One Thing [Eng version] | GreenApple |
The flesh calls, and passion answers. Because that's all it is, isn't it?
This is purely fan-made content, created by fans for fans. ☟
☞ Characters belong to Neko Bueno (nekoboydreams on Tumblr) ☜
۵ Characters may not always stay perfectly true to canon.
۵ Ship: GreenApple (Pierrot x Harlequin). If this pairing isn't to your taste, feel free to look for a fanfic that suits your interests.
۵ Semi-explicit sexual content.
Link to support on Wattpad: One Thing
I have another story on Wattpad that’s currently ongoing—you can take a look if you’d like! ;3
Also, this post is going to be VERY long… take your time.
The visitors were silent, absorbed by the atmosphere of the tent, the stage, and the instrumental music—oblivious to what was happening behind them.
Harlequin scanned them one by one, searching for someone interesting enough to spend a liberating night with, until a psychological sting pricked the back of his neck.
Maybe it was just his imagination, but Pierrot wasn't taking his eyes off him.
Both stood at the far end of Jester's tent, listening to his story since there were no other shows that night. Too far, too surrounded by people for a fixed stare to be dismissed as coincidence.
After a few seconds of feigned indifference, Harlequin turned his neck just enough to return the war of gazes, raising a brow when he confirmed Pierrot was indeed staring—intensely, no less.
Pierrot didn't even bother to hide it.
Curious, Harlequin tilted his head, daring him to come over and say whatever he was holding back, grinning when the taller man rolled his eyes.
It annoyed him that Pierrot kept chasing him without making his intentions clear, but he'd never give him the satisfaction of knowing his patience was running thin.
Whenever they confronted each other, it was never civil talk—always the same recycled argument, Pierrot looking for excuses to vent his anger.
But now, thanks to him, Harlequin was too hungry to let it slide.
Why follow him here just to poison the air with bad vibes? He hadn't had anyone in months because Pierrot never gave him privacy. Was this revenge?
No... too elaborate for that little head of his.
Thinking coldly, Harlequin assumed Pierrot was remembering the trigger of his grudge and plotting how to finish him off without Ticket Taker noticing. Not that Harlequin cared anymore. Pierrot didn't take the idea of killing him seriously, and Harlequin avoided mentioning it—preferring to keep his neck intact as long as possible.
Still, he couldn't stop thinking about it.
If he knew it would only repeat the cycle of entertaining, needless violence, why did Pierrot keep provoking him? Acting like he wanted Harlequin to start something, just so he could blame him for the outcome.
And those looks... contradictory. Maybe because Harlequin hadn't tasted fresh meat in too long. And Pierrot looked like prime quality.
He licked his teeth, coquettish, smiling strangely when Pierrot looked at him with disgust and turned back to the show.
He liked to think he'd made him shy, but knew perfectly well he'd only worsened his displeasure. Which didn't bother him either.
Pretending to pay attention to the act, Harlequin yawned when a woman's chest was split open. Not enough blood. Not tragic enough. If anything, it whetted his appetite.
Discreetly, he glanced back at Pierrot. His eyes narrowed in repulsion, probably swapping characters in his head, imagining alternate outcomes.
Harlequin rolled his eyes. "Yes, look at me, I'm sensitive, kind, and oh-so innocent. Boohoo." Pure crap.
He wanted to corrupt him, but his attempts always ended with something sharp in his body. And he'd rather that description in another context—one not painful for either of them.
Well, you don't get what you want unless you go for it.
Once most visitors left, Harlequin approached Pierrot, ignoring the glare that screamed stay away. He was determined to find a loophole.
Jester watched them from the stage, pretending it was his duty to make sure the fools kept the floor spotless. Harlequin waved innocently, turning toward the exit without actually leaving.
Instead, he made a brief gesture to Pierrot, signaling to meet outside, tempted to yank him by the hat when he didn't move.
Clicking his tongue, Harlequin glanced back to confirm their superior was still watching. No way he'd suggest anything with Jester eavesdropping.
Determined, he moved slowly toward his furious companion, resting a hand on the back of a chair and leaning forward. Face to face with Pierrot, who kept his gaze fixed somewhere far away.
Harlequin's hips were at a sharp angle from bending like that—a blow to his ego when his prey didn't even bother to tease him.
He wasn't about to give up just because of his usual disinterest.
Since Pierrot didn't care, Harlequin raised his free arm to toy with the bells on his nemesis's costume—only to blink when his wrist was caught midair.
Apparently, he'd finally tested Pierrot's nonexistent patience.
The tall one released him, agreeing to follow just to be left alone.
Outside the tent, Harlequin briefly considered where to carry out his wicked plans. It had to be discreet, but also somewhere his corpse would be found instantly if things went wrong.
The tents were out—too easy for others to barge in. The forest was too dangerous. The motel too far, and walking there meant risking Pierrot using the privacy to carve him open ten times and leave him roadside.
So he chose one of the circus's far corners, away from fools and attractions, sitting on a crate with a sly smile.
Pierrot looked half as animated, arms crossed, keeping his distance.
"What do you want?" His voice was hoarse, normal after a day of silence. Maybe longer.
Harlequin pretended to hesitate, chuckling when Pierrot pulled out a knife.
"You've been tense lately." He toyed with the knot of his cape, tugging just enough to loosen it. The fabric fell silently behind him, catching Pierrot's eye—hopefully because of the glimpse of his neck. "Thought I could help with that..." He let the insinuation hang, sharpening his gaze when Pierrot leaned back, startled.
After several seconds of analysis, Pierrot frowned, glancing around as if he'd just pieced everything together. He rubbed his face slowly in a vague attempt to calm himself, breath uneven.
That was a no. Or a go to hell.
Harlequin understood instantly—and pressed harder. Maybe that way he could get the smallest thing out of him.
"You always act like you're going to kill me, but..." He rose from his seat, leaving the garment on the crate as he strutted toward Pierrot. "Don't you think that would be too quick?" His green eyes delighted in roaming over his sworn enemy: the contempt etched in his features, the glimpse of his neck exposed by the costume, the hand gripping the weapon ready to strike if he crossed the line. He loved hard bones to chew. "I'm offering you the chance to make me suffer as much as you want..." He bargained in a suggestive tone, circling him, stalking him—like the Earth around the Sun.
Pierrot stood firm, following him with his eyes until he slipped behind his back. Not turning meant he trusted Harlequin not to stab him—at least not yet.
"Not everything is about you," Pierrot tried to defend, his words collapsing under the weight of his own violent obsession with the venomous cobra.
Harlequin raised a brow, openly showing how little he believed it. Now he was going to act like he had other rivals? Please.
"Yes, Pierrot. It is." He traced a deliberate line down the center of his back with a fingertip, careful not to tear the fabric with his claws. When no reaction came, he rose on tiptoe, whispering close enough for his breath to graze his ear. "I haven't seen you trying to stab anyone else."
Pierrot covered his ear, turning his head with a tense frown at the closeness. Yet he didn't complain or push him away—leaving Harlequin perplexed.
Respecting the silent law between them, the smaller one continued his seduction attempt, sliding his hands slowly up Pierrot's back until resting on his shoulders, kneading them in an improvised massage that drew his attention elsewhere.
Thoughtful, Harlequin kept the slow, deep movements, noticing how Pierrot subtly began to yield to his touch.
Maybe he enjoyed this servile version of Harlequin. Maybe Harlequin had hidden talents as a masseur. Or maybe Pierrot was just desperately lonely enough to accept pleasure from him.
Tilting his head, Harlequin leaned back slightly to rest his chin on Pierrot's shoulder, ensuring his warm breath reached his neck.
"I can promise you'll enjoy it..." His voice rushed, impatient. His hands roamed the same back before brushing against Pierrot's trembling fingers, stroking their tips despite the claws. "And it'll hurt me..." Lower, needier, almost begging for torment instead of daring him to deliver it.
To his surprise, Pierrot shuddered, a short gasp escaping his lips—making Harlequin smile with smug satisfaction.
The seed of doubt was planted.
But Pierrot recoiled as if burned, staring at him in horror—the look that meant only one thing: he'd considered it.
Harlequin's first instinct was to mock him, but a hand clamped over his mouth, forcing him to swallow the words. Pierrot's eyes burned with wounded hostility, determined to keep their thoughts unspoken.
Even without anything erotic happening, Harlequin felt accomplished. He'd made Pierrot see him as more than a punching bag. He snorted, earning a resentful glare.
And Harlequin could spend hours like this—reveling in being the center of Pierrot's universe, even in twisted form.
Then Pierrot sighed, as if surrendering after a long battle, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. Harlequin braced himself for spit and insults, only to see resignation instead.
"If it's suffering you want, you'll have it."
They say it's better to feel pain than to feel nothing at all—and a certain someone might agree with that...
Once his needs were met—and ignoring the fact that the encounter should've been classified as attempted homicide with a blunt weapon—Harlequin realized that, just as he'd thought before, messing with Pierrot was like devouring ten hamburgers after a long diet.
That guy had taken it personally, venting his rage on him, barely sparing a few minutes for foreplay before shoving him against a crate and rearranging his organs. What Harlequin hadn't expected was that his counterpart would last longer than seemed possible for a supposed virgin, leaving him with trembling legs and a twisted stomach for two days.
Ugh... he'd really wanted to mock him for being quick or something like that. He felt cheated.
Jester snapped his fingers in front of his face, pulling Harlequin out of his distraction while shoveling snow—or rather, pretending to. He wasn't paying attention. All he knew was that he'd been sent off alone to shovel frozen water like some damned convict.
Damn it. Thanks to him, he was aware of the cold again...
"You've been too distracted lately," his superior accused, gaze somewhere between judgmental and curious.
Obviously, the one in green had no intention of exposing himself (more for what Pierrot might do than for gossip), so he apologized with a little smile and went back to his task.
Jester made a sound of acceptance, walking away a few steps before suggesting he bundle up more.
Harlequin thought about it, deciding the weather couldn't beat him. Besides, secretly, he worried Pierrot might see him as weak if he wore five layers of clothing, so he preferred to endure it like the man he was.
Invaded by boredom, he moved the shovel as if he were actually working, only to fall back into the thoughts he was trying so hard to escape.
He remembered perfectly Pierrot's words after that first time. First of many. And he still didn't know what to believe.
As expected from the resentful type who claimed he'd done it out of spite and "never wanted anything to do with Harlequin again," Pierrot had been clear with his growled "don't talk to me again" while pulling his pants back on.
And Harlequin agreed—he'd already gotten what he wanted. Maybe even more, actually...
He thought their wild adventure would end there. One unforgettable night thanks to how traumatized his backside was after the experience.
The funny part wasn't that he now needed a break from those activities, but that Pierrot, contradicting his own principles, had other ideas.
When Pierrot cornered him backstage, pressing their bodies together as if the need burned inside him, the smaller one found himself opening up, letting him take him with the same roughness as before. Enjoying it, even as his hips protested with every clash.
He didn't know when the deal had shifted from "let's do what you know and I'll leave you alone" to "I'll let you use me until your tantrums pass." Nor did he understand how Pierrot had grown so fond of it.
I mean, wasn't he supposed to hate him to infinity and beyond?
So what motivated him to keep seeking him out after setting such clear limits? Maybe the thrill of having him dominated and submissive? Screaming his name in a tone so demanding and needy it sent Harlequin's ego soaring.
Harlequin clicked his tongue at the memory, kicking the snow in a small fit of anger. He made sure no one was watching before indulging himself, then went back to the shovel instead of his feet.
It had become a routine between them. They'd meet in some desolate place, "fight," and then go their separate ways. A typical story with a happy ending that shouldn't have lasted this long.
The snake excused himself by admitting Pierrot was certainly a formidable lover. Not attentive, or affectionate, or even considerate... uhh... well. He definitely needed a better excuse for not ending their encounters once and for all.
Trying to change the subject in his own inner conversation, he conspired about how strange it was that when other circus members asked anything about their recent complicity—based only on the fact that they weren't trying to kill each other as much anymore—Pierrot neither denied nor confirmed. He simply stayed silent, playing the mute.
Harlequin was sure that months ago, Pierrot would've gone wild at the mere suggestion they were starting to have a decent relationship. That only deepened his doubts.
But he chose to save himself the questions, preferring to chalk it up to Pierrot acting like one of those bitter old ladies without a husband.
At least he could say he was doing Pierrot a favor. Maybe?
His arrogance grew as he remembered the time that had passed until now, his days filled with successful travels and Pierrot's failed romances—always ending with Pierrot returning to Harlequin when his latest lover recoiled in horror at who he was.
And Harlequin, of course, welcomed him with open arms, basking in all that passion that wasn't meant for him.
Not even the change of seasons managed to drive Pierrot away. On the contrary, it only brought them closer when Harlequin's snake-like traits became a real problem.
They could no longer afford to meet outdoors to "settle their affairs," since Harlequin sneezed loudly at every gust of wind. So they took a more intimate step, meeting in Pierrot's caravan once or twice a day.
Yes. Both times, exactly for that.
It was exhausting. Deliciously exhausting, but even Harlequin couldn't handle that much exercise all the time.
Damn it, he could swear he'd lost weight despite eating more than usual, and Pierrot kept stalking him with those eyes that demanded more and more.
It even made him doubt who the real pervert addict was in this relationship.
What harm could there be in taking a little break?
Honestly, he didn't think he was doing anything useful. He supposed Jester had sent him to that pointless task just to keep everyone busy so no one noticed him sneaking Ticket Taker into his tent. And so Harlequin himself wouldn't notice his own escape into the forest—like a princess fleeing the wicked witch.
In his case, from the shovel. Literally.
He hesitated for a moment—the weather wouldn't make it easy—but he knew this was his only chance. Pierrot was busy moving boxes with the Doctor, probably finishing soon. It was now or never.
He dropped the shovel quietly and ran off, sneaking until the brush hid the camp from view.
He stretched, clicking his tongue at the way his joints complained about the cold.
Even bundled up, the chill seeped into his bones, making him shiver as he wandered deeper into his little nature getaway.
Suddenly he noticed how colorful the world was, even covered in white. The green branches of the pines, the texture of their wood, the chirping of birds, and of course, the sunlight—barely enough to give him a bit of comfort.
Everything was beautiful, even the stones hiding under the snow to trip him, as if he were a fan of kissing the ground.
Nice try, but that wouldn't stop him.
Ignoring the universe's obstacles, he kept going until he reached a frozen lake, bored enough to watch it and mock the fish trapped in the ice.
They looked big enough to eat, conveniently close to the surface, tempting him to reach in and pull them from their misery.
Maybe he should catch a couple of fish for Pierrot to cook?
He thought about it a little longer, realizing how stupid that would be. The ice might not be as thick as it looked and, with his luck, he'd end up in an epic showdown against some hungry alligator.
He listened to reason, choosing not to tempt fate, and looked for another distraction. Spotting a few white rabbits at a decent distance, he let out sadistic chuckles as he hurled snowballs at the poor creatures crossing his path.
His hunting instinct gave him enough adrenaline to keep chasing them, ignoring the growing numbness in his fingers, laughing out loud when he managed to catch one, holding it as it kicked before releasing it—worthless even as a snack.
He'd just steal some of Pierrot's sweets when he got back to camp...
After several minutes of pure fun, he was forced to stop when his fingers grew so cold they hurt. He covered his mouth with them, trying to warm them with his breath. It didn't work. If he didn't want hypothermia, he had to hurry back under the blankets.
He turned around, only to find a tree blocking what should've been his straight path. He circled it, hoping not to confirm his suspicion.
There were no big tents—it was just a quick stop while waiting for the weather to ease—and his tracks had been erased by a short snowfall he hadn't noticed until now.
Fine. The important thing was not to panic. Breathe. Breathe.
He tried to catch a familiar scent, but the only one he could smell was Pierrot's, clinging to his skin. Pierrot had marked him so deeply that even now, in this situation, he managed to invade his thoughts, annoying Harlequin by getting in the way of his survival instincts.
When his senses failed him, he considered climbing a tree—but that meant removing his gloves to use his claws, or tearing them, neither option appealing. Too much risk of breaking a nail, and with the cold pain in his extremities, that was too much.
Should he wait for someone to notice his absence and come looking? How long would that take? The sun was setting, and he hadn't heard his name shouted in desperation.
He exhaled, watching his breath show too clearly in the air.
He wasn't going to make it.
Rubbing his arms like a madman, clinging to the only warmth he had, he sat on the ground, exhaustion outweighing his worry about freezing his ass off.
What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
He needed to think of something fast, but his mind mocked him, offering no ideas except to accept his fate and die.
As extra torture, it reminded him of events from weeks ago—how he'd rejected the chicken soup Pierrot offered when the temperatures first dropped. Since Pierrot had offered it only to him, Harlequin assumed he was tired of their encounters and trying to poison him, so he'd thrown the food to the ground in front of the chef without caring how he'd take it.
He paid dearly for that day, wishing he'd swallowed the ridiculous salt water and rat poison.
Pierrot's refusal to touch him afterward was terrifying, almost a silent threat that things would go back to how they were before. And Harlequin didn't want that. He'd grown used to not being stabbed after making an offhand joke, to kissing Pierrot until things escalated, to sleeping beside him when he was too tired to kick him out, enjoying his warmth.
He wanted to believe he was just speaking from the comfort of monotony, given how often they met.
He'd had to insist a lot to be forgiven, but at least he convinced Pierrot—partially—that he'd never do that again, and that he'd eat whatever Pierrot served him, even if it had live scorpions or sewer rats.
But Pierrot never cooked exclusively for him again.
Thinking about it, Harlequin understood. Pierrot was silent by nature, but his meals had grown more elaborate since their agreement, almost as if he'd finally found motivation to improve his cooking skills. Cooking with love, as sentimental people would say.
Harlequin didn't believe in that nonsense, but he'd definitely appreciate a good dinner right now.
And he wouldn't get it by sitting there.
Putting in more effort than he thought he had, he managed to stand, suffering with every step as the infernal cold made existence harder.
He'd wasted too much time, and now the weather had worsened under twilight. He walked too slowly, shivering at every gust of wind, crossing his fingers that he was heading the right way.
Then, as if to mock him, a root replaced the rocks and tripped him, leaving him feeling powerless for failing at something as simple as going home.
At this point, it really seemed like someone up there had it out for him, wanting him to die in some ridiculous way. Face in the dirt. Humiliating himself with the mere belief he'd see another day.
He wouldn't give them the satisfaction.
Digging his fingers into the earth, pouring determination into them, he forced his hands to bear his weight and help him rise—just enough to catch sight of something that reignited his will to survive.
If he'd had the strength, he would've jumped for joy at recognizing the frozen lake in the distance. Motivation enough to push forward, crashing through bushes until he reached the place he longed for.
His whole body ached, moving slower and slower as his goal drew closer, collapsing after a few steps when excitement wasn't enough to keep him upright.
Damn it! He'd just gotten up! Couldn't they give him a break?!
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the will to rise again, making a pitiful effort to crawl across the ground, searching for warmth to get through this.
Pierrot stood suspiciously close, watching him with eyes Harlequin hadn't seen in a long time.
He hadn't noticed before—his vision had grown blurry as the cold consumed him—but he understood instantly: Pierrot wasn't going to help.
He'd leave him there to become an ice pop, slow and painful, reveling in the fact that Harlequin had earned that death himself.
Accepting this, Harlequin smiled, deciding he wouldn't die giving him the satisfaction of seeing him beg in his final moments.
And his consciousness faded.
"I want to confirm something." He paused, settling into the grass while pretending not to glance over his shoulder every few seconds. He had to make sure there were no hidden spectators. Columbina looked at him curiously, setting aside the flower crown she was braiding. Once he confirmed their privacy, he continued. "Do you like Pierrot?"
The girl's face stayed blank for a few seconds before flushing, forcing her into an exaggerated grimace. She blushed so hard she put sunsets to shame, fidgeting nervously and stammering nonstop. She and Pierrot were alike in that way—always unconsciously broadcasting whatever was on their minds.
Harlequin snorted, rolling his eyes at such naïve confirmation.
"What a cute couple." His tone carried something far from sincere joy, irritated most of all by the knowledge that they were made for each other.
It was disgustingly obvious they wanted to marry, have children, and all those human clichés. What he couldn't understand was why they hadn't taken the plunge.
Instead of confessing and ending the embarrassment of watching them, they looked at each other like teenagers who'd die of shame just for holding hands. They barely spoke without turning into tomatoes, and they ran from the idea of clarifying their feelings. All they needed was a giant sign on their heads reading "VIRGIN" to confirm Harlequin's theories.
He was dying to shatter that sweet, syrupy love story.
Columbina, meanwhile, kept working on her flower crown, handing it to her friend once finished. Definitely not her best work—loose knots, petals sticking out. Harlequin raised a brow, wondering why she gave him that useless thing instead of her Romeo.
He accepted it only to earn Pierrot's resentful glare for receiving something he hadn't, barely resisting the urge to flaunt it in his face.
Sadly, he lacked other ways to get Pierrot's attention, so he adapted by annoying him however he could.
"Do you really believe that...?" Columbina spoke slowly, her voice so low it sounded like she was hiding a state secret. Harlequin knew exactly what she meant, but feigned ignorance to force her confession. "I mean, Pierrot and I being a..." She stopped, cheeks burning hotter. "Couple."
When she covered her face and squealed, writhing with overflowing emotion, the one in green knew this was a lost cause.
He'd thought of many ways to ruin the pair of fools. Trying to seduce one—failed thanks to Pierrot's constant rejections and Columbina's obliviousness. Creating problems so they'd realize a relationship would be awful—only to watch them overcome obstacles and cling tighter. Getting in the way so they rarely had time alone—at least delaying the inevitable. Reporting them to the human ringmaster so he'd keep them apart—only to make his attentions toward Columbina turn strange...
Too late, he realized this could be dangerous for her. But he refused to back down.
And why do all this if he truly believed they'd make an exceptional couple?
He didn't know either, justifying it as being consumed by a bubbling heat in his gut. Watching them together, shy laughter, blushing cheeks, leaning close enough to see every scar and mark. It made him want to crush them until all that saccharine essence spilled out, returning things to how they were before Columbina joined.
Anyone might think he hated her, but it was the opposite. He cared for her as much as the others. That didn't stop him from constantly wishing she'd crawl back into whatever hole she came from. She always caused problems, attracting disgusting humans with her angelic presence and natural kindness.
The worst came when Pierrot let himself be dragged in by her sweet words and tender hands, destroying the line Harlequin would cross to remove that obstacle.
He didn't want to kill her. Just keep her away.
There was no turning back.
He knew it the moment he tasted blood in his mouth, the texture of dying flesh, Pierrot's eyes begging him to leave her alone. His screams were ignored by everyone present, too focused on survival to remember who they were consuming.
This was the end of everything he'd fought for, convinced by desperation it would resolve itself if he waited long enough.
At least, if Pierrot hated him, he couldn't stop thinking about him.
He let out a groan as one of his calves cramped, forced to endure it thanks to limbs that refused to obey.
He tried to convince himself the pain wasn't there, relaxing considerably when something warm slipped under the blankets. His toes instantly sought the source of heat, ignoring the cramp as it began to fade.
He didn't question what was happening around him, determined to surrender to drowsiness. Unfortunately, life didn't seem willing to let him hibernate, making him hiss when his cover was partially pulled away, along with his upper garments, leaving him shivering from exposure.
The situation improved when something soft and warm began to rub gently against his skin, drawing out satisfied gasps.
In another situation, he would've thought whoever was touching him was a complete audacious fool—and probably would've punished them for groping without permission—but something in this action convinced him to stay calm and obedient.
The strokes felt trained to make him chase that gratifying touch, pressing harder on the spots that tickled his abdomen, urging him to move just to intensify the sensation.
He'd be lying if he said it wasn't wreaking havoc on certain parts of his body, blaming Pierrot for bruising him enough to make him aware of every little brush.
He only bothered to open his eyes after hearing a mocking chuckle, left speechless when he saw the culprit squeezing one of his pecs.
Was he caring for him—or taking advantage of the circumstances?
Well... if his goal was to warm him up, he didn't need to pretend with the heated cloth in his hand.
Pierrot, noticing Harlequin was fully aware now, looked back at him with his usual disinterest, acting like a very professional nurse as he dipped the rag in water and wrung it nearly dry.
Harlequin had too many doubts at that moment, but his numb mouth made him realize speaking would be a whole ordeal.
He spared himself from asking trivialities like "Why are you here instead of the Doctor?", "Why didn't you kill me?", "Why are you helping me?" or "Why aren't you wearing a shirt?", limiting himself to coughing, clearing his throat, and forcing words out.
"I want soup." He muttered hoarsely, demanding despite his weakness, locking eyes with Pierrot in a long war of stares. Maybe Pierrot hadn't understood—or simply didn't care to do him the favor. Finally, surrendering, Harlequin managed to add a "Please?" with even less strength than before.
The tall one took his wrist, using the reheated cloth to continue what he'd been doing, silent long enough to make it clear he wouldn't do anything Harlequin asked.
For Harlequin, he'd already insisted too much, feeling his ego sting from being dismissed like that.
He clicked his tongue, turning his head away so Pierrot was no longer in his line of sight.
After several seconds of comfortable strokes, the taller one took his other limb and forced him to turn for better access, stopping abruptly when Harlequin complained about the stiffness of his muscles.
The easiest—and most satisfying—thing would've been to ignore him and keep going, but Harlequin was surprised when Pierrot circled the bed to position himself better. His face looked like he'd stepped in shit, though Harlequin thought he heard him scoff when he turned his head again to avoid looking at him.
How did he expect him to act? That damned three-legged bastard had humiliated him! He'd teach him a lesson once he recovered!
"The Doctor said you shouldn't eat until you're better." Pierrot clarified, leaving Harlequin confused at the sudden confession.
Wouldn't it have been easier to say that from the start? He could've saved him the trouble of asking politely...
Grumbling, Harlequin accepted his reasoning, still fantasizing about the warmth of soup sliding into his stomach. Maybe it was just another excuse to deny him exclusive meals, but he didn't have the strength to make a storm about it.
"It could rot in your stomach." As if further explanation was needed, Pierrot added, leaving Harlequin uncomfortable at discovering something about himself thanks to his colleague.
Reflecting in the comfortable silence that followed, Harlequin realized Pierrot had actually paid attention to the Doctor just to avoid worsening his condition, making him smile arrogantly.
It would've been so easy for him to keep that detail to himself and poison him instead—but he chose to warn him.
Clearly, Harlequin's smugness grew at feeling indispensable to Pierrot, at least enough for him not to kill him while he was vulnerable.
At that smirk, the taller one finished his basic care, circled the bed again to put things away, and looked disdainfully at his patient before covering him with the blanket.
Harlequin felt a little discouraged—the sensation had been too pleasant—left confused as Pierrot bundled up and headed for the door.
His body acted before his mind could figure out Pierrot's plans, forcing him to sit up despite the pain from the sudden movement. He saw his own hand clutch Pierrot's clothes before he was out of reach, holding his breath in a spiral of doubts.
They stayed silent at this action, since Pierrot was probably only there at the Doctor's request, and Harlequin had been acting all along like Pierrot's mere presence annoyed him.
They remained like that for a while, eyes locked with the intensity of prey and predator.
He felt he'd go insane if he didn't say something soon.
Swallowing his pride as if he had no choice, the dark-haired one kept his grip on the fabric, struggling not to look pathetic as he asked: "Are you leaving?"
The tall one glanced at Harlequin's fingers clutching his clothes, smirking as he answered with another question: "Do you want me to stay?"
Ugh! That bastard had gotten too cocky!
Harlequin clicked his tongue, releasing him roughly, almost as if to throw him out.
Pierrot shrugged, crossed the threshold, and closed the door behind him.
Then, in the solitude and silence, Harlequin noticed a small detail: the day before, they hadn't done anything. Considering the bright exterior, it couldn't be the same day. Maybe Pierrot had cared for him all night, maybe even skipped dinner, breakfast, and lunch just to keep his temperature steady. Maybe he'd lost interest in him for being vulnerable and useless.
No, no, no. Pierrot wouldn't drop him so easily, right? They had too much compatibility... but there was always the possibility that, since they only met for sex, if Harlequin couldn't provide it, Pierrot might discard him.
He could even be looking for someone else right now.
Harlequin felt a painful stab in his chest, breathing heavily as he remembered all the human women he'd ignored until now.
Damn it! Pierrot could fall in love with a rock if it treated him kindly. He was screwed.
Pulling the blanket around himself, Harlequin forced his legs to carry him out of bed and run (at turtle speed) out of his caravan. By now, Pierrot must've been far, but the cold wouldn't stop him. He'd go after him and...
And what? He had no right to demand anything. They weren't anything.
Damn life. Why was he so sentimental? This sappy attitude wasn't worthy of him.
And knowing it didn't stop him from wanting to chase Pierrot down and throw out some excuse to keep him close...
With his tense muscles reminding him he shouldn't be doing this, Harlequin hurried to open the door, barely managing to step down a couple of stairs before running straight into the idiot he'd planned to chase seconds earlier.
He showed the same confusion as the fugitive, wasting no time in hauling him back inside and tossing him onto the bed as if that were punishment for his impulsive stunt.
Harlequin spat twenty insults in Portuguese, which Pierrot ignored with ease, handing him a glass of water that silenced the smaller one.
The liquid was warm, enough to hydrate him without freezing his insides.
So that's why he'd gone out? Just to bring him something to drink?
Harlequin felt his cheeks burn at being caught in his theatrical chase, hiding under the blankets enough to cover himself completely while still sneaking more sips.
Stupid. Why had he made such a scene if he was going to come back in less than two minutes?
If he'd had the strength, the dark-haired one would've jumped him, yanking his hair until he truly regretted humiliating a sick man.
Because, of course, he understood now. He was acting like this because of the fever. No other explanation possible.
"Why did you go out?" Pierrot took the empty cup from Harlequin's hands, refilling it with a jug.
The forked-tongued one tried to force his neurons to invent the brilliant excuse he'd planned to throw at him moments earlier. His mind went blank, unwilling to say anything that would make him sink deeper into absurdity.
When several seconds passed without an answer, Pierrot set the refilled glass on the nightstand, moving as if he planned to leave again.
Harlequin didn't know if he'd return, and he'd already degraded himself enough to insist.
He had to do something to make him stay.
Pierrot's head snapped toward him so fast Harlequin worried he'd broken his neck, staring incredulous, almost disturbed.
His thoughts seemed to entertain the proposition—his cheeks colored slightly—but he recoiled at the truth, guilt flashing before he shook his head. "The Doctor wouldn't be happy if he found out."
The dark-haired one clenched his jaw at being rejected with mention of a third party, shifting the blame.
Of course he wouldn't like it. So what? It wasn't his business what Harlequin did with his body. Or was Pierrot just looking for excuses to leave him? To slowly distance himself until nothing bound them? To reduce their bond to obligatory camaraderie like with the others?
To strip him of weight in his life...
"No one's found out until now. No one. What's different?" His voice carried his frustration, frowning at himself for cracking the mask of reckless flirt he'd worked so hard to build.
Pierrot scoffed, crossing his arms, incredulous. "Do you hear yourself?" Enough. He didn't need to hammer in how unnecessary this argument was. Just shut up. "You're sick. You almost died yesterday. Do I need to explain that?"
If only his chest would stop tightening every time he tried to let him go. That would solve everything.
But NO. He had to keep dragging him into situations that, years ago, would've made him laugh at himself and compare himself to old women obsessed with drama.
So, of course, he had to lie shamelessly to get his way.
"My room gets cold easily." He excused, shifting under the blanket as if shivering. He wasn't faking the numbness—he had gone out into the winter air—but he wasn't as bad as before.
Pierrot stared at him, silently asking what that had to do with him, forcing Harlequin to push the lie further. "And snakes don't generate heat on their own."
The taller one opened his mouth to protest, then stopped.
He wetted his lips, eyes analyzing Harlequin's hidden body, before rolling his eyes and letting out a sound of surrender, as if performing a universal sacrifice.
Reluctantly, he lifted the blankets and slid in beside him, yielding to his whims as Harlequin hurried to strip him.
The heat in the improvised tent grew with every garment removed, though it was hard to tell if it came from their shared breaths or the way their bodies reacted quickly to each other's touch.
Pierrot could almost swear that, despite his slow movements from the cold, Harlequin showed unusual urgency—like he wanted to reach the point of no return before Pierrot could regret it.
And that's what he should've been doing.
The snake had insisted, but wasn't this wrong? What if he hurt him, too used to roughness? It would be too obvious—the nurse blamed for the patient's limp. They'd be discovered, and Jester would laugh at him for "making peace" with his sworn enemy.
He tried to pull away, searching for a more comfortable position for both, but was stopped by Harlequin's arms clinging to his shoulders.
They'd have to face each other, then.
It wasn't his fault Harlequin was so... convincing. He always managed to draw him back for more. Maybe because he'd been his first—and that mark never fades.
Seeing him strut around, backside flaunting under his cape, was a temptation impossible to resist.
Despite intrusive thoughts, Pierrot found himself devouring his mouth with the same audacity as past nights, forcing himself to stop when he remembered his lover's condition.
Harlequin kept his hands locked behind his neck, making it clear he didn't want to stop.
And Pierrot didn't either—but he knew they couldn't rush like usual, so he chose other methods.
"I'm not going to put it in." He murmured, lips brushing Harlequin's as he spoke.
The smaller one hesitated at the proposition, then agreed after brief reflection.
They spent hours like that, exploring each other with a different intensity. Their bodies weren't joined as in past encounters, but Harlequin's sighs carried a sincere relief Pierrot couldn't understand.
He wasn't writhing, whining, or begging for more—but he was clearly carried away, arching his back constantly under Pierrot's attentions.
In the darkness of closed eyes, Harlequin ignored Pierrot's steady gaze, studying him for any sign of pain or discomfort.
Pierrot convinced himself it wasn't concern—just precaution to avoid trouble with his superiors.
Then why did he stay the night instead of leaving?
When Harlequin leaned more of his weight onto him, with zero consideration for the (nonexistent) damage he might be causing, Pierrot had no choice but to surrender and serve as his living mattress, ignoring the fact that they were both sprawled across his bed.
Once their respective duties were done, the smaller one had slipped into his caravan with the same confidence as its owner, shedding a couple of bothersome garments before forcing Pierrot to "rest" and then placing himself at the top of the hierarchy, disregarding that the taller one still wore most of his costume.
Feigning indifference to the comfort of such closeness, Pierrot let himself drift into thought, twirling a finger in Harlequin's curls and stroking his lower back softly. He was deliberately messing up his hair without him noticing, blinking slowly to study his face more carefully. He found it strangely endearing-the way he frowned while ranting about how useless the fools were, the curve of his smile while boasting about how radiant his performance had been, the way he fell silent and gave full attention when Pierrot took too long to respond. The conversation was practically one-sided, as usual, but Pierrot felt involved thanks to the way Harlequin gave weight to his brief affirmations or denials.
The moment felt almost too idyllic, making Pierrot question where that rosy, syrupy filter around the green one had come from.
Though the smaller man was ranting about how irritating it was to find a child running around the circus, gesturing dramatically with one hand, the silver-haired one barely followed. He responded with monosyllables at the right times, careful not to reveal his distraction. In truth, what held his attention wasn't the complaints, but the way Harlequin absentmindedly toyed with the bells on Pierrot's hat, moving them softly enough not to interrupt his monologue.
His mind kept wandering to how casually Harlequin lay across his chest, wondering when his voice had shifted from unbearable to something necessary to make his day feel complete.
Unconsciously, he relaxed under Harlequin's weight, keeping eye contact even though the message being delivered had faded into the background.
His eyes continued to analyze Harlequin, what little the position allowed him to see, surprising himself by finding him far more attractive than before. Tempting in an unhealthy way. Comparable to an addiction, worthy of prayers and praise.
He blinked hard, worried for a moment at being unable to shake off that vision, finally convincing himself it wasn't wrong. He'd always considered him pleasant to look at, though...
A shiver overwhelmed him, sighing as he remembered why he used to feel uncomfortable around him, guilty for forgetting something so relevant.
What was he thinking? How could he let it slide so easily? Had a year of heated encounters convinced him otherwise?
Defending himself against the false Columbina judging him in his mind, Pierrot justified it by noting they no longer jumped into condensed milk at every opportunity. Lately they were more civilized: meeting to chat about trivial things, sleeping together just because, exchanging good morning and good night kisses. Sometimes just sitting side by side in silence, slowly reaching until their hands intertwined.
Normal things to do with the guy you hate...
For some reason, the tall one felt a pang in his chest at that thought, accusing himself of being a traitor in the IMPOSSIBLE case that maybe he didn't despise Harlequin as much anymore.
No way. He was misinterpreting. Better to listen to the green imp to distract himself from those stupid thoughts.
"And then, after my show ended, those girls came up asking for my phone number. As if I had one." He scoffed, noticing Pierrot's subtle change of expression but not mentioning it. Women seeking Harlequin's attention wasn't unusual, but it still irritated him. They were definitely blind if they hadn't noticed that snake already had an owner. "Think I should call them? We could take them to a dark alley and have dinner. A date."
Pierrot gave him a light smack on the forehead, indignant he'd even consider contact with them, even if it was a trap in their favor.
He remembered vividly how Harlequin used to seduce humans and mess around with them, annoyed by his own territorial instinct. Then, with a surge of ego erasing any complex or irritation, he remembered the dark-haired one had been exclusively his since they started... whatever this was. He barely hid his victorious smile at knowing he had and still kept the circus's biggest flirt satisfied.
Harlequin rubbed the sore spot, scolding his lover for hitting him without reason. Apparently, he'd forgotten all the stabbings he used to get daily-and curiously, the taller one felt no need to remind him of their old deals.
In truth, he no longer saw himself hurting Harlequin again. At least, not with intent to kill.
Maybe a little punishment now and then, rekindling the passion of fights and rivalry-but with limits and precautions he'd never reveal.
Before realizing it, he found himself giving a short kiss to the spot he'd struck, wearing a look of surprise similar to Harlequin's. Damn it. He acted because he wanted to ease his pain, but he hadn't meant to treat him like a girlfriend.
His heartbeat quickened at how intimate the action had been, noticing Harlequin's faint blush and feeling his pulse race from the closeness.
It might seem trivial to anyone else, but that had definitely been something-especially considering the affection had centered on lips or... special areas.
They recoiled as if the slightest contact were a thousand needles piercing their skin, sitting at a respectful distance, stunned.
Pierrot could barely tolerate the burning in his face, trying to calm thoughts that looped endlessly, reminding him of the terrible avenger he was.
This is wrong. Very wrong. He must have a hole in his brain. A spell.
He didn't think Harlequin had that kind of knowledge, but coming from him, it was always best to expect the worst. Maybe he'd bound him with some curse just to torment him for the rest of his existence.
Breathing tensely, Pierrot faced his companion, struggling not to stumble over words from sheer nerves. Why did it feel like he was about to ask something forbidden?
"What did you do to me?" He blurted, voice shaky, relieved at least it was understandable.
The green one stared at him for a few seconds, perplexed, half-offended at not knowing what he was being accused of. "Now? Nothing." He practically changed his mind instantly, flashing his classic sly grin as he slid his hand toward the taller one's thigh. "Though if you want me to start doing something, just say wh-"
Pierrot grabbed his wrist with more force than necessary, stopping him, his eyes demanding a serious conversation.
Harlequin relented, swallowing a protest when the red one released him, clearly fleeing the touch.
"I don't mean that." Pierrot corrected, making Harlequin roll his eyes at the obviousness. He was glad the taller one didn't notice, since he seemed genuinely shaken by whatever was running through his head. With a grim look, Pierrot turned fully toward his companion, infecting him with a bit of his inexplicable fear. "What did you do to me, Harlequin? Because I'm not like this. I don't..." He cut himself off, too ashamed to finish the sentence.
It was an insult to his record to assume he'd grown dependent on Harlequin. That he missed him when he wasn't around, grew jealous when he saw him chatting animatedly with others, could easily imagine a future at his side, discarding the past as a simple mistake.
Miraculously, Harlequin matched his meditative state, saving his smiles for after this conversation. In the end, all he could hope was that it ended well enough that their time together wouldn't be taken as a joke.
"Why do you talk like this is my fault?" He murmured, earning a confused look from Pierrot. "You're the one who started worrying if I got hurt. You're the one who stopped pushing me after sex. You're the one who looks for me when I don't come to you." His heart fluttered as he released all those small actions he'd noticed, feeling lighter thanks to the lack of rejection. "I only offered you a body. You decided to keep something more."
Pierrot's eyes widened, shocked at Harlequin's sincerity. The way he spoke, it almost sounded like a confession of something they both avoided-but the taller one preferred to keep denying it.
What was that "something more"?
He shook his head frantically, cradling his face in his hands. "I didn't want this... I hated you!"
Harlequin made a bittersweet grimace, placing a consoling hand on Pierrot's shoulder. He was grateful Pierrot didn't push it away-his pride would've stopped him from trying again.
It wouldn't be the first time he lied, this time to avoid exposing more than necessary. "And I hated you." His tongue burned saying it, swallowing the bitterness. "But here we are, Pierrot. Screwed, both of us."
They sat in silence for a while, staring at different corners of the room as if the answers to their drama were hidden there.
Then Pierrot grabbed his colleague's arm, trembling fingers clutching him, looking as if he feared Harlequin would leave after realizing this relationship was too problematic to maintain.
"Tell me I'm not the only one who feels this way." He pleaded in a whisper, clinging to Harlequin as the smaller one leaned in to embrace him. To console him, just like every night when Columbina's memory overlapped with some similar face.
No speech was needed. Just being held for a few minutes was enough for Pierrot to calm his anxiety, trying to hide it as he wiped away the tears pooling in his eyes.
For once, Harlequin chose not to mock him, patting his back without any real intention of pulling away.
It was Pierrot who broke the contact, moving just enough to lie back and open his arms toward Harlequin, inviting him to take shelter. He accepted without hesitation, resting against his chest again, sighing in relief as the taller one's arms wrapped around him.
"This is wrong." Even with those words hanging between them, Pierrot buried his face in Harlequin's hair, clutching him desperately to make sure he wouldn't leave.
"I know." Harlequin didn't seem interested in morality either, stretching his hand to caress his lover's cheek softly. "But we're not going to stop, are we?"
Pierrot didn't even hesitate. "No."
As much as he might despise himself for it, he couldn't deny this shameless man had slipped into his subconscious, becoming a priority. Even if he tried, he'd be dragged back by his scent lingering in every corner of the caravan, his loud laughter when he managed to annoy him, the way his actions constantly betrayed his arrogant words.
He wasn't Columbina. He never would be. But that was fine.
Maybe he preferred it that way...
Did you like the story?
Yes! It was incredible.
It wasn’t bad, I guess.
It was horrible.
Voting ended onMay 16
