like smoke.
Backstage, Artful is curled on the floor of his dressing room, knees to chest, top hat crushed against his stomach. His white gloves are streaked with tears and khol. The only sound is the soft rustle of his tailcoat every time his shoulders hitch with another sob.
You push the door open without knocking; he gave you that right months ago, back when he still pretended he didn't need anyone.
He doesn't look up. "Leave the flowers on the table, cherie. And close the door on, s'il te plaît. I don't want anyone else seeing me like this."
You shut the dressing-room door with your hip. Click.
"I clapped," you say quietly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do."
A wet, bitter sound escapes him. "You should have booed. At least that would have been honest."
You reach out and tug the crumpled hat from his grip. He lets you. Underneath, his hair is damp, curls plastered to his forehead. You brush them back with your fingers.
"I'm not here to lie to you, Artful. I'm here because you're shaking so hard the whole damn stage is rattling with you."
He finally lifts his face. The makeup is ruined; black rivers down porcelain cheeks. His eyes are glassy, red rimmed and swollen, still fighting like hell to keep the last tears from falling.
"I am le grand magicien of Paris," he whispers, voice cracking on every word. "I turned a woman into a dove once. I made the Eiffel Tower disappear for twelve whole seconds. And yet—"
He laughs, sharp and awful, the sound ricocheting off the marble like broken glass.
"They yawned—loud as thunder, cherie, right over my orchestra's swell. And that one man? He glances at his watch three times in my big finish. Three! Like it was a fucking train delay."
You reach for him; he jerks away, then immediately hates himself for it, because he staggers back into your arms like he's been starving for the contact.
"I practiced that cabinet trick for four months," he says into your coat, voice muffled and raw. "Four months of splinters under my fingernails, of folding myself into that damn box until my back cried mercy, and you—you—were the only one who gasped when I came out whole. The only one."
His fingers dig into your back hard enough to leave marks.
"I'm pathetic." he chokes.
You take both his cold, trembling hands and pull him forward until his forehead rests against yours.
"Listen to me," you say. "Those people wouldn't know real magic if it pulled a rabbit out of their empty skulls. You are brilliant. You are brave and magnificent and you light up the whole damn world when you're on that stage, and I love every single atom of you for it."
He makes a broken little noise and clutches at your sleeves. "Don't say that if you don't mean—"
You kiss him before he can finish. Hungry, like you're trying to pour belief straight into his mouth. He tastes like salt and despair and the cheap champagne he downed to get through the second act.
When you pull back, his lipstick is on your lips now too.
"I mean it," you tell him. "I've watched you practice the same trick until your fingers bled. I've seen you stay up until dawn rewriting a script because one laugh was half a second late. You think I clap because I'm polite? I clap because every time you step on that stage, you give them something they don't deserve, and it breaks my heart that they can't see it."
His arms come around you so tightly it almost hurts. You let him hide his face in your neck, let him sob like the world is ending, because for him, tonight, it did.
You stroke his hair, his shoulders, the crease of his vest he'd ironed to perfection this morning.
"I'm going to run you a bath," you murmur against his ear. "Then you're going to sit, and you're not going to apologize for feeling this way. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what comes next. But tonight, just rest. The world can wait."
He nods against your collarbone, a faint motion, as if even agreement costs him strength.
"Take me home," he says, voice small. "Please. I can't—je peux pas—I can't stay on this stage after tonight."
You nodded, pulling him up with you. His legs shake; you steady him with an arm around his waist. He leans his whole weight into you as you walk down the aisle, past the rows of empty seats that don't deserve him.
Halfway to the exit he stops. Turns back to the stage like he's seen a ghost.
"I left my hat," he says faintly.
"Fuck the hat."
He laughs, surprised, and lets you tug him through the lobby doors.
Outside, the night air is cool. You kiss him again under the marquee, slow and deliberate, until his hands stop trembling. Until he's kissing you back like he's trying to crawl inside your mouth and live there.
When you finally pull apart, his eyes are dry. He rests his forehead against yours.
"You owe me hot chocolate after that," you tease, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face.
He smiles, still catching his breath. "Just promise me, cheŕie, you won't steal it before I can even take a sip."
"No promises," you shoot back, grinning.
"Mm..." he hums, the sound low and lazy. "then I suppose I'll have to keep you wrapped up in my arms the whole way there. Can't have you running off with my desserts."
You roll your eyes so hard but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you completely. "Oh, you miserable little pastry tyrant."