Work Text:
So, fair warning: you were only an adequate baker. By this, you mean to say that you have the ability to follow directions. If the recipe says to sift in two cups of flour, guess what? You’re sifting in two cups of flour. If the recipe says to cut in a stick of butter, well, you’re breaking out your pastry cutter. If the recipe wants you to slowly stir in the essence of two hundred souls of the damned, you’re fishing the scythe from out of your closet (you went as Casper the Friendly Grim Reaper for Halloween last year).
You have no idea how the mini lemon cake you’ve baked tastes. You followed the recipe to the letter—and had even added a thin, sour glaze and delicate curls of lemon peel—and, now, on a simple white stand you’ve procured from somewhere, the cake sits. It’s small, only six inches in diameter, but you know he doesn’t like sweets. A cake of this size would be perfect.
Shit, you hope it’s perfect. Harlequin grinds your gears in the best possible way, and you want his birthday to be special. He deserves a nice one, and, although you know the rest of the troupe will most likely do something for it, you want to show him your affection as well.
Even if he’s really, really …
You don’t say “annoying.”
Because he’s not really.
You’ll say … interesting.
Funny.
Hot.
Really hot.
Damned.
… Cute, sometimes.
And will appreciate the heart you’ve piped in venom green icing atop the cake much more than he’ll let on.
Despite the fact that you’re still only an adequate baker.
You’ve set a glass lid atop the cake stand, and it wobbles in your slightly-trembling hands as you walk into the Circus on the morning of May 26th. The Circus has just opened its gates, and hardly anyone wanders the midway this early, not even the Fools. It’s quiet. The stalls are still shuttering open, and the fog clings low on the ground and swallows your shoes. The day is crisp and clean like the first bite of a tart apple.
You reach Harlequin’s tent without fanfare, and, seconds after you stop in front of it, he slides out through the flap like he’s been waiting there the entire time.
Which he probably has.
He leans one shoulder against the entrance, his eyes dropping immediately to the cake stand in your hands.
“Oh~? Is that for me?”
You meet his stare, even though your cheeks warm. You thrust the cake in his direction. “Yes, and I know you don’t like sweets, but I was promised that this was more sour than anything.” You hope www.dessertrecipiesforpeoplewhohatesweetsenoughtomakeitapersonalitytrait.com doesn’t fail you now.
He looks from you, to the cake, then back to you again, the smile that’s somehow his mask and not his mask curling from ear to ear. “Que atencioso,” he croons. “Did you bake it?”
“Yes.”
“For my birthday?”
“Yes.”
“With your own little hands?”
You roll your eyes because why had he put it like that? “Yes.”
His smile widens. Harlequin steps closer, circling you with predatory intent. Your spine straightens, which is actually so fake, but you know he shouldn’t scare you. He wants to, of course, because it’d be easier if that’s all you were: scared.
He doesn’t take the cake from you immediately. Instead, he bends at the waist until his face is level with the glass lid. His acid gaze peers down at the little green heart you’d piped on top.
“Hm,” he says softly. One clawed finger taps at the glass, just as it’d done when he’d fastened the enamel pin on your collar before. He doesn’t say anything else.
“It’s lemon,” you reiterate, because you feel like you have to explain yourself. “Like I said before, I know you don’t like things that are too sweet. The recipe said that it’d be sour. The glaze is sour, too. I mean, I hope it is. I didn’t taste it after, because then I’d have to cut into it, and that would ruin the whole—” You stop. Your cheeks heat further. “Happy birthday.”
“My dear,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on the green heart. “A whole cake? For me? So generous.”
“It’s only six inches.”
“Hum~” His pointed teeth are bared in a wicked smile. He raises his stare back to yours, and you try not to squirm. “Some would say that that’s a very respectable size.”
You stifle a smile because you’re determined to be serious. He’s going to take this present if it kills you. “Harlequin, c’mon.”
His grin flashes.“Humhum ♫ There you are.” He stops in front of you again, and he’s close enough that you can smell the cologne he’s applied in a way that’s intoxicating yet tasteful. “And what, indeed, does my dear baker desire in exchange?”
You look at him, but he only cocks his head. Your mouth goes somewhat dry. “W—what?”
“For all this effort.” He gestures toward the cake before dragging his eyes down your form. “Perhaps if you wanted me on my best behavior, you shouldn’t have brought me something made to be eaten.” He smirks as he watches your throat bob. “Come now, surely you didn’t flit all this way only to place a sour little confection into my hands and run away, all hot and bothered?”
Your face feels like it’s scorching. The words, “That was kinda the plan,” are on the tip of your tongue, but you bite them back. Taking a deep breath, you tell him the truth: “I don’t want anything.”
His brows scrunch. “Quê?”
“I don’t want anything,” you repeat. You’re firmer, even if your voice drops a few decibels in volume. Why does it feel like you’re not trying to scare him? “I just wanted to do something nice.”
Harlequin goes still, and you almost wish you could snatch the words back—not because they aren’t true. They are, and something in your heart clenches at that … There’s just so much more conviction than you’d ever imagined. He really does deserve nice things today.
Harlequin’s smile remains. Um. Mostly. Something about it looks pulled tight, now, like he’s struggling to not look entirely baffled.
“‘Something nice,’” he echoes.
You clear your throat. “For your birthday.”
His gaze flicks away before it returns a moment later. “I see … Because you thought of me.”
You lower your stare to the cake. “I mean, yeah. Of course I did.” That wasn’t so strange, was it? That you would think of him?
His claws twitch, as if he’s resisting the urge to reach for the cake. Or you. Maybe both. “Careful,” he says softly. “If you keep giving me things so sweetly … there are … some … who may start to believe you mean it.”
You meet his eyes, acid green and calculating. The heat is starting to creep up your neck, now, and you know that, had it been any other circumstance, he’d pounce on the fact. “I do mean it.”
“Ah,” he says, very quietly. “Claro.” There’s nothing in his tone that suggests that it’s clear at all.
He reaches for the cake almost warily, as if it might bite him before he can choke it with a tentacle. His gloved hands settle around the base, and, when his fingers brush yours, he pauses for a heartbeat too long before finally taking the weight from you. One claw traces the neck of the stand. He’s acting like he’s never received a gift before, when you have it on good authority that he has.
Harlequin looks down at the green heart again. Carefully, he lifts the glass lid just enough to let the potent lemon scent escape. He inhales sharply; it’s almost like he’s trying to memorize it—all of it, the fragrance, the heart, the way you look offering it to him.
Then he takes a sweeping bow, imitating a picture of gallantry he’s never once demonstrated in his life.
“Thank you,” he says. The words are quiet. Then, because he must sense the sincerity of them and because his entire survival hinges on eschewing anything even remotely honest, his smile slides back into place. “And if you change your mind about wanting something in return, kitten,” he purrs, “I am, as ever, entirely yours and entirely available.”
This time, you can’t stifle your smile. Shaking your head, you tell him again: “Happy birthday, Harlequin.”