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Harlequin notices things others don’t. That’s the nature of a monster, truth be told. Monsters survived by watching. By learning which creatures flinch, which freeze, which run.
You’re very easy to read. Not that you know that.
You stand near Pierrot now, fingers curled loosely around his black claws. The two of you aren’t doing anything particularly interesting. Pierrot is waxing poetic about something—you, probably—and you’re nodding along with that indulgent smile that implies his adoration is entirely reciprocal.
In the shadows, Harlequin leans against a tentpole, his spine pressed flush against the wood. He looks … bored. One of his feet is hooked over the other, and his arms are loosely crossed over his chest. A curl dangles, devilishly tousled, down his brow. His eyes are half-lidded, narrow slits. Anyone glancing his way would assume he’s barely paying attention.
And he is.
… Except to the way Pierrot’s hand brushes your shoulder.
You don’t flinch. Of course you don’t. Why would you? You’ve gotten used to him. Used to the way he hovers over you like a shadow and buckles in ecstasy that you even exist at all. Your gaze turns soft as your eyes catch where his hand is.
Harlequin’s mouth curves slightly.
Que fofo.
Actually, maybe it’s not cute. Maybe it’s fascinating. Fascinating because that’s not how you used to look.
At least, not when Harlequin touched you.
You’d been standing in the streets, taking in the Fools and trying not to breathe too hard as he loomed behind you. His breath had ghosted along the shell of your ear, like he’d been skimming the waters to see which parts of you sparked first.
He’d wanted to take you from Pierrot, it’s true. Wanted to steal you away from the obsessive circus freak who lapped you up like water. It’d be a fun way to pass the time, especially since watching silent Pierrot’s eyes twitch in irritation caused the corners of his own mouth to peel upward in a smirk.
And that afternoon, when you’d followed him in the direction of his tent, your heart hammered deliciously. Harlequin had rested his face in the crook of your neck. He’d stepped so close that, when he’d tucked his hand onto your throat, your back grazed his chest. You’d watched him in your peripheral vision the whole time, eyes tracking him with a cocktail of curiosity and caution that he found extremely entertaining.
And when he’d lilted, “ … let’s play ♪,” you hadn’t stepped back. That had been the first invitation.
The second had been when you’d lifted your chin slightly, like you’d been daring him.
So he’d stolen you away into his tent, into the pitch darkness where your heartbeat rattled in his ears and where your eyes could only follow the glowing acid green of his irises.
You’d protested something about it being way too dark. And then about not being able to see. But your feet hadn’t retreated. Not even an inch.
And Harlequin, delighted, had savored it. The tremor in your voice. The quick rhythm of your pulse. The way fear made you corruscate under his gaze.
You’d been terrified. And you hadn’t run.
He’d bottled that moment like wine, sealing it as something to sip on later. And something intoxicating to get drunk on right then and there.
But now you’re laughing at something Pierrot says.
Harlequin watches how you duck your head into your chest when you do, even though the sound leaves you without restraint. Pierrot reaches out and brushes a speck from your sleeve.
Harlequin snorts under his breath.
Look at him. Doting on you like you’re an idol whose shrine he’s sworn to protect. Like he’s barely stopping himself from clutching you to his chest. His fingers convulse at his side with suppressed desire.
Harlequin had never seen the appeal of that approach. When he touched you, it wasn’t gentle.
You remember that.
He knows you do.
You had tasted sweet.
That’s the word Harlequin always comes back to.
Sweet.
He hates sweet things. Cloying and saccharine, they burn on his forked tongue like holy water on a demon’s. But he doesn’t mean “sweet” like that. He doesn’t even mean “sweet” like “innocent,” either. He’s not stupid enough to believe in innocence. You can’t accept a ticket to the Freak Circus of Horrors and feign that.
But there had been something dangerously soft about the way you reacted when he dragged his mouth down your throat. You had gasped. Had been incredulous.
But you hadn’t pushed him away.
Harlequin glances again toward the two of you.
Pierrot is still talking. He shouldn’t be, technically. His performances are usually wordless. Language is replaced with sinuous dances and throwing knives. But when he’s with you, he doesn’t perform.
He must be thankful the Jester can’t see him.
But apart from that: Harlequin notices that you look comfortable at his side.
Safe, even.
…
Do you know how dull that is?
He moves when you do. It’s not because he’s following you; he’s not. But when you and Pierrot begin walking toward the Circus gate, Harlequin’s shadow drifts alongside in the same direction, his boots soundless despite the bells that cap them.
Pierrot pauses near the entrance, and you stop with him. Neither of you notices Harlequin’s eyes smoldering acid in the twilight. For a beat, you two are silent. Then Pierrot reaches down and tentatively nudges a stray piece of hair away from your face.
It’s such a small gesture. Small, and so terribly, terribly gentle.
You lean into the touch.
Harlequin’s smile sharpens.
Oh.
Hum.
That’s new.
He had touched you like that, once, too.
But his fingers had tangled in your hair instead, pulling your head back so he could see your throat properly in the dark.
You hadn’t complained. Your pulse had jumped beneath his mouth. Harlequin had felt it. The way your body reacted to him. The way you allowed him to do things.
That’s the amusing part.
You were curious. And a little reckless. You let him kiss you. You let him bite you. You let his tentacles roam your body.
And yet …
Pierrot stamps—no, tattoos—a kiss against your temple. Your eyelids flutter closed.
Harlequin feels something flicker briefly at his sternum. He ignores it, because the feeling isn’t important. What’s important is the obvious conclusion: Pierrot finally managed it.
How charming.
The tragic clown wins the sweetheart.
Idly tapping his mask with one green-cloaked claw, Harlequin observes the two of you for another moment.
Pierrot murmurs something that causes his irises to pulsate into twin hearts. Like those aren’t Harlequin’s thing. You laugh again. Your hand goes from lightly grasping his to fully wrapping around it. It’s so easy. So natural. Like that was always the way things were heading.
Harlequin has ducked into a new tent this time, has leaned against a new tentpole, but, just then, he pushes away from it.
He isn’t bitter. That isn’t in his nature.
After all, he never wanted you. Not really. You were just interesting. A novelty. A new act in a place full of the same performances. A different flavor of Fool in the entrée of existence. He’d had his fun. That’s it.
Still. There’s something mildly perplexing about the whole situation.
You had liked him, that much was obvious.
You let him press you against a table.
Let him leave his mark.
Let him do things Pierrot simply didn’t have the anatomy to do.
And yet you chose the desperate hands.
The worshipful voice.
The drowning affection.
Harlequin chuckles to himself as he disappears into the black tent, which visitors were never allowed to enter.
Estranho.
He could have sworn you liked the taste of him better.