uuuuuh hello

It is quite the interesting series of events that land you and the Jester in this particular situation.

See, it all started because you thought yourself smart. The circus has a ‘no accepting gifts’ rule, which you had no intention of breaking, but you really wanted to show your gratitude to the charismatic head of the troupe. After all, you had caused him quite a bit of stress with your sudden insertion into the lives of his fellow performers all those months ago (even if technically it was Pierrot and Harlequin’s fault, but you digress). As such, it was only proper that you thank him for not eating you alive, having you beaten up, or scolding you with anything more than a few intelligent, pointed insults.

You had sat before your laptop, scrolling through lists of gifts and lamenting your Herculean (self-imposed) task of what to give someone you cannot actually give anything to, when you came across a particularly interesting idea, typed out in a garish font on the second page of Google - ‘gift your lover the experience of a lifetime!’

That’s when it clicked in your head. Maybe you cannot give him anything physical, but no one said anything about giving him access to something he might enjoy. So, with renewed vigour, you scoured website after website of events, galas and days out. Eventually, after briefly considering gifting him a bungee-jumping holiday just to see how Harlequin would react, you ended up purchasing two tickets to an art exhibition at a nearby event hall and a performance of Macbeth at your local theatre. You printed them out, folding them neatly into an envelope, and headed over to the circus the next day with a spring in your step.

To say Jester was surprised by the present would be a stretch, seeing how well he can mask the emotions he feels, but you’re pretty sure he wasn’t completely ambivalent to the sight of you handing him the envelope, explaining how you hope this is an acceptable alternative to a physical gift. When you told him you purchased tickets for two, you noticed his brow raise a fraction (whether in amusement or surprise at the audacity of the implication, you could not say), which prompted you to quickly devolve into rapid clarification that it is meant for himself and another of his choosing, Ticket Taker perhaps, and is in no way an attempt on your part to go somewhere with him in order to suck up to him or gain favours. He had tucked away the envelope into his costume, thanking you for the present, even if it sounded like one would thank their child for a less-than-flattering pasta art portrait, and left for his own performance. Your plan hadn’t gone spectacularly, but neither had it ended with you being served up on a platter, so you considered it a success and went on your way to bother Pierrot. That was supposed to be the last you heard of the tickets.

Such was not the case.

About a week later, you are sitting with Harlequin on some crates, trying to balance a blade on your fingertip the way you saw Pierrot do earlier, when the leader himself materialises at your side, scaring you out of your skin. He asks the green clown to leave, which he does reluctantly and with more than a few syllables of protest, and then turns to face you where you sit, eyeing you in a way that makes your breath stutter (out of nerves. That’s what it is).

“Do you work tomorrow?” he asks, tone giving no indication as to what the question is really meant to ask, and you immediately straighten at the interrogation.

“Uh, no, I have the day off. Why? Did something happen?” you answer, finger tapping a nervous rhythm against the wood of the crate. For all the comments you make with Harlequin about how glamorous he is, the Jester is very intimidating when he wants to be.

“Yes, something did happen.” Jester crosses his arms, allowing for a moment of pause to take in the blooming panic on your face. “The tickets that you bought for that little outing just so happen to be booked for the 19th, which just so happens to be one of the busiest days for accounting work. Ticket Taker has no time at all to spare, Harlequin cannot be trusted to stay silent in a theatre, Pierrot cannot be trusted not to cry during a performance and the Doctor has no interest in such arts. It seems you have left me with no one to attend this event with.” His smile widens, taking in your nervous expression with hidden satisfaction. “As such, since this was a mistake on your part, you shall have to rectify it by being the one to make use of the second set of tickets.” He pauses. “Unless this is exactly what you planned, little visitor? Did you specifically book it like this so as to manipulate me in such a manner?”

“What? No- It was an accident-” you start, trying to explain away the misunderstanding, when the Jester chuckles.

“Oh, I jest. I know you could never think of such a thing.” Before you can even comprehend the insult, he continues. “Meet me by the circus entrance tomorrow at 3pm sharp. Do not make me wait, visitor.” With that, he turns and walks out, magnificent hair swaying as he pulls open the tent flap and disappears from view. You’re left there, alone, to process your surprise, confusion, and the smallest hint of excitement that blooms in your chest despite your best attempts to quell it.

Well, alone for all of 5 seconds. Then, Harlequin barges in, making some stupid comment about Jester ‘finally getting the stick out of his ass and going somewhere on a date’, which you vehemently deny. You were never even meant to be the one going with him! This was something that came about completely by accident! Of all the things you could call this, a date is absolutely not one of them.

If you knew how amused the Jester was eavesdropping on this conversation, perhaps you would have made the fluster in your tone a little less obvious.

—----------------------

For all your insistence that this was not a date, you certainly dressed up as if it were one. You told yourself that the Jester is a very elegant man, so you need to dress accordingly to not make a fool of yourself, but that probably isn’t good enough an explanation to justify pulling out some fancy garments that you hadn’t worn for at least a year. You paid extra attention to your hair, ironed all your clothing until not a single crease could be found (and ironed it again for good measure), and polished your jewellery nervously as the minutes passed. You leave your apartment exactly at the time you’re supposed to, yet the nervous briskness of your pace means you arrive at the circus entrance ten minutes too early. You glance at your watch, deciding whether to hide somewhere until it is exactly three, when something touches your shoulder and you flinch violently.

“Are you always this easy to startle, little mouse?” the Jester asks, hint of laughter in his voice, as he takes in your appearance. You do the same, admiring his impeccable outfit: the flowy, black trousers and gloves; the purple turtleneck, not a bobble in sight; the suit jacket thrown over his shoulders; the length of fabric wrapped around his head in a makeshift hood to cover his horns; and the black mask that sits under his eyes, hiding that charismatic grin of his. You have never seen the man outside of his costume, in which he is impressive enough, but something about how his choice in outfit flatters his form has your throat go dry. If Jester notices your approval, he does not comment on it.

“It seems you are able to make yourself look presentable, visitor,” he hums, eyes unreadable, and extends an elbow for you to take.

You look between his eyes and arm, feeling your body heat despite yourself. “Are you sure-”

“I would not have offered if I was not. I am not so unassertive.” At your hesitance, his gaze seems to soften ever so slightly, and he sighs theatrically. “Where I am from, such is the custom when walking with another. You needn’t fret so.”

At that, you nod, looping your arm around his elbow, and the two of you begin to walk down the street towards the town. You do so in silence, which leaves you to think of how sturdy his arm is, how sure his gait is even when not on stage. Really, this man exudes nothing but confidence, and you wish you could borrow one of the Doctor’s vials and bottle up even a drop of it for yourself.

The Jester takes notice of each time your eyes flit to him, though he pretends not to. He finds the wrinkle of your brow as you steal glances at him to be somewhat endearing, even if you are human. Truth be told, he had not expected one of your kind to be capable of such a thing, especially after learning who they are and what they eat. And yet, here you are, looking up at him as if you were some smitten teenager and not walking arm-in-arm with someone who could consume you at a whim.

How terribly endearing. How beautifully naive.

You reach the art gallery at half past three. To Jester’s surprise, there is almost no one standing in the queue, the only people there being an elderly couple with comically large glasses and a very eccentrically dressed teenager.

“It’s the work week, and this exhibition opened at the start of the month,” you explain. “I thought you’d want to bring Ticket Taker, so I picked a time that wouldn’t have a crowd.”

“How thoughtful,” he muses, though it isn't as nonchalant as he had wanted it to be.

Before long, you stand before the ticket collector. You had been worried that they would ask Jester to remove his mask, but thankfully the elderly man seems far more interested in the legitimacy of your tickets and the amount of sugar he is adding to his tea than the appearance of those entering.

The event hall is a huge, pristine thing, a massive building of white and grey with glass ceilings that let in the afternoon sun. Each wall is lined with paintings - replicas, portraying women and men from what you think is the renaissance, smiling and crying and frolicking. You glance up at the Jester, waiting for him to decide where to go.

You watch him realise that fact, eyes narrowing in what must be a grin. “Hm. Good.” Without letting your arm free, he leads you from painting to painting, the two of you having ample time to take in each work before moving on to the next. At one point, though, the silence gets to you, and you find yourself commenting.

“I like the hands,” you say, quickly realising how silly it sounds out loud. “How they’re painted, I mean.”

“Hm,” Jester hums. “Explain.”

“In a lot of paintings, the fingers are grouped, if that makes sense,” you explain, gesturing to the portrait of a stern woman before you. “Three fingers follow one arc and one sticks out or bends differently. It’s for visual interest.”

You watch as his gaze fixes on the art, nerves rising in your stomach. Why are you even telling him this? You’re here as a replacement, he didn’t ask for your stupid commentary, he-

“Interesting observation,” he muses, glancing at you before pulling you along to the next display. “You speak as if you know of such things.”

“I used to draw,” you tell him, surprised by his seeming curiosity. “Wasn’t all that great at it, but I learnt some things.”

“I see.”

As the two of you keep walking, you find the courage to comment on more things you notice - colour contrast, reflected light that you always found so difficult to render, even composition formats. He does not add much of his own input, simply listening and nodding occasionally. You interpret it as him finding your words only just interesting enough to let you keep speaking.

He tells himself the same. He won’t admit to himself that he finds the cadence and tone of your voice far from unpleasant.

By the time you finish perusing the gallery, the shadows have lengthened and covered the pavement you had entered on. The moment you step out of the building, you shiver instinctively, and immediately the taller one pulls away. You look to him in confusion at the sudden loss of touch only to find him draping his jacket over your shoulders, raising a brow in amusement at your expression.

“It would not do well to have you get ill,” he simply says. “Pierrot would worry himself into sickness.”

Ah, right. It's just for Pierrot's sake.

You say little as you both make your way down the street, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. It's not like you're upset at the loss of contact - no, that'd be stupid. He is the Jester, the leader, the one pulling all the strings. He isn't Pierrot, always vying for your attention and affection, or Harlequin looking to get a rise out of you. He tolerates you, and the touch was merely out of custom, nothing more.

Why do you find yourself craving it so much, then?

“Your thoughts are drifting, visitor,” Jester hums. “Does my company bore you so?”

“No,” you answer instantly. “No, it's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“Nothing. Just… Just being delusional, that's all.”

Under his mask, his smile falls slightly, though that sight is hidden from you.

Delusion, you say? He knows a thing or two about that.

Once you are both at the theatre, you navigate to the performance hall and find your seats - a booth in the back, secluded, one you paid extra for so that Jester and Ticket Taker would be able to relax and not have to worry about curious eyes. You sit, the taller man settling besides you, and you find yourself uncomfortable with the awkwardness of silence. You don't want to break it, but your thoughts grow loud as it drags on and on and on.

“Why did you invite me?” you ask, fiddling with the button of his jacket, now neatly folded in your lap.

He sighs in exasperation, crossing his legs. “I told you already: you left me with no choice. Is your memory truly so poor?”

“You could have gone alone, or not gone at all,” you say, refusing to look at him. “It's not like I would have known.”

He pauses for a moment, a heartbeat. “I am not Harlequin: I do not engage with people for no reason. If you are here then it means I intended it to be so. That is all you need to know.”

You laugh under your breath, shifting in your seat, though there is little mirth in the sound. “Yeah, I know. I'm guessing this is another test or something. That's all it is.”

You don't find out if there is anything more he wanted to say because the lights go dim, whispers in the theatre dying down as the spotlight turns on and the performance begins. 

The Jester does not watch the play, not really. Though you could not have known, he has seen each of Shakespeare's plays on stage at least once, even the original back when the playwright was still alive. Instead, he finds himself observing you, darkness hiding his gaze.

He is not foolish like Pierrot. Though he had certain delusions as a child, he has long accepted the fact that certain things are not for him to experience, to live, to feel anywhere but on the paper that holds his scripts. He is a storyteller, a playwright himself, and he is masterful in his craft. That, and looking after those he travels with, is his goal. His purpose. Yearning has no place in it.

That's not to say that he has never felt such a thing. Near the start of his journey, he had occasionally found his foolish heart hoping for connection, for touch, for the type of things he wrote about. Such feelings were easily thwarted, though. Whenever they arose, he would remind himself of why such things were not for him, why opening his heart could only lead to misery, and why even thinking of engaging in such endeavours was fruitless, meaningless and frankly pathetic. Soon enough, the want mixed with the guilt, the shame, and they became inseparable. And so the man freed himself from the fickle, stupid craving for love that so many are shackled by.

Or, at least, he thought he had. As the performance continues and Macbeth spirals into insanity, so do his thoughts fall to places he has not seen for a very long time. 

Why is it that you undo him so? He ponders this as the play goes on, watching your reactions and your furrowed brow and how your body seems to unconsciously lean towards him. You are not particularly special in any way, and yet…

And yet something in him stirs, in the darkness of the theatre and the sliver of space between you.

There is something different about you, he supposes. Not something grand and loud and performative, but quieter, more real. How you help Pierrot, laugh with Harlequin, theorise with the Doctor and sip tea with the Ticket Taker. How you respected him and his family when you thought they were human and after you found out they are not. How you recognise his authority and don't try to earn his trust through underhanded means, having shown visible, genuine distress at the mere idea.

Jester does not yearn. He does not feel such fickle emotions. He does not love anyone outside his troupe. Then again, with every week that you stay entangled with the circus, with every week that you have stayed despite knowing what they are, he has more often caught himself thinking of you as one of his own.

When the curtain falls and the crowd explodes in thunderous applause, you find yourself rising to your feet, smile wide as the dark of the hall fades. Eyes bright, turning to him for his reaction, only to find him watching you with a smile of his own, soft enough to catch you completely off guard.

Then he pulls his mask up and the moment is over, but something lingers as the two of you leave, as he insists on walking you home - another custom, he says. You discuss the play, telling him about certain connections you made regarding the story back when you were still in school and he listens in what almost seems like genuine interest, the attention making the cold of night seem a little less so.

Jester leads you right to your door and the two of you stand in silence for a moment, the humming of the overhead light doing little to ease your nerves.

“Thank you for today,” you finally say, handing him back his suit jacket as he pulls down his facemask. “I know I’m no replacement for Ticket Taker but I hope it was at least a little nice for you too.”

At this, he laughs, bringing a hand to his chest. “Ah, he would not have enjoyed any of this. The man has more of an appreciation for spreadsheets than for the beauty of the arts.”

You blink, confused. “Wait, so the moment I gave you those tickets, you-”

“I told you, pet,” he hums, “I do not engage with people for no reason.”

Before you can do something stupid, you hold out your hand for a handshake, willing away the heat rising in your face. “Thank you. Again.”

He takes your hand, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and shakes it once, firmly, before bringing the back of your palm to his lips. You short-circuit, something that evidently amuses him, and wishes you a good evening, turning down the corridor to leave.

He does not go immediately. He lingers by the entrance, listening to you closing the door, then leaves the building to observe your balcony from the outside, silhouette shifting with your movement like a dance only he is privy to.

No, the Jester does not yearn - that is something he has long beaten out of himself. There is, however, a certain curiosity to be sated here, a warmth in his chest he cannot quite describe. Not yet.

It is foolish to hope you will arrange another such meeting, that he knows. Then again, it does not bother him so much as he strides back to the circus, thoughts returning to your comments and smiles and unconscious gestures. After all, even if you do not, he is more than capable of making it happen anyway.

Maybe he can entertain such a foolish, fickle notion.