Requested by: @shiningazures !!
Rewrite the Stars With Your Love — MOTM
Summary: The stage is where you shine brightest. Every performance leaves audiences spellbound, every spotlight seems destined to find you. But behind the curtains, five different hearts carry feelings they can't quite put into words. As dreams, fears, and impossible hopes intertwine beneath dazzling circus lights, each must decide whether some stars are simply too far apart — or whether destiny can be rewritten.
Pairing: Cuphead x Reader, Mugman x Reader, Bendy x Reader, Boris x Reader and Shelly x Reader (SEPARATELY)
Genres: Romance, Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Slice of Life, Performing Arts and Anthology
Tropes: Rewrite the Stars Inspired, Show Person Reader, Gender-Neutral Reader, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Unrequited Feelings... Maybe, "I'm Not Good Enough for You", Emotional Repression, Hidden Feelings, Longing, Yearning, Opposites Attract, Performer × Performer (Bendy), Backstage Moments, Quiet Confessions, Almost Love Confessions, Shared Glances, Bittersweet Romance, Happy Ending (Scenario Dependent) and Five Separate Scenarios
The spotlight absolutely adored you.
Every night, the velvet curtains parted and the audience erupted into applause before you had even finished your first spin.
The cheers seemed to follow you wherever you moved, swelling louder with every graceful step across the stage.
You belonged beneath the stage lights, wrapped in gold, glitter and impossible dreams. The spotlight always found you, as though it knew exactly where you were meant to be.
You were a star yourself.
Maybe that was the problem.
The carnival lights painted streaks of red and amber across the rooftops as he sat on the edge of a building, elbows resting on his knees while one foot swung absently over the side. The cool night air tugged at his sleeves and rustled the collar of his coat, but he barely noticed it.
His attention remained fixed on the glowing circus grounds below.
Below, the circus glowed like a living shooting star.
His fingers drummed restlessly against his arm, tapping out an uneven rhythm he wasn't even aware of. Every few seconds he stopped, only for the movement to begin again moments later.
The nervous habit seemed impossible to shake tonight.
He had been telling himself for months that he was over it.
That whatever strange feeling settled in his chest whenever you smiled beautifully at him would eventually disappear.
That enough time would make it just... easier.
That eventually you would just become another friend of his.
If anything, it had only gotten worse.
A distant melody drifted upward from the circus tent.
Oh... Your perfect voice.
The sound carried surprisingly far through the night air, soft but unmistakable, which, inevitably, made Cuphead freeze.
His fingers stopped moving.
And, for just a second, everything else seemed to fade into the background.
Then he let out a bitter laugh through his nose and shook his head, looking toward the glowing canvas roof.
"Of course." He leaned back on his palms, forcing a crooked grin onto his face even though nobody was around to see it. His eyes squeezed shut briefly before reopening, with a soft look. "Why wouldn't that be you?"
His grin appeared automatically.
The same grin he wore around everyone.
The same grin that convinced people everything was fine.
The same grin that hid absolutely everything.
"You just had to be flawlessly talented too," he muttered, letting his head tilt back toward the starry sky. He tried to sound amused, but the words came out softer than intended.
The joke fell flat the moment it left his mouth.
His smile lingered for a few seconds before fading at the corners.
His shoulders slumped slightly as he stared toward the glowing tent. Through the distant fabric walls, shadows moved and lights flickered like pieces of a dream he could never quite reach. Every flash of gold made him wonder if it was you dancing across the stage.
You belonged somewhere beautiful.
You belonged somewhere bright.
Not beside a recovering gambler and murderer who still trusted luck more than common sense.
The thought settled heavily in his chest.
His gaze lowered toward his hands.
The hands that had lost souls
Took the lives of innocent toons.
He flexed his fingers slowly before curling them into loose fists.
The memories came too easily — bad decisions, reckless bets, promises broken almost as soon as they were made. Things he laughed off in public suddenly felt a lot less funny when he was alone.
His thumb rubbed absently across his knuckles, as though he could somehow scrub away the past.
For a moment he imagined what it would be like...
Walking into the circus and crossing the distance he'd spent months pretending didn't matter.
Asking you to stay and to choose him.
The thought made his stomach twist.
His grip tightened around the edge of the rooftop, not because he couldn't imagine you saying yes.
And that terrified him more than rejection ever could.
The knot in his throat only grew tighter.
His chest tightened as the fantasy continued despite himself, imagining your hand in his, warm and steady.
He imagined that smile you always gave him when he showed up backstage. Imagined hearing you say his name like it meant something special.
Like he meant something special for you.
The image felt dangerously easy to picture.
Then he'd become responsible for your happiness.
And Cuphead had never been good at keeping things he cared about safe.
His jaw tightened, a muscle jumped in his cheek.
Just the uncomfortable truth sitting heavily in his chest.
The thought of disappointing you someday felt worse than never being with you at all.
Worse than staying silent.
Worse than... never knowing.
A gust of wind rattled his coat, making the fabric snap softly behind him.
He adjusted it automatically before pulling his knees closer to his chest. The movement made him feel smaller somehow.
Like he was just a little boy once again, dealing with his own feelings alone.
The circus music continued below.
He stayed exactly where he was.
The distance between the rooftop and the circus wasn't far.
Yet it felt impossible to cross.
Like there was an invisible wall between your world and his.
And no matter how badly he wanted to, he couldn't find a way through it, and down inside the tent...
You looked toward the rooftop.
Your movements faltered for barely a second, eyes lifting above the crowd as though drawn by something unseen. The spotlight caught the glitter woven into your costume, making you shine like a constellation against the darkness.
And for an instant, the noise of the audience seemed distant compared to the simple act of you looking up.
As if you somehow just knew he was there.
His entire body went still.
His fingers tightened against the edge of the roof until his knuckles ached.
The hopeful part of him stirred before he could stop it.
Maybe, for just one second, you had been looking for him too.
Because before he could even think about standing up, before he could convince himself to wave or call your name, you turned back toward the audience, smiling as they cheered your name.
The spotlight followed you once more.
And he remained where he was.
Watching the star that could never belong to him.
The star he would never allow himself to reach for.
The young man isn't too fond of crowds.
But, for some reason, you loved them.
The crowd itself loved you.
And that alone should have made everything impossible.
You thrived beneath the roar of applause, basking in the attention of hundreds of strangers.
Every cheer seemed to make you shine brighter, every standing ovation another reminder that the stage was where you belonged. It was as natural as breathing for you.
You never seemed intimidated by the sea of faces watching your every move. If anything, you looked happiest when the entire room was focused on you.
Mugman, meanwhile, usually spent your entire performances trying not to think about how many people were packed into the same room as him.
The feeling of being surrounded on all sides.
Normally he would have avoided it entirely, yet, somehow, he still found himself sitting through every single performance.
Even when he was exhausted, when he had work tomorrow, when his anxiety screamed at him to leave before the curtains even opened.
Because you smiled whenever you spotted him in the audience.
And somehow that made everything worth it.
One quick small wave from the stage when nobody else was looking.
That was all it took for him to forget the discomfort of being surrounded by strangers.
At least for a little while.
The theater had long since emptied, the final applause had faded and the musicians had packed away their instruments while the stage lights were already going dark.
Only a few lanterns remained lit backstage, casting pools of warm golden light across the otherwise quiet corridor. Their glow reflected faintly against the polished floorboards, stretching long shadows across the walls.
Mugman stood awkwardly near a stack of wooden crates, scarf pulled higher around his face.
His fingers kept fidgeting with the fabric.
Pulling and adjusting it repeatedly without realizing it, the motion had become automatic by now.
Whenever he was nervous, his hands always needed something to do and right now, they definitely needed something to do.
You had invited him backstage hours ago.
And he still hadn't found the courage to knock on your dressing-room door.
He stared at the brass handle from the opposite end of the hallway as though it might suddenly become less intimidating if he looked at it long enough.
The stupid thing somehow looked even scarier now, somehow.
A soft laugh escaped him as he facepalmed his face.
"You've fought toons a thousand times bigger than you," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at himself while rubbing the back of his neck. His shoulders hunched slightly as he glanced around the empty corridor, thankful nobody was around to witness this conversation.
He rubbed the top of his head.
"You literally fought monsters once." His shoulders sagged as he let out another breath, staring at the floorboards. "Monsters. Giant ones."
He paused, as if waiting for some kind of revelation.
"But talking to them is where you draw the line?" He gestured vaguely toward the dressing-room door as if presenting evidence in an argument against himself. One hand slipped free from his scarf long enough to point accusingly at it.
His voice echoed faintly through the empty corridor.
The silence afterward somehow felt louder, almost judgmental.
Then, the door opened, and you finally came outside.
For a moment both of you froze.
Mugman's eyes widened immediately.
His entire body locked up.
Every thought he had completely vanished.
Every word he practiced while watched you perform simply disappeared.
His posture straightened so quickly he nearly stumbled backwards over his own feet.
The word left his mouth before his brain could stop it.
His eyes squeezed shut for half a second.
Years of conversation experience and that was the best he could manage.
He resisted the urge to immediately walk away and pretend this entire interaction had never happened.
Your smile appeared instantly.
The same smile that always destroyed his ability to think, the one that somehow managed to make him feel seen every single time.
His heart immediately started racing.
"Hey," he managed, lifting one hand in a small awkward wave before immediately lowering it again as though he'd suddenly forgotten how greetings worked.
His shoulders immediately tensed as he cleared his throat, way far too late to save himself.
Could this get any worse?...
The fact that he was already imagining every embarrassing thing he might say next certainly wasn't helping.
Close enough that he could smell traces of makeup powder and perfume lingering after the performance.
To the point he noticed tiny flecks of glitter still clinging to your costume, sparkling whenever you moved beneath the lantern light, making his carefully rehearsed thoughts immediately scattered like frightened birds.
Every sentence he'd practiced on the walk here vanished.
Because standing here, beneath the soft backstage lights, you looked so happy.
The excitement from performing still lingered in your eyes.
Your smile hadn't faded, posture remained relaxed and confident in a way Mugman had always admired.
Like you had finally found where you belonged.
Like the stage had been waiting for you all along.
He... had spent most of his life feeling like he belonged nowhere.
Not quite brave like Cuphead.
The realization hurt more than he expected as his gaze lowered.
Not because he wanted to look away, but because looking directly at you for too long felt overwhelming, since, every time he did, his chest felt too tight.
Like his heart was trying far too hard to make itself known.
"You're... amazing up there."
His voice came out quieter this time, honest and sincere.
His fingers tightened around the edge of his scarf as he spoke, bunching the fabric tightly in his hands.
He forced himself to meet your eyes for a moment after saying it.
Just long enough for you to see that he meant it.
Every word, though, he felt they were too simple, nowhere near enough.
Although not uncomfortable.
Heavy with everything he wasn't saying, his fingers clenched around the edge of his scarf, because there was so much more he wanted to tell you.
That he watched every performance.
Even the ones that ended late. The ones after exhausting days. The ones where he spent half the show trying not to panic because the theater was too crowded and loud.
That he remembered every song, from every dance to every costume.
That he noticed every nervous habit you thought nobody saw.
The way you adjusted your gloves before walking onstage, how you always took one deep breath before the curtains opened and your smile growing just a little brighter whenever you spotted familiar faces in the audience.
And to the way your shoulders relaxed whenever a performance went well and how you sometimes still hummed quietly to yourself backstage.
His face grew warmer, because the truth went even deeper than that.
That he loved hearing you laugh.
Loved watching your eyes light up whenever you talked about your next performance.
His breath caught, the words remained trapped behind his teeth, hidden safely behind fear.
Because saying them out loud would make them real, and real things... could be lost.
Real things could be rejected.
And if you looked at him differently afterward—
If your smile ever changed—
He wasn't sure he'd ever survive it.
So, instead, he stood there beneath the lantern light, holding onto his scarf like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
And as you continued smiling at him—
As though simply seeing him had brightened your evening—
Mugman wondered if perhaps you already knew, maybe you could hear it in his voice.
Perhaps you could see it every time he showed up to another performance, how it written all over his face.
How it might had been for months.
His heart pounded painfully against his chest.
Or maybe you only thought he was a friend.
And somehow that possibility hurt far more than it should have.
The demon was a performer once.
Although, people forgot that.
Time had a way of erasing certain things, smoothing over rough edges and leaving only the stories people preferred to remember.
You remembered the old posters. The stories. The faded photographs tucked away in forgotten corners.
Even the way his eyes still followed every stage light like they were good old friends.
How his grin always seemed a little brighter whenever he was standing beneath one, his posture unconsciously straightened whenever he stepped onto a stage, no matter how abandoned it was.
As though some part of him never truly left the spotlight behind, almost like the performer he used to be was still there, hidden somewhere beneath the jokes, the charm, and the carefully crafted confidence he showed the world.
The abandoned stage creaked softly beneath your footsteps.
Dust floated through the pale moonlight pouring from the broken ceiling, drifting lazily through the air like tiny stars. The theater had long since been forgotten by everyone else, but somehow it still felt alive when the two of you were there.
As if it remembered what it used to be.
The empty rows of seats stretched out before you, swallowed by darkness. Torn curtains hung motionless at the sides of the stage, and yet the place never felt truly deserted.
Not when Bendy was there with you, both of your presences somehow filling every empty corner.
As if you could make an old, empty theater that once felt like a home for Bendy, feel like opening night with nothing more than a grin and a clever remark.
Bendy lounged across the edge of the stage with his usual effortless confidence.
One arm draped behind him and one leg dangling lazily over the edge, his posture relaxed.
Comfortable and careless, at least, that's what it looked like.
You were one of the few people in his life who knew it was mostly an act.
A very convincing act, but, still an act.
Because real confidence didn't require constant performances, and Bendy was always performing, even when there wasn't an audience, despite the fact when it was just you.
Sometimes especially when it was just you.
His golden eyes followed your movements, always sharp and observant.
Far more observant than he liked admitting.
He noticed everything when it came to you.
The way you moved, how your smile appeared before you even realized you were smiling and excitement brightened your face whenever you talked about performing.
Especially when it was about you performing with him.
Watching your eyes lit up whenever you describe future shows and you always ends up moving your hands around when you get excited, as you paced slightly whenever an idea made you passionate.
Things he pretended not to pay attention to, though he remembered them anyway, far too well.
"You know," he drawled lazily, stretching his arms behind his head while leaning backward against an old spotlight stand. The movement looked casual, almost lazy, but his gaze never left you for a second.
His head tilted slightly forward, attentive despite the relaxed posture. "You're becoming awfully popular."
The words came out light. Playful. Almost teasing.
But there was something underneath them, quieter and softer.
His eyebrow lifted slightly, the corner of his grin tugged upward.
Like he was teasing, as if he didn't care, almost like the observation meant absolutely nothing.
The, so popular, charming smile.
The one everyone fell for. The one he used whenever something bothered him. The one he hid behind whenever he cared too much.
The sound echoed across the empty theater, bouncing off crumbling walls and empty rows of seats.
And something in his chest squeezed painfully, a sharp uncomfortable feeling.
But still impossible to ignore.
Because you looked so happy, beautiful, as if the spotlight seemed to follow you even when there wasn't one.
Given that eventually somebody else was going to notice too.
Someone talented, successful, who belonged in your world.
A toon who could stand beside you beneath those lights without feeling out of place.
His thoughts stopped there, abruptly, way before they could go anywhere dangerous.
His gaze lingered on you a second longer than intended, then he quickly looked toward the stage curtains.
As though the old fabric had suddenly become fascinating, seemingly like he hadn't nearly gotten caught staring, and his chest hadn't tightened at all.
"You ever think about performing somewhere else in the future?" he asked, the question slipped out before he could stop it.
His tail flickered immediately afterward, smile faltering for half a second, for a moment he almost looked surprised by his own words.
One claw beneath his gloves tapped once against the wood beneath him, grin replaced with a soft smile and look on his face now.
But for the briefest second, his eyes betrayed him.
The air seemed to shift, silence followed way too heavy than the theater where he used to perform at itself.
His expression didn't change, not in the slightest.
His soft, melancholic smile remained exactly where it was, a masterpiece of deception.
He hated it, because he knew exactly why he'd asked.
Long enough for regret to settle into his stomach, for him to wish he could snatch the question right back out of the air because he realized he'd accidentally revealed more than intended.
His gaze drifted toward the dusty window on the other side of the room, following a beam of moonlight cutting across the stage.
"It's nothing." His voice sounded lighter now as he waved a hand dismissively, forcing out a chuckle that sounded almost convincing. His wrist flicked casually through the air as though brushing the entire conversation aside. "Just pure curiosity."
He even flashed his grin back.
The one that usually just worked.
His shoulders rolled into a casual shrug, that always made people stop asking questions.
Yet beneath that casual gesture, his claws dug slightly deeper into the edge of the stage.
The wood creaked softly beneath his grip.
Tiny cracks forming beneath claws that were suddenly pressing much harder than intended.
Because he knew exactly what he was asking and why he was asking it.
Not whether you'd leave the town.
Not whether you'd chase bigger stages.
Not whether you'd become internationally famous.
If someday the spotlight would carry you somewhere he couldn't follow. If one day you'd outgrow old theaters and midnight conversations.
Which would maybe make you realize you deserve much better, making you eventually stop looking back.
The thought sat heavily in his chest.
You belonged among stars.
Bendy, now, belonged among shadows.
And shadows weren't meant to keep stars.
No matter how badly they wanted to.
No matter how tightly they held on.
Eventually, stars kept moving, twas what they were meant to do.
His grin returned completely.
Bigger this time, more convincing, although as false as before.
The kind of smile that looked effortless to everyone except the people who knew him best.
Which would be his brother and you.
"Besides," he chuckled, leaving his lounging position behind and swinging his legs over the stage edge once again. He threw one arm dramatically across his chest and placed his free hand against his forehead like a silent-film actor. "Who'd wanna leave this charming face?"
He spun slightly as he said it, presenting himself with exaggerated flair.
A performer to the very end.
He pointed toward himself with a flourish.
Exactly the kind of joke people used to expect from him.
His grin sharpened, tail flicked lazily behind him.
Yet his eyes never quite left yours. Watching. Waiting.
Hoping for something he wasn't brave enough to name.
Although, the joke landed, thankfully.
Everyone always used to laugh.
He'd spent so long making people laugh that nobody ever noticed when he was serious, no toon ever stopped to ask what he was truly hiding underneath all the jokes.
And Bendy laughed too, a smooth, familiar sound.
As easy and as carefree as ever.
The kind of laugh he'd perfected years ago for the audience.
Because it was easier than taking accountabily of his own emotions and admitting the truth.
Much easier than saying that every time you talked about future performances, something uncomfortable twisted inside his chest, easier than admitting he was afraid.
Afraid of losing you, of needing someone this much.
Afraid that one day you'd stop looking at him the way you do now, that one day, you'd leave and he'd be left standing exactly where he'd always been.
The conversation drifted elsewhere after that, lighter and softer topics.
The kind that didn't leave bruises, the ones that neither of you had to think too hard about.
But Bendy found himself paying less attention to the words and more attention to the sound of your voice.
The rhythm and warmth of it, the way it filled the empty theater.
Trying to memorize it, memorize your laugh, the shape of your smile, the way the moonlight caught against your outfit.
Just in case one day it wasn't there anymore.
When you finally left that night, he remained sitting alone on that old stage that was his and his old partner's once.
The theater fell silent around him.
Dust drifted through the moonlight, the doorway stood empty.
Still, he kept staring at it.
Watching the place where you'd disappeared long after you were gone.
As if expecting you to come back, refusing to accept that the night was over.
His grin had vanished by then.
So had the jokes, the performance.
His shoulders sagged slightly.
The confidence disappeared, the dancer finally stepped offstage.
Leaving only the quiet truth he never let anyone see.
And for the first time all evening, the abandoned theater felt exactly what it was.
Just like the space beside him on the stage.
The wolf preferred quiet, although, both you and his brother were the only exceptions.
The sounds of distant music drifted through the workshop windows, softened by distance until they became little more than a faint melody floating through the night.
Somewhere outside, the stage was still alive with laughter, applause, and bright lights. The occasional burst of cheering carried on the wind before fading again, becoming part of the background hum of the evening.
But inside the workshop, everything felt calmer and safer.
The scent of machine oil and sawdust lingered in the air, familiar and comforting. Tools hung neatly along the walls, each one carefully returned to its place.
A lantern glowed softly above one of the workbenches, bathing the room in warm golden light and leaving the corners wrapped in comfortable shadows. Dust motes drifted lazily through the air whenever the lantern flame flickered.
And in the middle of it all sat Boris.
He sat on a workbench, turning a wrench between his fingers.
The metal repeatedly clicked softly.
A nervous habit of his, one of many.
The wrench rotated between his palms as his foot tapped faintly against the wooden leg of the bench. Every now and then he stopped, only to begin again a few seconds later without realizing it.
His ears twitched every so often, reacting to distant sounds he wasn't truly paying attention to.
He wasn't really working, hadn't been for almost twenty minutes.
The half-finished project beside him remained untouched, a loose bolt sat exactly where he'd left it as the toolbox beside him remained open.
Nothing had changed, because his thoughts kept wandering back to you.
Every attempt to focus lasted only a few seconds before his mind drifted right back.
Back to your smile, to your laugh, to the way you always greeted him as though seeing him was the best part of your day.
Back to the way your eyes brightened whenever you spotted him in a crowd.
His ears lowered slightly, embarrassed by the realization, even when nobody was around to see it.
A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth before disappearing as quickly as it appeared. His thumb rubbed nervously against the smooth metal of the wrench as if the motion alone could distract him from his own thoughts.
Then the workshop door creaked open.
You softly stepped inside, looking around with curiosity.
Immediately his entire body stiffened.
The wrench nearly slipped from his hand, quickly grabbing it awkwardly as he immediately pretended nothing happened.
Which only made it more obvious.
A faint blush spread beneath his dark fur.
His ears twitched nervously, one folded back for a second before quickly returning upright.
You brightly smiled at him.
Boris instantly looked away, almost as if eye contact itself had become dangerous, like looking at you for too long might reveal every secret he'd spent months trying to hide, from both you and himself.
His tail gave one traitorous wag, then stopped.
Just to wag again once more.
He mentally cursed himself.
The tail clearly hadn't received instructions from the rest of his body.
You happily walked toward him, already talking and with a big smile on your face, telling him about tonight's performance.
Your hands moved animatedly as you spoke, describing moments from the show with obvious excitement.
Every story seemed to make your face brighten further. The sparkle in your eyes was impossible to miss, and Boris found himself smiling simply because you were. Even when he didn't fully understand the details, hearing you talk about something you loved made it impossible not to listen.
And Boris listened, really listened.
Not the polite kind of listening, the kind where someone waits for their turn to talk.
Simply the genuine kind, where every word mattered, every detail, every excited gesture and every beautiful expression of yours.
His gaze followed your movements attentively. A small smile gradually appeared without him noticing, growing softer whenever your excitement spilled into laughter.
His ears angled toward your voice, subtle but unmistakable, instinctively tracking every word as though he never wanted to miss a single one, because, you always listened to him too.
Even when he struggled finding words, when conversations became awkward, when silence stretched between sentences, when his answers seemed way too short.
Even when he wasn't sure how to explain what he meant.
You never seemed bothered, didn't bother to rush him, never looked impatient, the opposite, actually.
And somehow that made talking easier, made being around you easier, that was exactly why this hurt.
Because kindness wasn't love, listening wasn't love, smiling wasn't love.
Yet some foolish part of him hoped otherwise, a dangerous hope.
The kind he usually avoided but that still grew stronger every time you sought him out first.
Every time you sat beside him and smiled at him like he mattered, as though out of everyone in your theater, you had chosen to spend your evening here.
Shoulder brushing shoulder.
A tiny touch, barely anything.
Yet Boris froze completely, his entire body went rigid, the wrench nearly slipped from his hand again.
Fast enough that he was convinced you could even, maybe, probably hear it.
The warmth of your shoulder lingered through the thin fabric of his sleeve. Such a small thing. Such an insignificant thing. Yet it felt impossibly important.
His tail stopped moving entirely, his breath caught for a second, carefully exhaling through his nose.
Trying — and failing — to act normal.
His fingers tightened slightly around the wrench handle before he forced them to relax.
He was suddenly aware of everything; the warmth beside him, the space between you, even the way your sleeve brushed against his whenever either of you shifted.
For several long seconds neither of you spoke. It wasn't uncomfortable.
Just quiet, gentle and warm, like it always has been between you two.
The kind of silence Boris secretly loved, the one that didn't demand anything and simply allowed two people to exist beside each other.
Outside, distant music continued drifting through the night air.
Inside, only the soft ticking of a nearby clock could be heard.
The occasional creak of old wood, the faint hum of the lantern.
His gaze drifted toward you.
Then away and back to you once again, quick little glances, each one lasting a fraction longer than the last.
Long enough to notice details, how the lantern light softened the edges of your smile, tiny flecks of glitter still lingered on your outfit from the performance, the way your expression seemed more relaxed here than it did anywhere else.
The lantern light caught against your features, it softened the edges of your smile, it made you seem... almost unreal.
Almost as if something beautiful that had wandered into his quiet little corner of the world by mistake, and for one fleeting moment—
He almost reached for your hand.
His fingers barely shifted, just a tiny movement.
The beginning of a decision and of enough courage, almost.
His hand hovered for the briefest second before stopping, before doubt caught up with him and every terrible possibility rushed into his mind at once.
Instead his fingers curled into his own fist, holding himself back while gripping the fur tightly.
As though restraint required physical effort.
His shoulders tensed beneath the motion. His jaw tightened slightly before he forced himself to relax again, staring down at his own hands as though they had nearly betrayed him.
Because if he crossed that line—
Everything could change, maybe for better or for the worse.
Perhaps you'd even smile or just pull away.
You'd possibly look at him differently afterward, maybe this comfortable silence would disappear forever.
The uncertainty terrified him.
And Boris wasn't brave enough to gamble with something this important.
Not yet. Not when simply having you here already meant so much. Not when losing this friendship felt unbearable.
His ears lowered slightly again.
His thumb rubbed absent circles against the fur gathered in his fingers.
A nervous gesture, though, a grounding one, that has helped him keep his thoughts from running away completely.
The workshop remained quiet.
Neither of you moved away, although neither of you moved closer either.
The distance between your shoulders never changed and somehow, for some reason, that made it harder.
Because for the first time all evening, Boris became painfully aware of how small that distance actually was, just a few inches.
A few inches and a thousand fears, with every word he couldn't say.
A few inches and every feeling he carefully kept hidden behind shy smiles and nervous silences.
A few inches and a future he wanted badly enough to dream about but not quite enough to risk losing what he already had.
So he stayed exactly where he was.
Sitting beside you beneath the warm lantern light.
Memorizing the moment, the warmth, the feeling of your shoulder against his and wondering how something so simple could make his heart ache this much.
She loved discovering things.
Ancient civilizations. Lost artifacts. Forgotten histories. Entire lifetimes hidden beneath layers of dust and stone.
She could spend weeks chasing a single clue.
Months studying a single mystery.
Even Years searching for answers.
The thrill of uncovering something lost never faded. Every fragment of pottery, every faded inscription, every buried relic held a story waiting to be told.
Yet, you were the only mystery she couldn't solve, and perhaps the most frustrating part was that she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to.
Because mysteries eventually had answers, they ended.
Whatever this feeling was, she wasn't certain she wanted it to.
The circus had already packed up for the night, with most performers having gone home already.
The colorful tents stood quiet beneath the moonlight, their bright daytime energy replaced by a peaceful stillness. The distant sounds of workers finishing their tasks drifted through the cool evening air before fading into silence.
She rarely remembered to leave when something interesting, such as the performances, captured her attention.
You had captured her attention months ago, far more thoroughly than any ancient artifact ever had.
She sat cross-legged atop a wagon filled with excavation notes, journal pages scattered around her like fallen leaves.
Books lay open around her.
Maps were spread across the wooden surface.
Several loose sketches threatened to slide off the edge entirely.
A lantern illuminated her face.
Its warm glow reflected in her eyes as she scribbled notes in the margins of an already overcrowded journal, the page was already packed with observations.
Arrows pointing in every direction.
Only Shelly could understand most of it, probably.
Her eyes darted rapidly across a notebook, and stopped.
Not because of the notes but because she heard you approaching.
Immediately she brightened, like somebody had lit a second lantern.
The tired concentration vanished from her expression so quickly it was almost impressive.
Her eyes widened, her posture straightened and she just couldn't stop waving her hands around before she even fully processed why.
The word escaped her before she could stop it.
She nearly dropped the notebook while scrambling upright.
The journal slipped from her lap with several papers flew into the air, one landed directly on her face. Another drifted off the wagon entirely, a third somehow became tangled around her goggles.
For a moment she simply froze.
Trying to determine how exactly she'd managed that.
Then reached up awkwardly to remove the page from her face.
Only for two more sheets to slide off the wagon while she was distracted.
Though mostly because you were laughing, the sound immediately pulled a wide and genuine smile onto her face, completely helpless.
Her excitement always became stronger around you, stronger than she could properly control.
And, unfortunately for her, that excitement often came with a complete loss of coordination.
"You're still awake?" she asked, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on her knees while staring at you with open curiosity. Her head tilted to one side as though the answer genuinely fascinated her.
She kept bouncing on her seat, happy to just see you in front of her, almost impossible to keep herself and her feelings still.
One foot bounced lightly against the wagon.
Her claws tapped absent-mindedly against the cover of her notebook, every part of her seemed to vibrate with energy.
She always stared, not rudely, no.
Like she was trying to memorize every detail, every expression of yours, every minimal movement, every single little thing.
Almost as if she looked away for too long, she might miss something important, something worth remembering.
Something she'd wish she'd paid attention to later.
You answered. Shelly listened.
Her attention never wandered, not even once, most people became distracted with something else eventually.
Especially not when it came to you.
The moment you began speaking, the rest of the world seemed to disappear completely
The notebook sat forgotten. The maps forgotten. The excavations notes forgotten.
Even the paper still tangled around her goggles remained there.
Because you were talking, and right now, that was infinitely more important.
Then she asked another question.
Every answer only seemed to create three more questions.
Her notebook somehow ended up back in her hands.
Without thinking, she began jotting things down as you spoke.
A sentence, then another, then a small note in the margin and she stopped.
Realized what she was doing, quickly shutting the journal.
A blush dusted her cheeks.
"Sorry," she said with an embarrassed laugh, clutching the notebook against her chest so tightly the pages crinkled slightly. "Habit."
She rubbed the back of her neck.
"You say lovely interesting things."
A beat passed, her eyes widening, because somehow, that sounded worse.
"Not that other people don't say interesting things!" she blurted immediately, waving her free hand frantically.
The notebook nearly slipped again.
"I mean they do. Sometimes. It's just—"
She stopped just to start once again.
"No, that's not what I meant!"
Another pause, her fingers flickering anxiously and she could feel her face get even hotter with embarrassment.
You laughed again and felt yourself blush at the woman's nervous rambling.
Shelly only groaned dramatically and covered part of her face with the notebook.
The sound only made her smile anyway.
A smile she couldn't seem to stop, even when she desperately wanted to look less obvious.
Eventually she stopped mid-sentence, a rare occurrence, actually
Normally Shelly could talk for hours without noticing, she always knew what she wanted to say next, especially when there was always another question for her to ask.
Another fascinating fact.
But this time the words simply... disappeared.
Her expression shifted to a thoughtful and vulnerable one.
For once, there was no excitement to hide behind, no fascinating discovery, no historical tangent and definitely no distraction.
The silence stretched unexpectedly.
Long enough for her to become painfully aware of her own heartbeat, for her fingers to tighten around the journal in her lap and for nervousness to settle into places excitement normally occupied.
The words came slower than usual.
Like she was afraid of them.
Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her journal, the worn leather cover bent slightly beneath her grip.
Eyes lowering briefly before returning to yours, then lowering again, and returning, and lingering once again.
"I think you're my favorite discovery."
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Before she could rethink them and bury them beneath twelve other sentences, because the moment they left her mouth, she knew there was no taking them back.
Immediately her eyes widened.
The kind usually reserved for collapsing ruins or accidentally triggering ancient traps.
A bright blush spread across her cheeks, heat rushed all the way to her entire face.
Her hand holding the notebook completely froze, as though even if it had forgotten how to function, she just looked ready to launch herself off the wagon and bury herself underground.
Then accidentally pointed at herself.
Then... nowhere in particular.
Her hands flew up, the notebook nearly escaped her grip, she gave herself another try again.
Her face somehow became even redder, practically ready to explode with how hot it was and how shy she now feels in your presence.
She buried her face in both hands.
The notebook dropped into her lap.
Her voice came out muffled through her fingers
"Oh this is a disaster." A tiny groan escaped her as she confessed her feelings to you, like they're the most embarrassing thing she ever had to talk about.
The embarrassment only intensified.
Her shoulders hunched inward, the notebook nearly slipped from her hands again, for someone capable of exploring dangerous ruins without fear, she suddenly looked moments away from fainting.
Meanwhile her heart hammered against her ribs, because of the simple fact there wasn't a mystery for once.
No forgotten civilization waiting to be interpreted.
Raw, exposed, and terrifying, as she'd spent months studying every detail about you.
Remembering your stories.
Treasuring every conversation.
Looking forward to seeing you more than she'd ever admit aloud.
And now, all of that was suddenly visible.
Every feeling she'd carefully hidden between questions and observations, every glance that lasted too long, every excuse she'd invented to talk to you again.
Slowly she lowered her hands.
Looking at you through her fingers.
The world seemed unusually quiet.
Even the night air felt still.
For perhaps the first time in her life, Shelly wasn't searching for answers, she was waiting for one, and that was somehow much scarier than anything else.
Neither history books nor archaeologists would ever record it, no museum would preserve it and no scholar would write about it centuries later.
But Shelly suspected she'd remember that moment forever.
Every second of it, every heartbeat, every single word. As clearly as any discovery she'd ever made, perhaps, even more clearly.
Author's note: I wrote the reader working in a theater instead of a circus in Bendy's and Boris's scenarios because of their past involvement with theater/performances.
I hope you guys enjoyed it <3
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