Work Text:
Harlequin shifts in the shadows of Pierrot's tent, watching his rival glide across the ground, turning and tossing his knives. It was another night where humans and that human were watching him perform his act. It had been over a week since he had met Pierrot's human. Since he had paid attention to them. Tried to steal them away. Felt something in return. But never had he felt something burn and twist in his chest like this. Pierrot had sunken many knives into his body before, but it had never hurt like this and it had never been his heart.
So when the notes of the final chorus of the song plays, Harlequin emerges from the shadows of the tent. He walks through the crowd of watchful humans, extending a hand from under his cape in an offer to dance. When Pierrot's eyes land on him confused and then narrowed, his lips straining into a speechless frown, Harlequin only smiles back at him. But when Pierrot bows his head and takes his hand, a warm touch that was not the cool curve of his blades, Harlequin has to mask the shock on his face.
He turns in time with Pierrot, glancing down as his hands either clasp against his or clench around his shoulders. He allows him to lead, figuring that it was his own show, but also because he wanted too. A part of him wanted to know what it was like to feel his embrace again. Warm. Tight. Consuming. He never hesitated to hold that human of his, no matter how unkind the human race had been to them all in the past, in the same way he knew how to strike him with a blade. God forbid that he wanted to be on the other end of it for once.
"I know you were born without speaking," Harlequin says under the music, bringing his mouth close to Pierrot's ear. "But try to at least look like you love me—the humans are watching."
Pierrot's golden eyes widen and his hold tightens around Harlequin. But at the mention of the humans, he looks away and searches for a particular human in the crowd, simultaneously turning the both of them and creating a distance in the disguise of technique. Harlequin, dipped and holding on by a strained hand, watches from an upside down world as Pierrot's golden eyes land on a certain individual and become creased with smile lines. Who knew that golden eyes could feel so cold.
Looking onto the object of Pierrot's desires, wanting to wipe the smile from his face and that human's face, he also smiles directly at them. Watching Pierrot's human contort from confusion into a hesitant smile, he feels nails dug into his skin. But the pinpricks of pain were made up by Pierrot's mere acknowledgment.
The music ends. But Harlequin's hand does not leave his. He bows, hand in hand with Pierrot, smiling and staring at his beloved human. He had already considered the consequences of his actions. He knew that Jester would be upset with him. He knew that Ticket Taker would be upset with him. He knew that Pierrot would react, physically and emotionally, but when the humans all pile out of the circus tent, he feels the world turn in on itself. Pierrot drags him by their connected hands, close and against his chest, before sending him harshly to the ground, blocking out any of the dim lighting that the circus tent provided. At first, he does not contain the smile that stretches across his face, but then he feels the cold kiss of Pierrot's blade, dragging across his cape, then cutting through the fabric and into his skin, pressing hard and downwards. Through the flesh and into blood. Close enough to the jugular to make Harlequin's smile strain into open mouthed shock.
"Over a human?" Harlequin chokes out. "Nothing ever fatal—but now you want it to be fatal?"
Pierrot's eyes narrow, glancing between Harlequin's strained expression and the small blade he pointed against a vital area. Vital vessels. Nerves. An airway. Maybe if he just cut him now, deep and twisted into the flesh, his human would be safe. Harlequin would not pursue them again. There would be no Harlequin. There would be no Harlequin. He shifts the knife deeper, watching as blood begins to stain his black and green uniform. He also sees the emotion grow in his eyes. He pulls the blade away, not bothering to be slow, but merciful by the years he has known him as family where they belonged as monsters in a world of humans. Glancing at his blade, satisfied with the lack of blood against the silver, he rises and turns away, intending to leave.
Harlequin feels his chest rise and fall. Not from the blood that was beginning to soak against his uniform. Not from the blade that had nearly carved into his chest. But because Pierrot turned away and said nothing. He also rises, swift and uncaring for his injury, and crosses over to Pierrot, grasping the sleeve of his uniform. He pulls Pierrot back to him, another hand coming to the ruffles around his throat, tight and unwilling to ever let go.
Pierrot's eyes widen, confused. Harlequin never fought back. But maybe he was just this desperate for his human again. Just like last time. Every time. His eyes narrow and his lips form into a harsh sneer. Harlequin never learns anything. He would have to remind him of his place. Where he belonged. Who his human belonged to.
He reaches for Harlequin's hand at his ruffles, sinking his nails into his skin. Enough to make it go red. Enough to make him bleed once more. But Harlequin does not accept the warning, only moving closer, holding him tighter.
"Speak, Pierrot," Harlequin brings his face to his, gritting each word out. "Say something to me. Tell me about your human. I'll tell you how I'll steal them. How I'll take them from you until your lips form the words. Just so you know how much it hurts. Go on, speak."
Pierrot tries to shake him off. He tries to sink his nails in further. He tries to cut his skin. He tries to make him bleed. But despite the effort, Harlequin continues with his vice grip. He continues until he doesn't. Frustrated by the lack of words. Frustrated by the circumstances of where he was willing to speak to the human. Frustrated by the golden eyes before him; Harlequin releases a hand from his collar, before raising it and scratching the side of his face. Deep, down and harsh—until he sees blood smear against his white face—until he lets go completely and feels the blood beneath his nails—until Pierrot gasps out, clutching the side of his face.
"So you can make sound," Harlequin remarks, trying to control his tone. "You can make gestures. You try to be a mime, but you fail for that human. You speak for them. You offer roses covered in your own blood. But you do nothing but spill mine. Each moon that passes, the more I want to spill their—"
Harlequin connects with the ground again. Instead of a blade, he feels a hand brought to his face. Blood spilling from his nose. Before he can look up at his Pierrot, his face turns with the motion of his fist. He tastes the metallic sting from his lips, the insides of his mouth. But he also feels Pierrot straddle his waist, press a knee between his legs, a hand around his throat, anything to stop him from moving with sheer force. Harlequin grasps his fist before he can bring it to his face for a third time.
"I can make those gestures too, if that's what you like," Harlequin says, struggling to contain the tremble in his voice. "I have counted every single time you have stabbed me. I know the lies you tell to that human. I know your past. I know your desires. I know. I am capable. But you don't want me to be capable. But I don't care, Pierrot. No matter how hard you try, you will never truly discard of me."
"What is it that you refuse to understand?" Pierrot finally asks, his voice a harsh whisper. "My human has my love and you cannot take them from me."
"It was never about that human," Harlequin sneers, ignoring how his vision began to blur.
Pierrot stares down at Harlequin, taking in the cuts and blood that stained his mouth. His frown. For once, not stretched into a smile. He takes in the way his chest heaves up and down. The way his breath is uncontrolled. The loss of elegance. The loss of grace. The tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. The sobs that needed to escape his mouth. Harlequin's emotions, he determined, had to be twisted and new—but the longer he looked down at him, the more he saw the familiar emotions in his eyes, in their struggle—and he realised that these feelings were nothing new, but had been in the makings from over a century.
Pierrot releases his grasp on Harlequin, slowly and gently. For the first time he did not need to act the part as a mime. Speech had naturally left him. But Harlequin reaches out, grasping his shoulders and clutching the side of his face, stroking the scar that he had inflicted by his own hand earlier. He presses down onto Pierrot's shoulder, hiding his face. Pierrot's hands hesitate until he feels Harlequin's body shake, again and again, as the tears stain his uniform.
"You're family," Pierrot mutters out, not sure of what he was saying. "You're my family."
When he finally reaches back to hold Harlequin, his hands barely grazing his body, he feels him shift away. Not enough to pull away. Enough to avoid his contact. Enough to avoid intimacy. He barely gets a moment to glance at his face, hard and determined, before he gasps out at the sudden teeth that sink into his neck. Harlequin bites down wide and hard, purposeful with the mark that it will leave, until he feels Pierrot's skin break and his blood against his lips. When Pierrot's hands grasp at him from the sudden motion, Harlequin releases his teeth but not his hold. For a moment, he presses his lips against Pierrot's neck, then he pushes him away.
Rising from the ground, he watches Pierrot clutch his neck on the ground. Harlequin traces his mouth with his fingertips and tastes Pierrot's blood. But even as he knew that his teeth would leave a mark that would take days to heal, a sign clear as day to Pierrot and that human, he does not feel any victory. He feels the ghost of Pierrot's touch, struggling, fighting, stabbing, holding, clasping, biting, kissing. It will revisit him in his dreams. But he turns away and drags himself from the circus tent. Words cannot form. Words do not exist. No words will express the emotions he feels for his Pierrot. He becomes the one who was born without speaking. He had been with his Pierrot when they danced across the circus ground, but really, he was only a Harlequin who dances alone on stage.