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Ticket Taker x Grieving, Workaholic Reader
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Iām writing this from a Western perspective, so I apologize in advance if there are cultural inconsistencies. Iām writing this in a way thatās familiar to me. TTās abilities are headcanons. TFC belongs to @nekoboydreams
Anniversary. A word that means happiness for many. Prosperity for others. And celebration for some, even for a lifetime. But not to you.
It was one year since your loved oneās death. 12 months. 365 days. 52 weeks. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds.
There is an idea that we naturally overlook what doesnāt concern us, filtering out information that seems irrelevant to our own experiences. Much like time. And, to the layman, those minutes and seconds (even if it describes something as agonizing as grief) are negligible.
But when you mourn, all those seconds are felt.
Skimming is a privilege grief does not allow.
In the very concept of death it becomes images, poetry, and statistics. But the death of flesh is never poetic when youāre staring into its gruesome depths at the moment itās captured. Or even when itās torn apart before your very eyes.
No. The poetry comes after. The poetry comes to cope. The flashes of imageries and documentations occur after, not during. To see death is, inescapably, to feel alive. Itās when youāve see the treacheries of that dying light that numbers are not just numbers. They are alive. They are dead.
Then comes the statistical and numerical cascade. And, in some contexts, outcomes represented by numbers can be influenced or controlled. But when numbers are tied to chance, only the odds can be.
The blood pumps within and the distress spikes. Order becomes disorder and time cannot be controlled. Like numbers. Like statistics. Likeā¦
That day, yesteryear, you remembered coming home from work. After showering to wash the mundane sweat off, you felt relieved. The day was over; you could eat and rest.
Then you received the phone call. It was family. About a loved one.
This wasnāt just any dear one. This was a beloved. Someone who had special importance. Someone you were closest to. Someone who was always there, even when you didnāt want them to be. Whether that was a result of pride or your own inability to love was something you still didnāt understand.
You wished that you had called more. Visited more. Laughed more. Cried more. Talked more. Savored the holidays longer. And truly relish those memories instead of being in a rush to go nowhere.
But some things you just canāt remember.
Some of those days with them were just ordinary, forgetful days. You thought you had more time, that they had more time, and you were going to see them again.
But you had forgotten about mortality.
Youāve consistently thought about work. You had goals. Dreams. You knew what you wanted and pushed through everything to move forward.
You didnāt let anything get in your way.
And, unfortunately, it caused you to forget what was truly important: the people you cherished most.
But goals arenāt alive. Achievement doesnāt breathe. It doesnāt give you hugs or tell you that it loves you.
You justified your over-involvement in your work as honoring family. To make them proud and carry some foolish, everlasting legacy. But, of course, this wasnāt just from kindness but from conditioning. At a young age, ambition was honed into you; you became almost obsessed with achieving success. To be a byproduct. An extension. And you werenāt even aware of it.
But weāre never truly able to just be ourselves, are we?
Deep down you knew that the strain was for personal satisfaction. You werenāt completely selfless.
It was in this way that you felt like you betrayed your beloved, who did all they could for you. They cherished you despite any moments of disconnection or frustration. Supporting you in every way they could, wanting you to achieve great things, and cheering you on with a kind and pure heart.
But you felt that you should have tried harder to ensure that you were playing your part. Being a workaholic was an addiction and now your loved one is dead.
Maybe your ambition was to blame? Maybe you were reckless? Careless? Neglectful? Yes. Thatās what you were.
You didnāt even see their face before they were buried/cremated.
You knew that they wouldāve wanted you to remember them as they were alive, to remember the memories you two had together. Of them smiling. Their eyes, full of life. Even when they were full of tears.
Not to remember the cold glassiness of their post-mortem gaze or the solemn look of death veiled on their cold, pallor face. Or even the ashes of what they once were.
In this moment, as you read your calendar, your mind began to process the date. At first you chalked it up as just another day. Then you felt guilt for thinking so dismissively. In your mind, you saw their face. The smile that would always reach their eyes. The laughter that was so sweet. You could never forget that laugh. And until the day you died, you wished you never could.
After their death, you vowed to work even harder. To make them proud. To do the good theyād want you to do. You refused to let their death be in vain. So youāll embody that burden.
You began to feel yourself slipping. You felt your resolve dull and vulnerability rise. Weakness was coming.
And, before you knew it, your eyes strained with a pressure you had never felt in your life.
This was not like the grief that emerged the moment you ended that phone call. Or the weeks following. No. This one was not a stab. It was a slow and agonizing twist after being embedded for countless months. Months of infection. Infection you were trying to avoid.
But the human body needs sickness.
As you sat on your living room couch, you put your face in your hands. At first the tears were choked; it was like your mind was in shock and your heart was attempting to claw into your throat.
The tears spilled effortlessly. Your forehead was sore and you could feel the red blossoms of pain on your face. They were hot. You were overheating. Becoming overstimulated.
But this wasnāt about you.
On a nearby table, you reached into the drawer to find albums and birthday cards that your loved one would give you. The tacky cards were a sweet sentiment, but it was always the money that had the value during that time. But still, you kept them.
You took out each card and reread them, feeling their smoothness as if they were grounding you into the present. You traced your fingers into the embedded words and the little designs on the stock. When your eyes lingered, you saw the name āLove, (beloved).ā
Something deep inside your throat felt sharp as you quickly held the cards to your face. Covering it like you were a scared child, unwilling to face the maw of the beast.
After a few minutes of painful silence, you set the cards neatly beside you on the couch and reached further into the drawer, taking out two photo albums. You opened one, and as soon as you saw your belovedās face, you closed it, looking away as you once more felt that gully forming in your throat.
Your eyes hurt so much, yet you barely cried. Or at least not as much as you thought you should.
You took a few moments to ground yourself. When you felt the throb in your head numbing a bit, you opened the album again.
Your eyes were then graced with images of happiness. Of freedom. Of being a child. Of being loved by them. Cherished. The kisses. The hugs. The silly birthday pictures where their face had been covered with cake from your toddler hands.
As the tears spilled, you let out sobs mixed with chuckles. They were so silly. And you were so grateful for your other loved ones for taking the pictures. It meant everything to you now.
You continued to stare at every detail of the pictures, every line on your belovedās face. Their eyebrows. Nose. Mouth. You were analyzing every expression like you were memorizing them down to the pore. Maybe you were even trying to remember them and hope that remembrance would bring them back beside you again.
You traced your fingers over their face, which was shielded beneath a plastic photo sleeve. Just away from your touch.
In these pages, they are immortal.
In these pages, they still have their flesh.
After thirty-two minutes and fifteen seconds, you went through albums #1 and #2. You took a steady breath when you finished the second; the inner chaos and disorientation had been soothed slightly by the photos. Slightly.
But the pit in your soul was still mewling with pain.
You readjusted your posture, deciding to pull out two more photo books from the drawer, replacing their positions with the old ones, along with the cards.
You rubbed your eyes, and floaters peppered your vision. Your temples throbbed, and dehydration left your mouth barren and your head aching. With a weary sigh, you pushed yourself up and lumbered into the bathroom. Flicking on the light, you lifted your gaze to the mirror and stared at your reflection.
To make sure that you were still alive.
You examined yourself; your nose was a runny mess, your hair was caked in sweat, and you looked unkempt. Utterly pathetic.
You gripped at either side of the sink and leaned in so your face was inches from the mirror. You were magnifying yourself; pores and stains of tears were becoming blurry. You were focusing on your imperfections: what you truly were. What youāve been hiding from. It was like you were trying to become one with your mirror image. To press flesh into glass.
What really made you human? What did human even mean?
Your spiraling thoughts fractured the instant you felt a light touch behind your ear. It was gentle and silky against your skin. Your reflexes stunted, dulled by anguish, and by the time you jerked away, the touch had already left for a few moments. You glanced toward the mirror; no one was standing behind you.
You could sense it. He always had a grip on your brain. He had trained it. Molded it. It was loving manipulation.
You didnāt turn your body, but your mind tried to process what reflective surface he couldāve used to enter. Only to realize that there was a mirror right in front of you.
Rationality was splitting. The obvious became oblivious. The world was a catastrophe and it showed on the crevices of your sullen, confused face.
You didn't want to play these games right now. Lowering your head, you focused on fixing your hair and wiping away the traces of tears. The signs of weakness.
You splashed some water onto your face, trying to get the grime of grief off of you. You hadn't expected him to arrive. Of all moments, it just had to be this one. You had to look presentable for him. Always. And he chose the worst possible time to see you.
Then it suddenly hit you: if you lingered too long in front of a mirror, he could feel it. Sometimes, a mere reflection was enough for him to catch a glimpse of you. Oftentimes that was all it took for him to find you.
Like your tears. A language he understood well. A medium he could cross with ease.
You never quite understood how you managed to capture his attention in the first place, as it seemed almost impossible. Perhaps he found your work ethic and unwavering obedience to him and his rules intriguing. You were also useful to him. You were receptive to his family, and what likely earned his appreciation most was your ability to view him without the filter of human morality. Rather than judging or condemning, you accepted him as he was. This was a quality he seemed to valued greatly. He might have even found that part of you charming and intelligent.
You and him had grown close over the past five months. You fell first, but as he became attached to you, he indirectly ādeepenedā your feelings for him. It happened so subtly that you barely noticed it yourself. It was the mere-exposure effect at work. And before long, you gave yourself to him with complete confidence.
You caught sight of him in the corner of your eye through the mirror. Quickly, you turned to face him and found him fully materialized, standing with a regal composure, his hands clasped behind his back. The usual posture.
He didnāt speak but his attention was captured. You didnāt even need to look at him to realize that he knew.
He knew everything about you.
You donāt know how, but he did. All your schedules, friends, even the average time it takes you to shower (which was typically seven minutes and forty-three seconds on a non-āhair washā day).
And he knew what today was.
Or was he waiting for the pivotal moment to exploit?
Once again, you could feel yourself on the verge of tears. You had already felt vulnerable, and now youāre seeing your love observing the mess that youāve become. It was humiliating. In your grief you thought you could have control, but when he was around, you never had control. But your grief was yours. And he couldnāt have power over that. You wouldnāt let him. You just couldnāt.
You were becoming overwhelmed once again and turned your head so he couldnāt see your true distress.
He didnāt say a word. He didnāt need to.
He stood in the doorway, watching you fall apart. Despite your efforts to fix it, your hair remained matted and disheveled, while your lips were chapped and quivering. A lingering flush of red and pink still battered your face.
You didnāt know what to say, but when you developed the resolve, you looked him in the eyes. Right now you were just staring into the black abyss of his maskās eyeholes. You opened your mouth, but no words could escape. Your throat felt tight and dry. The tears kept spilling, and, after a while, your eyes unfocused from him, and the room was blurry.
You were blinded by the brimming drops.
Your knees weakened. Not only from the mixture of grief, but also from the disgrace. You felt perceived, which was the last state you wanted to be in right now. Especially not from him. His gazes had an otherworldly effect on you.
As youāre standing here feeling like living decomposition, he gets to loom before you all composed and INTACT. You were filled with swirling emotions. Anger. Embarrassment. Grief. Guilt. Resentment.
He couldnāt possibly know what you were feeling. He always had things held together. Everything was perfect with him. Never even a hair strand out of place.
You were stumbling, feeling even more helpless and fragile. When you blinked, he was behind you. One of his hands wrapped around your waist delicately. He held you close to him, meticulously running his silky gloved fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp. He knew it calmed you.
You began sobbing; as always, you found yourself surrendering to his touch. You wanted to push him away but also yearned to latch onto him and fuse your bodies together. You wanted him that close. He had such a strong effect on you, and you didnāt know why.
He placed his hands onto your shoulders, gently massaging the tense muscles in timely circles. After letting out a soft hum, he guided you over to the couch. Leading you to sit.
You accepted the suggestion and seated yourself, feeling the plush cushion underneath you; you needed to feel something tangible to assure yourself that this was real.
He stood in front of you, keeping his distance. But he didnāt do it to appear aloof or disgusted, he did it out of respect. He understood that you being seen like this wasnāt an enjoyable experience.
When you wheezed and the trails of mourning once more dripped from your eyes, he averted his gaze. He was being considerate, honoring an unspoken boundary he himself was familiar with.
Ticket Taker was well-acquainted with the powers that gazes could wield; he often used them for his benefit. But right now he didnāt wish to gain anything. He just wanted to be present for you and help.
So, for this moment, he decided to relinquish it and allow you the privacy; he pretended to have his attention captured by some magnets on your fridge.
One, two, three, four, five. Yellow. Green. Red. Blue.
With this thoughtful act, you managed to collect yourself. Looking up at him with teary-eyes. He never averted his gaze unless he was giving you the cold shoulder, so you made a squeak and outstretched your arms toward him like some distressed toddler.
He looked over in your general direction, slowly positioning his body to face you. You had trouble verbalizing the words at first, but then they flooded out eloquently:
āPlease, sir. Please sit with me. I need you.ā
Ticket Taker tilted his head back; the holes of his mask softened at your pleas. He unfolded his hands behind him and made his way towards you on the couch. He slowly sat down, making sure to position the tails of his coat so they wouldnāt crease. Once he settled, your embrace was met with his. He held onto you like you were the most precious thing in the world.
And, in that moment, thatās what you were to him. But you were not a thing. You were a person. A lover. A partner.
When a little bit more tension left your body, he set you into his lap and gingerly kissed your forehead. It wasnāt a simple peck but a true gesture of warmth and softness. And, for a moment, your faceās flush turned from that of pain to bashfulness.
With one delicate gloved finger, the older being brought your face up to his. Your watery gaze glistened when that ghostly white eye met with yours. This time, it didnāt strain like it was going to rip through and capture your soul. No. It saw you. Not in an abrasive, observational way. But a true and compassionate āI see you.ā
During this entire sequence, he did not speak a single word. He didnāt need to.
He spoke with his gaze. The eyes are the windows to the inner self. Theyāre more honest than words ever could be. They reflect intentions, emotions, needs, and desires. And, for his kind, certain types of communication were rooted in the nonverbal. This one was his favorite.
You were conflicted. You wanted to be comforted, but at the same time, you had pride. An ego where you didnāt want others to see you weak. Especially not him. He exploited weakness and was incredibly dangerous. But right now, he was expressing his mutual love to you. He didnāt need to say āI love you"; it was in his eyes. It was in his presence. His actions.
You were so captivated by that white orb that you didnāt realize you both had been locking eye contact for two minutes and fifteen seconds. It just felt so intimate and calm. With him everything seemed right. He wanted to protect you; pairing it all with his sensual touches made your world spin.
He loved you. Even if he hurt you while doing it. He showed love through possession and sometimes other methods to keep you under his care. But he enjoyed being a carer to you. It was a role he was accustom to. He didnāt only want to be a master but also as a lover. As a boyfriend. And perhaps even as a loving husband.
You rested your head in the crook of his neck, nuzzling into the cool skin. And, soon enough, his curious eyes looked over to the albums on the table. While nudging you, he asked:
"Would you still like to look at them, or would you prefer that I put them away for you?"
After wiping away more tears, you nodded. Realizing you weren't going to reach for them yourself, he carefully picked up both albums and settled them in your lap. Then, with quiet care, he opened one to the first page.
āI'd be interested to hear about them, if you'd like to share.ā
In a rare instance he gave you a genuine choice. You were surprised at first but nodded and began to point and talk about each image. In some you're going on walks, swimming in kiddie pools, and going to aquariums with your loved one. Ticket Taker examined the photos while resting his chin at the crown of your head. He was peering down with interest. He was focused, analyzing each photo with genuine curiosity and care. Not with calculation. Just softness.
When he saw that you were getting emotional, he would gently pull you back to place your head against his chest so you could hear his heartbeat. It beat at a rate much slower than you expected, but it calmed you.
You went on about the memories of your beloved and what influence they had in your life. Their importance. How they were like. It hurt to talk about at first, but for some reason it began to feel good. Nostalgia was pouring in, and you could imagine yourself living in the photos. Enacting the scene.
Twenty-eight minutes and six seconds passed and you found yourself on the next album. As you continued to reminisce, Ticket Taker drew back slightly and reached into his breast pocket. He took out a photo of his own. You noticed and went quiet, eagerly looking.
He positioned the photo in front of you. You reached out to hold it, but he drew the image back, hesitant at first. But slowly he allowed you to touch, if you promised to do so with care.
The picture showed a girl with black hair and pale skin. It looked as though she was wearing makeup. Long, beautiful lashes adorned her glowing pink eyes, and small horns peeked through her dark hair. A bright smile stretched across her face, making her look genuinely happy. It was an innocent smile, one that you would see on a baby sheep.
She held a plate of freshly baked bread, it looked warm, as if she had just finished making it herself.
Beside her stood Ticket Taker. He looked younger in the picture, his eyes were brighter. They had more life in them. One of his arms rested around her shoulders as he helped hold up the plate. He, too, wore a sincere smile.
You had never seen him look so happy.
āI, too, once had someone very dear to me. When she was young, I nursed her through sickness and starvation and cared for her as best I could, as though she were my own blood. There were times I considered letting her go so she could learn to survive on her own, but I could never bring myself to do it. She was simply too precious to me. Her kindness and her smile. She was the sweetest being I have ever had the privilege of knowing.
You could see a faint black droplet spilling from the already teary eye of his mask. He did his best to keep his voice composed, but you could tell that he was feeling very deeply.
āThere is not a day that goes by that I donāt think about her. Iāve dedicated myself to her. That is what our circus is. Itās something like a memorial.ā
He took his routines and schedules very seriously. You had thought that it was simply preference and his need for order but it all began to make sense.
āI gained trust for some, lost for others.ā
He scoffed after the last part of his sentence. Then he returned to a soft tone:
You looked and saw that the paint on his mask had started to drip more, the longest teardrop pattern spilling further down. Then another drop. Then another. When you saw the inky tears flowing, you did the same thing he had done before; you looked away so he didnāt feel vulnerable from your gaze.
While still staring at the photo, he reached over to softly fix your hair, as if consoling himself by grooming you.
You didnāt want to cross boundaries. Especially his. So you waited for his move, as you always did when you were unsure how to act around him. He tilted his head, staring into your eyes, as if they were saying, āIām here, as youāre here.ā
Then he cupped your cheek and gently pulled you closer, until your head rested against his chest. Once again, he kissed the top of your head. A light āchuā coming from his lips.
āCome with me. Fresh air will help.ā
He placed the photo back into his breast pocket and took the albums from your lap, securing them neatly back into their drawer.
Before you two left, he offered to help groom you, which you agreed to. He meticulously brushed your hair and cleaned your face off with a soft wash cloth. He made affectionate touches as he did so, holding your hand as he steadied you to be washed and rubbed the outline of your nose. He gave you a glass of water to ensure your hydration and gave you medicine for your headache. He even helped you choose an outfit. Something both casual and comfortable.
When finished and rejuvenated, you two made your way outside. Keeping close to each other. He wrapped his arm around your waist, steadying you for the way ahead.
As you two walked along the sidewalk, you heard the chirps of loving birds and their young. And smelled the fresh spring leaves and flowers. The woodsy scent of nearby trees as well as some purple asters filled your senses.
Eventually the two of you had walked back to the circusgrounds and he led you into his tent.
As Ticket Taker stepped into his domain, blue light poured in, adorning the dozens of mirrors lined in neat rows. It felt tranquil, though there was still an underlying heaviness. You werenāt sure if it was because you werenāt fully present and āthere,ā per se, but the mirrors seemed to loom taller.
The aquatic blue lighting illuminated the glass, with faint hints of pink outlined behind them, kissing their edges.
āThere is a certain ātrickā Iāve yet to show you.ā
He walked down the narrow walkway, and with each purposeful step, the mirrors on either side of him began to glow, flashing with indigo light before fading into images. They resembled memory reels, flickering in and out as he passed.
This continued until he reached the very end of the aisle, stopping before the final mirror.
You followed him slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself at the surreal display. Your gaze shifted from one mirror to the next. They felt like gateways to the past.
One showed what appeared to be his childhood. Another his adolescence. And another, a moment when he had once been in love. As you passed each reflection, it wasnāt only the visual details of the memories that stimulated your senses. You were experiencing the emotions, the sounds, the thoughts, the meanings. You assumed they were all his. It was like he was a character that you were acting and all of this was a stage.
As you walked deeper down the aisle, you began to see more pink. You turned your head to see a young goat girl shuddering with illness, small and light, wrapped in a blanket. When you looked at her, you felt a paternal sensation of care, sadness, worry, and determination. In another mirror, you could see the girl, half-grown, carrying some pans and jugs of water. It was then that you had the sudden desire to outreach and help her, but she just waved you off, seemingly determined to show you that she could handle it.
Then there was the moment you saw in the photo, her baking her first batch of bread. You felt a quiet pride, and a little hunger as well. Even without lifting your hand, you could feel the weight of the plate.
In every memory, you saw her happy gaze and heard her melodic laugh.
Then..the pink turned darker and his steps became more slow and heavier. There was a weight on your shoulders and colder, more oppressive air. These mirrors were dimmer, you saw the other troupe members performing. They wore different costumes and delivered different acts. You were watching Pierrot, getting berated by a group of screaming, obscene men. In the center stood a man dressed in a light blue tailcoat, adorned with flashy jewelry and reeking of tobacco and rum.
In another mirror, you saw the pink-eyed girl being whipped. Panic and agony surged through you as you saw your arm reach out from your cage, trying to grasp her. You scratched at the bars, shaking the enclosure with all your strength, clawing desperately to get closer.
You could feel your throat opening as if you were roaring. And, in your mind, you could hear it too, along with the vibrations from your growls. Your heart hammered in your chest, so fast it made your whole body tremble.
Moments later, a splitting pain tore through your head, and your body felt as though it were being bludgeoned.
Then your eyes glazed at the most gruesome scene of all. You saw the lady being torn apart by the other troupe members. Your eyes locked onto hers. Seeing her once pink eyes scraped out by a birdās beak. You felt alarmed and confused; you had never felt such torment and anguish in centuries.
You felt your heart sink, but it weighed just as much as your hunger. The pain was excruciating. And you felt increasing guilt with every passing second. You ate a part of her. You didnāt eat as much as the others but you werenāt innocent.
But after you took what was necessary, you found yourself caressing her gently and pressing kisses to her temple. You could feel tears slipping down your cheeks like a burn. Guilt and grief were all you could feel.
Thoughts such as āwhy did this happen?ā and āwhy could it not have been meā swarmed your mind. You felt weak, vulnerable, and helpless. These were feelings you had known many times before, but with age you had learned to bury them and carry yourself with a practiced nonchalance.
Your ears rung with her gurgling, petrified screams and the wet squelches of her torn viscera. Your head was pounding, overwhelmed by the disorder and the loss of control.
Then, you stopped by the broken mirror. The one with the crowded screams and the stench of charred flesh. You were convinced that he broke this one and that he did so as catharsis. To have the illusion of control.
āThe mirrors donāt mourn.ā Ticket Taker said stoically. Such a simple sentence gutted the pit in your stomach deeper.
Before you could finish processing the depth of his words, you found yourself beside him in front of the largest mirror of all. The one that emanated the glowing pink shine. His favorite mirror. Her mirror.
As you approached him, you saw that he had taken something else from his breast pocket, a small pink ribbon, the kind typically worn in hair. He stared into the depths of the mirror, his attention fixed with both glowing eyes. Once more, you saw the pink lady. As she materialized within the glass, his eyes dissipated into the depths of his mask. With steady yet stuttering movements, he lifted the ribbon to his mouth and kissed it.
When he lifted his arm, so did she.
āMeu anjinho...ā He spoke aloud in a wavering tone.
He placed his hand onto the mirror, and the pink figure did the same. It was as if their movements were in sync.
He was comforting himself. These mirrors...they were his living albums. Instead of sitting in some drawer, they were embedded into this palace of glass.
The air got heavier and you were struggling to stand. Whispers from the nearby mirrors surrounded you and voices began to hush in your ears.
Then you saw those melting black droplets from his mask again, followed by a half-controlled sob. You felt a crushing sensation in your heart. You werenāt just possessing your own grief, but ten tons of his.
You didnāt know what to do. You didnāt dare make the first move. You were afraid of upsetting him and didnāt want to interrupt this moment, even if you were an invited guest. He spent one minute and fifty-eight seconds staring into those hot pink eyes, pressing his forehead against the reflectionās. She mirrored him exactly. You stood in silence, your nerves on edge.
āObrigada por tudo, pai.ā
The lady spoke delicately, sweet as a strawberry. As Ticket Taker heard the last word, he straightened at once, watching her as she watched him. She closed her eyes and gleamed, revealing small, soft fangs before fading away.
After fifteen seconds, Ticket Taker cleared his throat, wiping his tears with a handkerchief before returning the ribbon into his breast pocket.
He walked over to you and he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes were tired but not nearly enough to lose focus of you.
In that moment, both of your sets of eyes spoke the language of grief, a shared sorrow that dimmed them. It was an intimate dialect shared between the both of you. He broke eye contact to adjust your shirt collar and wipe your tears with his gloved fingers, then pulled you closer into an embrace.
āRest, darling. Iām here.ā
And in that very moment, the tent shimmered with a cascade of pink, blue, and white light. It was an ethereal experience. One of a kind. And it joined the two of you together. It was like a rainbow after a storm.
When night came around, and Ticket Taker retired to his quarters for the night, he saw you at his bed, resting.
He took off his hat and began to undo his cravat and unbutton his tailcoat. After freshening himself up for the night and making sure the other troupe members were asleep, he climbed into bed with you, resting his head on your chest and enveloping you with his arms. He felt comfortable enough to take off his mask, setting it in its designated space. Neatly. As always.
When the others had all slept, he began to listen to your heartbeat.
His irises dimmed and fell into a slumber. Holding you as if you were the most precious person in the world.
