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“I'm sorry.”
Blinking, Pierrot turned his head just enough to look at his lover lying beside him. “Whatever for, my Lady?”
She didn't move. Hadn't moved, actually- since he'd first glimpsed her laying on her bedroom floor through the window. He'd been so alarmed he'd forgotten all proprietary and climbed inside, checking her over.
Thankfully, she was fine. Alive, but unwilling to be lifted into the comfort of her bed. Other than that, she didn't react to very much of anything. So he'd simply shifted his long, gangly limbs to lie beside her, staring blankly at the dark ceiling. The hour was late and not a soul stirred outside. It felt as though they'd entered their own private bubble.
“For…this,” she murmured, voice remaining quiet, muted.
A heaviness clouded her scent. Strong. Sad. It had been there since he'd first climbed into her room several hours ago. He was certain it was responsible for weighing her limbs and heart down, to the point she couldn’t move. It reminded him of the scent of wounded prey huddled within its den.
She wet her lips. “For being…like this,” shifting slightly, glassy eyes slid up to him. “I really wanted to be my best self for you, you know? Exciting. Interesting. Cool. Lively.”
“But-”
“I wanted to have energy for you,” she continued softly, hands curling into loose fists at her sides. “I used to have so much of it as a kid. I don’t know where it all went. When I first saw you- I actually thought- hey- I want to draw that guy. Especially his eyes.”
Pierrot didn't mind her jumping between topics so quickly. He blushed, shifting his whole body so that he was lying on his side, white hair spilling towards her.
“R-really? You did?” He breathed. “I'd be honoured, my dearest.”
“Heh, I'd like to,” she smiled without humour. Her arms lifted, gesturing at nothing as she tried to motion with her hands. “I used to use pastels- the chalk got all over my fingers, but I loved spreading them over a page. They could make such lovely colours for backgrounds if you blended them right.”
Her arms dropped, the light that had briefly entered her gaze fading anew.
Pierrot held his breath, claws twitching. Slowly, carefully, his hand inched down, brushing his knuckles over the back of her hand. “But you don't use them anymore?” he gently prompted.
“I don't draw at all anymore. Hardly ever. I'm usually too tired after finishing work,” his lover paused, brows knitting together. “The last time I even sketched must've been…damn- two years ago, maybe?”
The clown, noticing her lack of revulsion, inched his large monstrous hand down, until black claws slid between her fingers, clasping their palms together. He could feel her faint heat even through the material of his gloves.
“I could write too,” she rambled, voice becoming thick with stifled emotion.
Pierrot crooned encouragingly, inching closer, breath now fanning over the crown of her head. “What did you write about, my love?”
“Oh all sorts of things, load of rubbish I'm sure,” she laughed, body remaining frozen and unmoving. He stroked his thumb over her knuckles all the same, hoping she could feel him in her numbed state. “Loved…Romance though. Writing it. Dialogue was my favourite. The banter, the emotion. The sexual tension."
“I-I love love too,” Pierrot smiled with his teeth, shifting his free arm to slide closer, stroking her damp hair. She'd forgotten to dry it after showering, or maybe she simply didn't have the energy to use her hair dryer. “Why then, do you sound so sad talking about it? The arts are meant to comfort us.”
“Because I was good at it. Well, not the best, but I could finish projects. They had plots, fun ones! I could sit at my laptop and damn, 70,000 words was nothing back then," she said. “Now I…well I'm lucky if I could manage 100 a day. I'm just so tired, Pierrot. A-and I don't know who I am without it. I just go to work all day, become exhausted, come home- and barely have it in me to do much of anything. I wish I…I wish I could write about you.”
He felt himself light up. His veins buzzed with the hot onslaught of blood pumping strongly through his system, heart fluttering wildly. He couldn’t help himself. His arms wrapped around her unresisting form, pulling her completely into his all-encompassing warmth. Even his leg hitched to tangle between hers, a low rumbling noise escaping his chest.
“Oh my dear. Hearing that from you- it's enough to fill my heart to bursting. Don't sound so sad, my sweet love,” he cooed, nuzzling his mask into her hair and breathing in her sad scent. “If you are tired, merely rest. It is not a crime to rest your weary head, is it?”
Frustration leaked into her brittle voice. “But I've been ‘resting’ for years now, surely. When can I get back to how I used to be, Pierrot?”
“I do not know. We are sometimes too changed by time to simply ‘go back’ and must make do with our new selves, I think. But I do know…you are perhaps too hard on yourself,” he stroked the tense lines of her body, smiling as she gradually yielded to his touch. “And you needn't be lively on my account. I like everything about you. That includes this secret side to you, my love. I'm so pleased you've allowed me to see it. To hold you in such a vulnerable state. I will protect and love this weary side of you too. I can lick your wounds…soothe them,” he cooed, brushing away her tears as they began to fall, rolling down her lovely cheeks. “Tell me what you'd write about," he offered, trying to distract her. "Help me see it.”
She sniffed, breathing in and out, turning on her side to face him now.
“A-ah, well…I'd probably write about your aerial acrobatics.”
“Really? You like them?”
“They're unique,” she gave a wobbly smile that bent her lips at the edges. “I haven’t written about that before. Can't believe you perform without a safety net,” she shook her head.
Pierrot brushed more and more hot tears away, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over her cheeks. She made a stifled sound that tore at his heart, ducking her head and resting it against his chest.
“I-I would…write about you using the- the-” her hands circled around one another. “Scarves? See, I can’t even remember words very well anymore! I used to be able to think clearer. Pick out words easily.”
Another rumbling noise escaped from his chest, amusement colouring his voice. “Silks, my love. I use silks. Do not worry. If you fail to recall something, we can always talk about it. Perhaps your mind is...like a muscle, and needs to be built up again? Retained, so that the words come easier."
She huffed, and blessedly, he felt her hands slide up his chest, resting there. His heartbeat quickened under her touch. “I’d write about how you climb them while performing- twirling so high above the audience. How you wrap them around your limbs, twisting and unravelling- freefalling! Heh, I was on edge when I watched you.”
Slowly, a contented smile spread across Pierrot’s face. He ducked his chin, pressing his mouth to her hair and stroking the contours of her back. “Hm~hm~ very good. What else?”
She kept talking, rambling about aerial hoops, the flying trapeze, and various other feats he could perform while in the air. Her voice lost its uncertainty, gaining strength with each new imagined sentence she could craft.
Pierrot held her throughout, even when she began to lose steam again, falling quiet and uncertain anew. He kissed her, and tried to make love to her ego, to soothe the battered, tired thing she’d curled into, but ultimately they both knew her strength was something that needed time to cultivate.
But with care, it could be done.
“Pierrot?” came a soft tone, hours later when he thought she’d fallen asleep.
“Yes, my dearest?”
“What if I write it…and it's bad?”
“Hmnn...well…” he thought for a moment. “It would feature you and I, together on a page, would it not?”
“Yeah?”
He smiled and kissed her, the bells of his hat jingling softly. “Then it would be the greatest piece of literature in the whole world in my eyes. You needn’t fear about that,” he smiled, looking down at her tired face. “But, if you should fear what others might think…simply keep practicing. I sometimes falter in my performances too- a knife thrown too carelessly, a free-fall where I misjudged the distance- but we mustn't stop trying. The same goes for your drawing. We needn't rush...but we must try, lest we stay still and static forever."
His teeth gleamed, looking just a little sharper in the light of the moon peering through her window. "And if work is proving too...bothersome, I could always steal you away from it. Lock you somewhere deep and safe. Then you could write and draw all day with no irritating humans to tire you out."
She laughed, tucking her face much too close to his chin and making fireworks explode in his bloodstream. His hands shook, grasping her hips as he breathed out unevenly.
“Very funny. Alright. I’ll…try,” she said, so quietly he almost missed it under the drumming of his wild heartbeat. “And Pierrot?”
“Y-yes, my love, my star?”
He felt her smile against the vulnerable skin of his exposed throat. “Thanks.”
—-
End