Work Text:
Honestly, working at a coffee shop doesn’t come easily to you.
You don’t experience positive emotions from interacting with people, and your emotional range is rather limited, which makes the situation somewhat more complicated.
It’s not that you fail to notice other people’s emotions. In your perception of the world, few things are as obvious as human feelings — you distinguish them effortlessly, as if reading an open book.
But other people rarely concern you. All of your attention is focused inward.
Whether a customer is delighted or dissatisfied — alright then, here’s your drink, have a nice day.
You force out polite smiles, internally trying to guess which other emotion might be appropriate in a given situation. When the matter turns to your own reactions to the world around you, you begin to feel like a small fish flapping in shallow water — or like a lottery player: will you guess correctly this time which response is “socially acceptable”?
At work, you ask yourself these questions only because you are being paid to treat customers well. Not literally, of course — but you would be fired, just like anyone else, for being rude or impolite.
Outside of work, you leave those thoughts behind, as if they never belonged to you in the first place. Trying to please customers is simply part of the job, and work, as everyone knows, stays at work.
Beyond the coffee shop, you are not a barista with a practiced smile preparing drinks, and you no longer play the guessing game.
Yet the feeling that you are forcing the wrong version of yourself into someone else’s proper skin never truly goes away — and at times, it becomes suffocating.
Fortunately for you, years of imitating “normal” people have softened the sharper edges of your socially incompatible nature. You skillfully mask your confusion and quiet longing, you try your best at work; you try not to forget that you cannot keep your “normal” mask in place forever.
Nevertheless, your boss is fairly tolerant and treats you well, which is why you continue working at the place closest to your home.
…
On your way to work, you find yourself lost in thought again. The cold weather makes the road feel slightly longer than usual, and your mind needs something to occupy itself.
As you analyze your recent interactions with coffee shop customers, you search for moments worthy of being called a “pleasant encounter,” but none come to mind.
Ah — wait. There was an elderly customer recently, with a dog…
Unfortunately, your memory of the large, fluffy dog is interrupted by shouting coming from a small crowd a little further ahead.
The street is fairly wide, and there aren’t enough people to completely block your view, so you can clearly make out what’s happening. The first thing that catches your eye is a black-and-red figure sitting on the ground for reasons unclear to you — and then the source of the noise reveals itself: a broad, muscular man, yelling as he grabs the figure on the ground by the collar. A circle of onlookers murmurs among themselves.
For a moment, you can’t quite understand why you’re witnessing a street altercation in broad daylight — and then you recognize the colorful figure on the ground as one of the members of the traveling circus.
To be honest, you don’t have much of an opinion about the circus that arrived in town. You’ve only overheard customers exchanging remarks over cups of coffee.
It seems people dislike the circus due to the disappearance of several individuals and treat its performers with little kindness.
In your mind, you simply labeled them as freaks — but as kindly as you could manage.
For a few more moments, you silently observe the scene ahead. Your gaze begins to wander, catching on something near the door of a nearby building — and then you dart forward, quickly grabbing the object.
After all, you don’t fit into the concept of “normal” either.
You slam a glass bottle hard against the corner of the building, drawing the attention of both the man instigating the violence and the onlookers around him.
“Hey you!”
Wearing your most openly unfriendly look, you glare at the man from under your brows. You’re not a short girl — you don’t have to tilt your head up to address a rude bastard like him.
You reinforce your call with action — raising the bottle toward him, its jagged edges gleaming with an unmistakable threat.
“Sir, is that really how you treat decent people?” You twist your lips into a crooked smile.
“Let’s stop this before it goes any further.”
You deliberately roll the improvised weapon in your hand. The crowd of spectators thins rapidly.
“Are you out of your mind, girl?!” The muscular man hastily steps back, though he keeps shouting as he retreats.
“Who do you think you’re protecting?! These demons kidnap people, don’t you know?! I’m just demanding justice!”
He pounds his chest with exaggerated righteousness.
“And who here is mistreating decent people, huh?!”
He’s long since released the performer, who now sits somewhere below, staring up at you with wide, stunned eyes.
You keep the object in your hand aimed at the man, taking several steps forward and blocking his path back to the artist.
“It’s still you. Do you really consider beating someone a good deed?” You narrow your eyes. “Don’t look at me like that — this will count as self-defense when I call the police.”
A few of the remaining bystanders voice their agreement, and you pointedly pull out your phone.
For a moment, the scoundrel’s face twists with fear. Then he spits. “To hell with all of you! You’re the one the cops should be called on, you freak!” He turns and storms off. “Who the hell waves broken glass at decent people?!”
The crowd finally disperses. You turn back to the figure on the ground, tossing the trash from your hand aside. You don’t forget to wipe your palm against your clothes.
The disheveled man is still clearly shaken by what you did — and makes no move to stand up on his own.
“Um… are you okay?” You feel nothing in response to your actions, but the inaction of the victim himself is embarrassing. “He didn’t hit you too hard, did he? You’ve got a scrape on your cheek…”
In the end, you extend your hand to the strange man. With your help, he finally leaves the asphalt behind and straightens up.
He still says nothing, towering several heads above you, simply staring.
“…”
Question marks surface in your mind. Well. If you’re going to be kind — might as well go all the way.
“I’ve got a bandage. You’ll probably need one.” You gesture toward your own cheek, hinting that something is wrong with his face.
Once the bandage is in place, the performer remains silent — but his stunned expression softens into something pleased. He smiles gratefully and, pressing a hand to his chest, bows in an exaggerated, theatrical manner.
Well. That’s probably his way of saying thank you.
You glance from the performer to your watch and decide to hurry.
“Sorry, I have to get to work.” You cast him a parting look and wave. “Take care of yourself, alright? Don’t let assholes do whatever they want to you.”
The tall performer smiles even wider and nods.
***
In the end, you safely make it to your café and get to work. People casually discuss everyday matters over cups of coffee or tea, and you pay no attention to their conversations at all. You prefer to simply do your job, occasionally rewarding customers with routine smiles.
You wonder how convincing it looks from the outside.
The day passes much like all the days before it, save for a couple of unpleasant moments: you reluctantly accept a circus ticket from a persistent stranger, just to be left alone. Later, the pink scrap of paper ends up behind the café, mixed in with the refuse of the trash bin. No, you’re not interested at all. No, you’re not interested in something as silly as reselling it either.
As you’re dealing with the lights at the end of your shift, a late visitor floats into the café — which seemed, by all accounts, already closed. A familiar tall clown in a colorful costume. Still silent, he extends a hand from behind his back — and a rather skillfully made paper rose appears before you.
“Wow, that’s very sweet,” you say, flustered, deliberately ignoring the blood on the visitor’s head; the sudden paper flower leaves an impression. “Because I helped you? You really shouldn’t, I’m just very kind…”
You unconsciously justify your impulse of kindness, because you don’t want to dwell on such a trivial thing. In the end, you hope this guy won’t start showing up again and again just because of a small favor.
Still, you take the freshly painted rose from his outstretched hand. Wanting to examine it more closely, you bring it nearer to your face out of curiosity…
And you catch a thick, heavy metallic smell coming from the paint.
Keeping a composed expression, you lift your gaze to the smiling face of your companion, as if waiting to see whether an explanation regarding the material might follow.
You don’t really have an opinion on the fact that blood might have been used as paint — you’re simply curious about the reason behind such a choice… But the performer continues to say nothing.
“…It seems you’ve hurt yourself again. There’s a first-aid kit in the café, I can help with that,” you decide to set it aside and live up to your own declarations of kindness — and also take the initiative in starting the conversation.
The guy seems even happier as you tend to his wound…
“So… you don’t talk? I’m curious — what did you use to paint this flower?” Your thick skin is remarkable; you state your thoughts plainly, without hiding your curiosity.
Your companion props his face in his hands with satisfaction when he hears your question, but subtly clenches his fingers once you finish.
After glancing around, he explains the peculiarities of his role and introduces himself — the performer’s name is Pierrot. You note that he has a pleasant voice, quiet and gentle.
With the introduction, the second part of your question about the paint is lost. You’re tired now and don’t feel like pressing the matter, so you simply leave it for later.
You talk a bit longer about work at the circus, when Pierrot pulls something from the folds of his clothing and offers it to you:
“My lady, I am deeply grateful for your help. Please, accept this ticket. I would be delighted to see you among the audience,” clawed gloves carefully pass another multicolored slip of paper into your hands.
“Oh, thank you for the invitation. Honestly, I’m not very into things like that,” you shift your gaze to the expectant eyes across from you, almost pleading. Well then — perhaps it’s fate, and one cannot run from fate, you think.
“…But I don’t mind coming once, all right,” you examine the ticket more closely, grimly recalling an identical one left in a pile of trash behind the café. “Are all the tickets different colors? I was offered one this morning too, but…”
You realize you’ve been talking with Pierrot for far too long when the street outside grows completely empty and quiet. Upon learning about the counterfeit ticket, you both decide that the trash bin is where it belongs. You discuss a few more topics and promise that you’ll definitely come to his performance.
Pierrot says goodbye and leaves first, and you finally return home after a long shift.
The night passes without dreams.
***
Pierrot becomes a frequent visitor to the café — and every time, without fail, he orders a milkshake, which undeniably endears him to you. Having attended his performances — to your own surprise, more than once — you can clearly see that this guy is strange, just like the rest of his troupe: a bunch of oddities. And yet you continue to communicate with him, utterly unperturbed. All because, for the first time in a long while, you feel that in someone’s presence you don’t have to put on the mask of “normality.”
You ignore all the strange remarks and behaviors of your tall companion, because they don’t bother you in the slightest — and because you know how valuable it is to be able to be yourself, even just a little. You know what kinds of thoughts live in your head, and you know how people usually react to them — and how pleasant it is to see on Pierrot’s face nothing more than mild confusion. As if he’s surprised that you, his fragile little lady, could think such things — and then he simply continues the conversation as usual.
It all starts when customers once again loudly discuss the missing people and ask where your coworker Carol has gone. You have no idea who that annoying girl even is or what her circumstances might be, and secretly you’re glad for the extra space behind the counter. And for the longer work hours — and therefore, the pay.
The noisy customers leave just in time not to cross paths with your expected guest — a couple of minutes later, Pierrot enters the café and cheerfully strides straight up to the counter. You can’t help but complain about how troublesome these overly worried people are.
“My lady, are you truly not concerned? Your colleague is missing as well…” Pierrot runs his fingers along the counter, puzzled by your indifference toward your own kind. You place a large glass of milkshake in front of him, chuckling lightly.
“No. And should I be?” you casually wipe down your workspace before moving on to the next order. “People disappear all the time — am I supposed to worry about every single one? I didn’t get along with my colleague, I have nothing to say about her absence. Though I am curious about what exactly happened to those people,” you lower your voice, unwilling to share your thoughts with the remaining customers. “Were they kidnapped? Sold into sexual slavery? Killed and dismembered, their remains fed to wild dogs? Or maybe they’re on someone’s plate by now?.. You know, people usually joke about where missing cats go — so why couldn’t the same thing happen to a human?” You smile faintly and watch the departing customers, your gaze drifting past the person standing in front of you.
Pierrot, however, doesn’t allow your attention to slip away from him.
“Do people really joke like that?” your companion’s smile doesn’t match the subject in the slightest. “But my lady truly needn’t worry — after all, you have me. No one will be able to harm you, my dear.” Pierrot happily traces the rim of the glass with one hand, while the other subtly reaches closer to you.
“That’s very kind of you, thanks.” Truth be told, this is exactly what you meant when you thought about Pierrot’s unsettling impulses. You smile warmly, but you don’t pull your hand away. “And how does your troupe feel about this? People do love dragging you into it, after all.”
Your companion makes a funny slurping sound through the straw as he finishes his drink, thoughtfully turning the cup in his hands.
“There’s no need to worry about us, my lady. The circus has a stable reputation, and a couple of unjust rumors won’t harm us,” the empty cup goes into the bin at the end of the counter.
“Is that so? Then what do you think about the missing people?”
“Oh, I don’t have much of an opinion, my lady… But I do like your curious theory about the plate.”
***
You grow accustomed far too quickly to sharing such grim thoughts so freely, and completely overlook something important. Your companion is not a big, obedient dog — but a damn unsettling man by most people’s standards. Pierrot follows you everywhere when he’s not busy at the circus, like a shadow; scares off the green-skinned fellow you barely had time to encounter; eventually, he comes to your home at night — yes, you are perfectly aware of that, and of many other things as well.
You fully understand how abnormal the situation you’ve found yourself in is, yet you still don’t wish to give up this comfort. Because this is “abnormal” by the standards of other, “normal” people — and you, as is well known, don’t fit into any definition of “normality.”
In the end, your comfort comes to an abrupt halt when you wake up on something hard, in complete darkness, feeling an unfamiliar weight around your neck. With effort, you pry your eyes open and see the same nothingness — but predatory gazes peer out from the dark.
“…”
You shift stiffly and try to check the strange sensation at your neck, only to discover that you can’t separate your hands — your wrists are bound with something sturdy.
Great. You really did play stalker's bestie for too long, you think.
Whatever problems your mind may have, you’re still human — and you don’t want to be kidnapped. Sitting on a hard, cold floor is damn uncomfortable, the dark room only adds to the confusion, your head hurts, and your stomach feels like a mad spinning top. Didn’t this man promise to treat you well? Why did you end up in such a miserable state?
You try to make out something in the darkness, not even attempting to struggle against the restraints, when a beam of light cuts through the gloom — someone opens the door, and you finally manage to discern the sparse furnishings of the room and the tall human figures surrounding you.
“My lady… you’re awake?” — you recognize Pierrot’s soft voice. “How are you feeling? Forgive me for this, but otherwise they wouldn’t agree…” He steps closer, gently touching your bound hands with his own.
“I feel dissatisfied, dear Pierrot,” you snap, gripping his hands with barely restrained malice, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “My entire body hurts, and whatever is pressing on my neck feels like it’s going to kill me, do you understand? I don’t want to be here.”
You sniff desperately, trying to breathe properly, but it breaks into a coughing fit. Pierrot carefully rubs your back, whispering something soothing — meant only for you — and pulls you into a wide embrace.
“Oh, she really is amusing,” a caustic voice cuts through the dimness. “So you really want to keep a human as a pet? Jester, you’re actually allowing this?”
You listen to their exchange in silence, too stunned by the word pet to interject. You can make out that Pierrot is defending your right to remain in this dark little room — bound, like some kind of creature — and a wave of irritation rises in your weakened mind. No. You will not stay here.
You strain to gather what little strength you have left and try to stand, but your legs treacherously tremble and give out. Pierrot doesn’t even have time to react before you meet the cold floor again. You curse inwardly, already guessing the reason, as the room begins to blur into multicolored circles. You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting the surge of nausea; as though from beneath a layer of cotton, a familiar voice reaches you.
Feeling warm hands on your shoulders, you think — quite clearly — that you will never eat cream cake again for the rest of your life.
And then your consciousness finally drifts away.