Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s one in the morning and the janitor is  telling stories to the warm Parisian night, one of many stories that he has sitting inside his heart. No doubt he’ll finish this story and start in on the next one almost immediately, pausing as if waiting to hear some disembodied applause, before smiling softly, shifting his position slightly, and beginning the next tall tale. Julian will repeat this process until he falls asleep, words slurred and slow, eyes half-lidded.

At least, this is what John assumes. He can’t see into the janitor’s closet, but he’s sat outside of it on the other side of the door for long enough that he can envision the janitor clearly, too clearly. Like a painting.

The first time was an accident. John had stayed at the tower for far too long, work or something other, he no longer remembered; what was important was that he fell asleep in his dressing room, and hadn’t been awakened, not even by Leticia. And he heard singing. Loud and rickety, much like the tower at certain times, but not… unwelcome. Quite soothing, really.

And then talking.

Upon investigation, the noises were coming from the janitor’s closet. Julian was telling a story, something about mice, and John, entranced, could not pull himself away.

So began a habit.

He doesn’t do it every night (sweet lord, what sleep would he get?), only when he can afford to do so. Only to listen to two or three stories. Only to listen to his songs. Only to be there in the soft cradle of the janitor’s voice, a distinct separation from the world of showbusiness, quiet and conversational. So different from his loud and ambitious hosting, like a friend talking to a friend, like a bedtime story. It’s oddly comforting.

Julian’s voice begins to slur. John waits a few seconds, decides it’s time, and stands, leaving the sleeping janitor to his dreams.

-----------------------

“I know what you’ve been doing,” says Leticia slowly, blowing smoke into his face. She’s standing in his dressing room, an unexpected surprise, her dark skin a stark contrast to the white of his large vanity. “I’m more surprised that he doesn’t know.”

John looks down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but he does. His palms are slick with sweat.

Leticia glares. “Yes, you do.”

John’s eyes rise to meet hers, feeling slightly annoyed, the sort of annoyed one feels when being obviously outed yet still defensive and in denial. “And? What is the issue? The janitor crashes into our show and ruins it all the time! I think perhaps that I am allowed to crash his every once in awhile.”

Leticia smiles and looks away, at his letters from Archibald, then sighs. “Why?”

A question he’s avoided vehemently since the habit began. “I don’t know.”

“ Why, John?”

“I don’t know!”

The sharp tone of his voice surprises himself, but Leticia seems unfazed. Seems. After seconds of silence that feel like minutes, Leticia says, “Well, I suppose it does not matter. You are getting enough of sleep, yes? What matters is you can still host.” She gestures vaguely towards him. “You have bags under your eyes.”

John bristles, lightly touching the wrinkled crescents beneath his eyes, truly seeing himself in the mirror of his vanity for the first time. Leticia’s right. “Is that what gave me away?”

Leticia shrugs. “Part of it.” She smiles. “But it’s something else, too.”

She brushes past him. John stands still in the aftermath of her presence, smoke and sweat swirling around him, before he turns and asks, “Something else? What?”

But Leticia’s gone.

----------------------------

That night, Julian’s story teeters. At times, his voice grows quieter, as if whispering to himself or to his imaginary audience a sort of secret, and John has to press his ear to the wall of the closet hard. From what he can make out, the story goes a little something like this:

Did you know that spiders are actually dancers? It’s true. They’re the best dancers in the whole world. No, not like the mice. Spiders prefer ballet. And, and, so, when spiders are weaving their webs, they are actually dancing, and their webs reflect the dances inside of their hearts. Um. And all the other insects? Uh, if you listen really, really closely, they’re like a symphony, they’re down in the pit, with the spider on stage, dancing and dancing and dancing. And, I mean, yeah, spiders eat the other insects. That’s true. But no one said they were perfect, and they’ve got to eat. Some say that spiders go for the insects whose rhythms don’t, uh, match their own.

But. Anyway.

Once, there was this spider who didn’t know how to dance. Like, at all! Really sad. He watched other spiders making these beautiful designs and shapes, and he couldn’t create anything. He should have been able to do it. He really wanted to, but he couldn’t.

And one day, this spider came across, um. A bird. And this bird, it couldn’t fly. So they were… the same. In a way.  

The janitor’s voice lulls. It takes several minutes for John to realize he has fallen asleep. John checks his watch. Only midnight. The janitor usually has a harder time sleeping than this.

I want to hear the rest of it, thinks John, surprising himself with how fervent this desire is.

But it’s time to go.

----------------------------

Jacques hoists Julian up onto his shoulders with a few heavy huffs that he tries hard to hide. Julian yelps, loudly, hands pressed firmly into Jacques’ shoulders, the tip of his hat flying into his face.

“What are you doing?!” says Julian, gasping.

“Leticia wants ya outta here,” grunts Jacques, “so I’m gettin’ ya outta here.”   

“I can carry him out myself if you need me to,” says Leticia, half-joking, but is interrupted by some loud guttural nonsense from Jacques’ mouth.

“I can do it myself, ” he says.

“I’m… really not that heavy, Jacques. If it’s hard, I can show myself out.” Julian’s voice is tinged with amusement, and Jacques wavers harshly on purpose this time. “AH!”  

“That’ll getcha. Shut up, janitor.”

Jacques starts to leave with Julian teetering on his shoulders, when John walks in. This evening’s feature presentation, a hyperactive old woman telling a story about fairies in her backyard, lulls in the background. The audience seems delighted by the story, and John is, too-- until--

“Jacques! What do you think you’re doing ?”

Jacques turns in confusion, halfway out of the room, Julian bobbing with the shift. “Takin’ the janitor out. Like you guys wanted.”

John sputters, as if confused by his own words and unsure where he was going with any of this anyway. “But… did you have to do it like… that?”

Jacques grins. “What, like this? It’s funnier this way, watch!”

“No, Jacques, please--”

Julian makes a noise, somewhere between laughter and fear and delight that sits uncomfortably at the pit of John’s stomach. His small, calloused hands are digging into Jacques’ shoulders.

Jacques grins. “Aw, that’s not scary for you anymore, is it? Here, how about I--”

“Jacques, stop it!” John snaps. “Just- just get him out of here. Please.” As an afterthought, he growls out, “ Normally .”

A lengthy silence. The stagehand nods and puts the janitor down, leading him out, closing the door behind them. The lady is almost finished with her routine. John storms back towards the stage, in the worst of moods for some reason or other, and as he passes Leticia she says, “It’s no surprise he thinks you hate him.”

Oh, this bothers him. More than he’d like to admit.

His sign-off for the show that night is so rigid and stern that all the world, in their Brooklyn cabs and Parisian cafes, are still and silent.

----------------------------

Julian’s story continues, but John is distracted. Between each word is a thought: he thinks i hate him? does he hate me? Or why should it matter? The thoughts and questions sit there, twiddling their thumbs, looking at him the way a mother would, not mad, just disappointed. But he got the basic gist of the story regardless:

Okay. So. Anyway, the bird and the spider, one couldn’t fly, one couldn’t dance. But they found comfort in each other and, uh, their shared inconsistencies. And, and one day, the bird was singing, and the spider said, uh, “oh, I didn’t know you sang! It’s beautiful. I don’t know why I didn’t hear it before.”

The bird was embarrassed but kept singing, like, this very soft and sweet tune, very comforting. Mm. It was, uh. Like.  

 And here, Julian proceeds to hum, ever so softly, a nice, calming  tune, like a lullaby. And then he added words:

                                                           sometimes night falls and i can’t sleep

                                                           thinking about lives and secrets i keep

                                                           i’m on your mind

                                                           even if you’re not

                                                           on mine

                                                           except that’s a lie

                                                           i think about you all of the time

John sits back against the wall of the janitor’s closet, captivated in the lyrics and the melody of it all and, somewhere in the pit of his heart, he pretends that the janitor is singing this just for him. Eventually, Julian’s private symphony ends and so does John’s nightly respite.

He leaves.  

----------------------------

For once, the janitor does not attempt to interrupt the show. It’s quiet and peaceful-- too peaceful. Everyone is needlessly on edge for the entirety of the evening, but once the curtains are drawn and the audience disappears, with scarcely a peep from Julian, everyone laughs, slightly nervous. Where has he gone off to? is the resounding thought amongst the stagehands, the acts, and most of all, host John Cameron.

“You should check on him,” says Jacques. He has just emerged from the shower, and something about the way his white tee clings to his chest irritates John immensely.

“Why should I care? It was the best show we’ve had in months!” The host straightens his tie nervously, despite it already being quite straight. “I hope he stays away.”

Leticia enters. “Okay, now that all of that is settled, John, I want you to go check on Julian.”

“Why me ?”

“Ah, enough with the excuses, so much fuss, go check, now!”

They shove John out, and sooner or later he finds himself standing in front of the janitor’s closet, wringing his hands together, sweating and breathing oddly. He’s rehearsing in his head: because that’s what show men do, they rehearse--but everything sounds very wrong. Julian! Thanks for not ruining the show like usual! No, that’s no good. Julian! Er. Where have you been? What, Cameron, are you interrogating the boy? Think, god damn it. Julian… do you realize you have a beautiful singing voice?

Wait.

Where did that come from?

No matter. He knows how to be spontaneous, knows how to think on his feet. He can do this. Why is he so nervous? He’s just checking up on him. Steeling himself, John Cameron takes a deep breath and wrenches the janitor’s closet open.

“Julian, I--”

But there’s no one there.

Confused, John steps further into the room, squinting in its dimness. He could’ve sworn he heard rustling in here earlier. Perhaps it was just the wind? If Julian wasn’t here, then where on earth could he have run off to?

A horrid thought sunk like a rock into the pit of John’s stomach. What if he… left?

The thought was only just starting to take nightmarish form when John, in his distraction, tripped over something quite solid and fell. A few grunts and groans. John, after a few seconds of disoriented mumbles, sits up to find-- Julian, janitor at the Eiffel Tower, curled up in a heap of blankets and what appear to be stolen coats, and… what’s wrong with him?

“Julian?”

No response. John Cameron scrambles forward, pushing aside the blankets and coats to reveal Julian, disheveled and coughing up a storm from the movement, red in the face and sweating. 

“Mr… Mr. Cameron?”

“Shh, Julian, don’t talk,” says John, and he hoists the janitor up off of the floor and into his arms, walking as fast as he can towards Leticia. The janitor is soft and very, very warm, worryingly warm, and he curls into the clean fabric of John’s suit. John, who should have been irritated by this, instead clutched him ever closer.

“Mr. Cameron, you smell so nice--”

“Shut up, Julian.” 

Chapter Text

Leticia is a fast worker. The second she sees Julian, she takes him into her arms with little effort at all and rushes out into warm, dark night. John follows behind her in a dazed stupor, eyes trained on Julian’s pale form, desperately keeping close so as not to lose sight of him. He doesn’t know why, but he fears that if his eyes leave Julian for too long, they will lose him forever. Somehow, they wind up in a cab, Leticia and John balancing Julian between them.

Leticia barks something to the cab driver that John does not hear. He’s focused on Julian’s shallow breathing, on the faint but steady rise and fall of his chest. John manages to pull himself out of it long enough to mumble, “Where are we going?”

Leticia says, “Your place. You do not live very far away, no? It will be ideal.” She pauses. “What happened?”

“I found him like this,” says John, taking off Julian’s hat and clutching it tight, feeling and touching. He’s still so warm. “When you asked me to check on him.”

“Poor boy,” says Leticia. “I mean, what did he expect? Scaling the tower all hours of the day and night, wearing those thin drapes… I’m not even sure he eats, have you ever seen him eat?”

John is distracted. Leticia’s saying something and so is the cab driver, actually. The cab driver is saying something about oh, you’re that host for that circus show, huh? I recognize your voice, my daughter, she listens to you all the time…

John stops listening. The short ride is a blur, a high pitched ringing sound in the back of John’s head, and when they reach his suite, they bolt, Leticia tossing money at the cab driver without looking.

-----------------------

They place Julian in John’s bed with scarcely a thought, and Leticia quickly gets to work, rummaging around in John’s kitchen and cabinets frantically. From his bedroom, John hears crashing and harsh bumps, but he can’t really be brought to care. So John sits in silence as Leticia rattles off elsewhere, heart twisting terribly at the sight of the janitor in his weakened state. He’s so quiet, is what bothers him, even if he won’t admit it. He’s so quiet. Before he can stop himself, John leans over the janitor, watching as his eyes flit beneath his eyelids. He’s close enough to see freckles like little stars dotted across the high points of Julian’s face. He’d never noticed that before.

“Julian…,” says John softly, “I should like to hear you sing again.”

Suddenly Julian is awake again, looking up at John through half-lidded, glossy eyes.

John leaps up and sits, rigid and still, heart scarcely beating.

“Mr… Mr. Cameron…”

“I told you not to talk, Julian,” says John sharply, but retracts immediately at Julian’s slight jump. “No, I… god, I’m sorry. You’re sick. Just… please… rest.”

Leticia re-enters with a hodge podge of different things, and from the kitchen comes a very pleasant smell. She tends to Julian as Julian falls away again, coughing and hacking. Looking up at John, Leticia says, “Watch the soup.”

“You’ve made soup?”

“No, you idiot, I’ve made a child, go. ”

John goes. The soup smells wonderful. He lifts the lid of the pot to stir the bubbling liquid, stomach growling at the sight of the soft meat and vegetables rolling around beneath it. How long had he sat there, beside Julian, just looking at him, lost in freckles and constellations? Either for a very long time, or Leticia is quicker than he could have ever imagined.

His eyes wander back to his bedroom, where Leticia is cooing and making soft “shush”ing noises. So rarely is this side of Leticia exposed that John can’t help but smile: she is truly full of surprises. She could probably host the show if he were to drop dead mid-air, and do it better, even.

-----------------------

“He’s alright?” says Archibald, comforting but distant, so distant, the chill of the phone so incomparable to his actual warmth. “He’s sweet. I like him. I hope he’s alright.”

John is silent for a long time. Then, “He’ll be fine, I’m sure. Leticia’s taking care of him.”

“You’re worried. You’re doing that thing you do, John, where you talk like a show man even if it’s not necessary.”

“I’m not too worried,” says John, but he’s lying and can’t keep it out of his voice. “I’m … not.”

Another lengthy silence. Silences are becoming more and more frequent in their phone calls, and it’s a different kind of silence. Before, it used to be the sort of silence you could sit in, and read a book, and have a tea or a snack in. Now it is a silence that stretches, like the surprisingly unwelcome quiet of this evening’s show.

“I… Archibald, I…”

“I love you too.”

John nods. “Thank you.”

Silence.

“I do like that janitor. Make sure he’s alright.” There’s that kindness in his voice, but something else, too, something else that John can’t quite pinpoint.

He places the phone back in its cradle.

-----------------------

Leticia’s worked wonders. The janitor has regained a bit of color in his face and is sleeping soundly, an empty bowl of soup by his side. Leticia is gesturing at bottles and saying something about water and John takes notes, and eventually, after a twenty minute monologue on responsibility and honor, she leaves.

Julian sleeps and John watches him, watches as he mumbles and rolls and smiles, and there’s that uncomfortable feeling again--this thing in the pit of his stomach, tickling at him, very slowly eating away at him. He can’t define this thing--each time he draws close to it, it moves away, like the orkestral in one of her moods. He fervently wants both to draw closer and pull himself far away.

And... he feels the most ridiculous urge.

“Well, Julian,” says John, looking out the window. It is very, very dark, and he should be in bed, but those long nights spent listening to Julian sing have conditioned him to sleeplessness. “Julian, er.”

It’s an incredibly stupid and ridiculous urge--but. There’s no one there. Not even Julian, not really.

“Julian, shall I… tell you a story?”

Not a single peep from Julian. John nods, and begins:  

Ah, well, see, I’m not particularly good at telling stories. Why do you think I’m always bringing people on the air to tell their own stories? Because… you know, because I’m no good at it. So. When I was younger, I liked to watch the stars. I liked to watch the sky.  I liked the things that it did, you know, its shifting of colors, like the shifting of acts.

Often I wanted to fly into it and never return.

John surprises himself with the ease at which the story comes flowing out of him. Were he to stop talking, he and the janitor would be engulfed in silence, that awful, deafening silence, but he finds that this isn’t at all like those wary phone silences. During those silences, he doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to keep Archibald talking long enough so as not to leave so soon, but here? He cannot help but talk.

I especially liked stormy nights. That might sound odd. There is a certain comfort in thunder and lightning, I believe, something kind in the rain. Do you understand, Julian? Perhaps not. In any case, and this has nothing to do with storms, but I heard, once, from someone, as a very young child, that the stars are people you have loved, or people you will love. And the people you will love, they come down to you as shooting, or falling, stars.  

It may take a long time for them to get to you, but they will find you, regardless.

One day, I made my way home. It had been a particularly difficult day, you know, I was not quite as charming as I am currently, and people are… unkind. It was late in the evening. And I saw it. A falling star.

I took after it, running down cold streets, twisting and winding to where I thought it might have landed. I was young, I thought… you know, perhaps if I ran to it, my star would reach me faster.

John pauses, checking to see if Julian is still breathing. He is. The host breathes out slowly.

I sound rather stupid, don’t I? I did not find my star that day. I must admit I have never stopped looking. Childish.

He hesitates.

There was a time, I thought, perhaps I had found my star. Everything that once was dark became light. But…

He stops entirely. He’s not ready to acknowledge that sort of thing, not yet. John gets up and turns out the light, leaving the door open behind him. In Julian’s window, the stars twinkle brilliantly, as if to know an unknowable thing, as if to smile upon knowing it.

-----------------------

John awakens to humming.

His first thought: What day is it? Sunday. No show.

He lifts himself up, surprised at finding himself on his sofa until the events of the previous evening come rushing back to him. He rises and checks himself in the mirror. Atrocious. He hadn’t changed out of his suit from the night before, so his tie hangs limply from his neck and he appears to be wearing a wind-worn flag. Also. Good lord, what was his hair doing…

That’s right. Julian!

John opens the door to his bedroom and finds the janitor still lying down, eyes closed, humming a tune, the same tune he had been singing several nights ago.

“Julian.”

“Mr. Cameron!” Julian’s eyes are open fully now. He looks weak, still, very shaky, but at least he’s coherent. There’s a tint of red on the stars of his cheeks. “Your sheets.”

“My sheets?”

“They smell like you.”

It’s John’s turn to flush a deep red, though he’s not sure why. “Er. Yes, well, this is my room--”

“I’m in your room?”

“Yes-- wait, how do you know what I smell like?”

“The jacket,” says Julian matter-of-factly. “You gave me the jacket that had been sitting in your dressing room forever. So, so, for a long time, after you gave it to me, it … smelled like you.”

A silence. Oh. The jacket.

John decides to change the subject.

“Leticia says I have to… er, feed you.”

“I-I can…”

“No, you’re still weak. Look at yourself. I’ll make something.”

Julian seems hesitant. John tilts his head.

“What is it?” says John.

“I, er.” Julian turns pink. “I heard from the stagehands that you don’t cook well.”

“I don’t what-- ” John sputters. Before, his desire to change out of his suit and get into something comfortable was so strong it was overwhelming. Now, it is replaced with another desire entirely. “Of course I can cook!”

Julian smiles. “Better than Jacques? He, uh, let me try this thing he made, once, these delicious pastries with this fruity filling and… Mr. Cameron?”

John is already gone.

-----------------------

Jacques is on Leticia’s doorstep at around noon, a huge box in hand filled with fruity pastries, hair slicked back and combed. He cleans up very nicely. He knocks. No answer. He knocks again.

“Le- tish- a!”

“I am coming, I am coming,” says Leticia from inside. “ Un moment, my hair, Jacques.”

Finally, she opens the door, hair pulled up into a tight bun, one single curl popping loose. Jacques chuckles.

“How long did it take you this time?”

“ Hours ,” growls Leticia. “My hair is the devil.”

There’s snoring coming from inside the apartment, a pink sunhat and a cute pair of heels lying beside the coat rack. Leticia doesn’t wear sunhats. Or heels.

Jacques smiles, preparing a teasing jab-- until Leticia notices his slicked back hair, the pastries, and the fact that he smells more like flowers and less like oil. “Well, well. Trying to impress someone, Jacques, are we?”

Jacques is a big, big man, but the pink stain stays on his face for the whole journey to John’s.

-----------------------

“Mr. Cameron, you can cook!”

“Of course I can cook, damn it,” snaps John, still in his suit but now covered in all sorts of ingredients. He’s leaning on the counter across from Julian, eager for him to take another bite.

In reality, John can’t cook. He can make, like, three things--and one of these things is a childhood favorite, this warm and comforting French onion soup that was made for him when he was ill. Julian is still very weak, so he’s sat the janitor down upon a chair with a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Cameron, I guess I shouldn’t believe everything I hear,” says Julian, smiling from behind his spoon. “This is so good.”

John has to look away and out the window. He’s not used to compliments of this nature. Usually compliments regarding him are actually compliments regarding the show. “Just eat.”

Silence passes. However, once more, it is not an uncomfortable silence. Julian eats and occasionally hums, and looks at everything around him. A thought tugs at John’s heart: is this perhaps the nicest place he’s been in?

“Julian,” says John softly, before he can stop himself.

“Mr. Cameron,” says Julian, sipping up the last of the soup through the bowl.

John stops. The janitor is looking at him like the whole world revolves around him and it’s too much, just too much. What was he going to say, anyway? He’s forgotten. Lost in stars. John shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Another silence.

“Mr. Cameron,” says Julian.

“Julian?”

“Have you, er. Found any exciting new acts lately?”

John looks up sharply, only to find that Julian is being completely genuine. Ever since the cricket incident, John has found the subject of acts-- particularly around Julian, who had witnessed his breakdown regarding them--to be an extremely sensitive subject.

“Your advice,” says John. “It… works.”

Julian places the bowl down. “What?”

“Your advice,” John repeats. “About… about finding acts like that, about being gentle and loving that which you normally might not… it works. I mean, I haven’t gotten any acts on my own completely yet. I’m still quite jittery. But I saw a few mice, the other day, and… I calmed myself. They seemed to smile at me.”

John realizes what he’s saying and finds it stupid. Julian, however, is simply smiling.

“Oh, Mr. Cameron, that’s wonderful. Good for you.”

John looks away once more, unable to reciprocate. Something in that smile. “Do you want more soup?”

“Yes, please.”

John takes the bowl and goes to get some more soup.

“Mr. Cameron,” says Julian, from behind him.

“Julian?”

“Er. Did the… show go well last night?” Julian says. “I mean… it must have gone well. I wasn’t there to interrupt it.”

John breathes out slowly. “It did go well,” is all he says, and nothing more. He takes the bowl and puts it in front of Julian. “Very well.”

Julian eats more while John goes to grab a bowl for himself. Once John is sat across from Julian again, the janitor begins, “Mr. Cameron, do you--”

There’s a knock at the door.

-----------------------

Jacques has joined them at the counter, opening a box of pastries to the delight of Julian the janitor. Leticia is fussing over Julian, checking his temperature, asking him all sorts of questions. John eats his soup quietly, just watching. Once he finishes his soup, he decides to try a few of the pastries, and much to his annoyance, they are incredible.

“You like ‘em?”

“They’re great ,” says John dryly.

“They’re wonderful ,” says Julian, genuinely, to which Jacques smiles a big smile and scratches the back of his head, saying oh, well, you know, I whipped it up late last night after I heard, it ain’t much, blah blah blah…

Leticia pulls John aside into another room. He is scarcely aware of it, having been so focused on Jacques and his peculiar interactions with the janitor as of late. He turns to Leticia, who is saying something.

“You look like garbage, John. You need to shower.”  

“Right, okay, I was just--making the soup.”

“Still surprised you bothered, but--”

“Why does Jacques look so… clean?”

“John.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so tidy --”

“John.”

“How did he learn to cook so well?”

“JOHN!”

John snaps back to Leticia, who is glaring, hands on her hips. A few stray curls have escaped her bun. “If you must know, Jacques likes him,” says Leticia extremely quickly, “but in any case, do you not remember ? Your friend, he is coming!”

Oh.

Oh.

This is all too much.

“Jacques… likes…?”

Leticia groans. “Is that what you take from this? John, you are filthy. Your friend will be here in a few hours.”

Archibald.

In the heat of Julian’s illness, he’d completely forgotten. Even after the previous evening’s phone call.

He was coming to visit.