Aquí haciendo nada.

-

The tent had been slightly adjusted to give more space, Jester took you to his stage. with the lights focused on you both, music in the background, he guided you, giving verbal commands.

There wasn’t a moment of hesitation as you obeyed, though, while under his control, your movements were noticbly stiffer. But that’s not important, resting a hand on your waist c the other holding your hand. “place your other hand over my shoulder.”

He ordered, you did so, he let out a frustrated sigh. “Hold my shoulder, for support.” He clarified, sure like this you obeyed without hesitation, but…you only took his words as they were spoken, he’s never…truly tried to actually interact with a hypnotized individual for more than ordering them to hand out flyers or act out a story.

It seemed weird to try to use them to do such things like this but…you were different, you weren’t food, you weren’t a toy. “Swoon.” He ordered, placing an arm behind your back to support you. As you did so, he had to lean down to properly catch you.

Being close to you like this made his chest ache in a way he hasn’t familiarized himself with. “Stand.” He orders, as you obey, he notices how…empty your eyes look, you used to smile at him, your eyes sparkled when you saw him.

Or…did he imagine it?

“Look at me, like you used when I’d walk you home.” He orders, and though he watches you smile…your eyes stay empty. He sighed in frustration. “No, look at me…”

He paused thinking for a moment. You can’t experience emotions like you usally do like this. Maybe he needed to be more specific? “Look at me with love, like in all that matters to you.”

He watches your gaze soften, and though, your eyes still don’t match they way they used to look. He can’t force emotions when hypnotizing a person, he can force them to make expressions but can’t make a genuine reaction…

His chest ached as he thinks you may have actually loved him…but would you if you found out he hypnotized you so you couldn’t flee?

He growled to himself, lightly tugging you to encourage you to move with him. No, humans aren’t like that, even if you did love him, human emotions are fickle, you wouldn’t love him if you knew the truth.

He couldn’t help the frown that is now residing on his face. You weren’t you, this wasn’t as enjoyable as he had hoped. He wished to keep you, now he has you, why isn’t he happy?

Just because you don’t look to him with adoration?

It’s silly, it makes no sense, why does he even care? He knows he’ll outlive you anyway, why is he getting attached?

He froze as he felt a ache in his chest at the though, he stared down at you silently, you returned his gaze with a blank stare despite the smile that’s only on your face because he ordered you to.

Why does it hurt to think you won’t be around that long…he’s seen humans die, has killed them…why are you so special?

After a few moments of staring at you, he placed his arm around your waist and sighs, releasing you and letting you be in control again. As expected, you fall straight into his arm, barely able to stand.

He helps you sit down, letting you lean on him as your head spins. You won’t rember what happened while you were under his control but…he unfortunately will.

He frowns as he watches you hold your head, it hurt to know he did hurt you even if it was an accident. He had an arm around you in a half hug while you adjusted to whatever nausea he had caused you.

He jolts and catches you as you almost fall off the stage, when you finally look up to him, seemingly just gaining enough clarity to realize he was there, his heart practically melted at the smile on your face, your eyes seemed to soften once they landed on him.

He didn’t say anything as he pulled you into a hug. This is the you he wants, the way you look at him can’t compare.

He doesn’t acknowledge your confusion, instead he hold you rather tightly, like you’d run if he eased his grip. You stayed leaned against him, hugging him back as you murmur incoherently.

Jester hoped the effects would pass soon, he hasn’t exactly released people from his control often enough to know what’s normal. And the ones he did in the past…he didn’t exactly care what happened to them.

But for now, at least he had you, you were too out of it to leave, he could keep you to himself while you recover…he’ll figure out what to tell you later.

He sighed as he gently rubbed your back, you were practically in his lap. You were definitely a special human…he should have figured it out sooner, it wasn’t a hand to you, unlike him, you’d been honest, when he overheard you say you love him to Pierott.

And he rewarded your honesty by trying to control you. He grit his teeth, lightly squeezing you. You only groan softly in response, he can see you’re in the verge of falling asleep, he can’t blame you, he gently adjust you, picking you up.

He’d let you rest in his bed, it’s his fault you’re like this anyway. He’d…owe you a few apologies and a confession when you woke up, but for now he’d let you recover.

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉

You Pat Him:

You barely raised your hand before he noticed.

Pierrot’s amber eyes locked onto the motion with the rapt attention of a starving man watching food approach. When your hand touched his head, fingers interlaced through his long white locks, which felt surprisingly soft against your fingertips, he was silent.

Not just paused. Stopped. His whole body went rigid, his eye widening, his lips parting beneath the mask.

Then, slowly, almost impossibly, he leaned into it.

Like a flower turning toward the sun. Like a man dying of thirst finding water. His eyes drifted shut, and a sound escaped—soft, broken, grateful. “No one…” he paused, “No one touches me like this. not anymore.” He lifted a hand to meet yours, pressing your palm harder against his head. 

“Please. Don’t stop.” 

When you finally had to pull away, he followed your hand with his gaze, dizzy and torn.

“Come back?”

He Pats You:

His hand hovered for an eternity before landing.

Pierrot shuddered at the very idea of tripping up with you—his fingers, long and nervous, were shaking uncontrollably, and his amber eyes scrutinized your face frantically, almost pleadingly, for any indication of hesitation and fear. Every muscle in him was tensed and ready to retreat at the first sign that he was going too far.

When you offered nothing, and then you leaned into his touch the way he had just done, something in his face broke apart. “Oh,” he breathed, that ранe, musical voice of his trembling with wonder. “Oh, you... you like this?”

His touch passed through your hair, filled with a quiet ache, feeling the texture and weight and you beneath the surface. Every slow movement of his hands was almost ceremonial, tremulous and faithful.

“You’re so soft,” he breathed, almost to himself. “So warm. So… here.”

He pulled you to him, forehead to forehead, his breath passing across your skin in a warm murmur.

“I want to do this forever.” The words were raw and sincere, drawn from a deep well within him. “Will you let me do this forever? Please? I’ll be so gentle. I’ll never stop being gentle. I just—I need—”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. Then another. Then another, each one more reverent than the last.

"Mine," he whispered against your skin. "My dear.”

His arms were wrapped around you, hard and probing, a jumble of fear and compassion intertwined like a desperate attempt to mend himself whole again through you. His face was buried in your hair, his breathing shuddering, his entire body shaking with the struggle to contain the emotion you’d awakened within him.

“Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you for letting me touch you. Thank you for not leaving me. Thank you for staying.”

He held you as though you were something fragile and exquisite, something made of spun glass and stardust, something you didn’t touch carelessly.

Something like the most precious thing in his broken, lovely world.

Because, to him, you were.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃

You Pat Him:

He saw it coming.

Because Harlequin noticed everything—the movement in your weight, the lift of your arm, the intention in your eyes. His grin sharpened, ready with a teasing comment about how adorable you were being.

Then your hand came down on his head.

His words trailed off.

His neon green eyes snapped open. His tendrils, which were usually drifting lazily, stood stiff as steel. His body locked in place, as if a machine had encountered strange programming.

“What—” His voice cracked. “What are you—”

You stroked softly behind the spot where his ear would be, if he had one.

Then he relaxed, let go of the moment.

Literally sagged, his spine curving, his head dropping, a sound escaping him that was absolutely not a purr (it was definitely a purr).

"That's—" He swallowed hard. "That's not—I don't—"

His hand came up, not to stop you, but to cover his own face, hiding the flush spreading across his cheeks.

"You can't just—" Another swallow. "You can't just do that. Without warning. Without—" He peaked at you through his fingers. "...Again?"

He Pats You:

He approached it like a hunt.

Harlequin moved around you, observing and soaking up everything. His sharp eyes took in every nuance of every facial expression, every variation in your posture, every degree of the angle that constricted your breathing, every degree of touch that made your eyes flutter shut. 

His tendrils trailed behind him through the air, yet you can feel the focus—intense, sharper than any second he portrayed on stage.

When he finally managed to deliver the blow, with his hand resting on your head with a surprisingly soft, almost ceremonial gentleness, his grin spread wide, triumphantly so.

“Found it,” he purred, a two-toned whisper that dripped with calm, self-satisfied triumph. “The weak spot.”

His touch had been so accurate, so playful, so skilful, dancing over all your nerves with a chilling precision. He scratched lightly behind your ear, made patterns on your scalp, homing in on the weak spot that made you tremble.

"You make the best faces," he murmured, genuinely delighted. "Little human, melting under my hand like butter in the sun. Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are when you're soft? When you're not trying to be tough or clever or anything other than just... you?"

His voice had changed, too, the playful snap giving way to something almost gentle.

He kept at it long after he should have stopped—long after the game was over, long after the punchline had been delivered. He just kept touching you. He just kept looking at you. He kept releasing all those little savoring breaths on you.

“Don’t get too used to this,” he lied, his voice rough.

But his hand never stopped. It never eased off. It never withdrew.

He moved closer, close enough so that his chest was against your own, and the warmth he carried enveloped you. His other hand rose to support your jaw, to bring your face to meet his. 

“You're something else, you know that?” His voice was soft, unadorned, as if he was speaking without even thinking about it. “Something I didn't see coming. Something I can't quite pin down.”

His thumb traced your cheekbone, feather-light.

"I watch you. All the time. When you're not looking. When you think no one sees." A pause. "I see everything. The way you smile at Pierrot like he's not broken. The way you talk to the Ticket Taker like he's not a filing cabinet with a pulse. The way you look at me like I'm not just... a game."

His hand resumed its easy motion, slowing to a softer beat. Softer.

"I don't know what to do with that. With you. With the way you make me want to—" He stopped, swallowed hard, and said, "Never mind."

But he didn't move away. Didn't retreat behind his usual sharpness.

Instead, he pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just long enough to feel real.

"You're not supposed to make me feel like this," he whispered. "Soft. Quiet. Human." A breath. "But you do. And I hate it. And I love it. And I don't know which one scares me more."

He pulled back, his grin sliding back into place—but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Don't tell anyone I said that." A pause. "One more minute," he murmured. "Just one more. Then I'll let you go…”

He didn't. Not for a long, long time. And when you finally did part, he caught your wrist—just once—and pressed a kiss to your palm.

"Forgetting something," he lied again. "Just... making sure you remember who found your weak spot first." But the way he looked at you as he walked away...

That wasn't a game at all.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇

You Pat Him:

Your hand reached for him slowly—not out of fear, but out of respect. 

The Jester had an air, a weight, about him that made even the simplest gesture, even the simplest touch, seem out of reach.

His burning purple eyes followed your approach, perfectly still, perfectly patient. One word, one glance, one gesture of that enormous presence could have stopped you in your tracks. One word, one glance, one gesture of displeasure, without even moving a muscle, could have sent you running.

He didn't.

Your hand had been resting on the curve of his head, avoiding the area of the horns, the one place you could touch without climbing all over him like he was a mountain. It had been warm, firm, real.

And then, almost unbelievably, the eyes had changed. Just a little. Just a fraction. Just enough to notice the change had occurred.

"Bold," the voice had rumbled, low enough that you were the only one who heard it. "No one touches me."

His hand had come up, slow, deliberate, and had covered yours. Not moving it. Not pulling it away. Simply... holding it there. Accepting it.

"You're either very brave," he had murmured, "or very foolish, little human." A pause, heavy as a weight you can’t quite shake. “...I haven’t decided which I prefer.” His thumb brushed your knuckles—once. Just enough to register, to linger without rushing.

He didn’t let you go. Didn’t step away.

Just existed in that moment, letting you touch him, letting you see him, letting you be the one person in centuries bold enough to try. When you started to pull back, his grip tightened—barely, but enough. “Stay,” he murmured, not a command but a request.

So you stayed. And the Jester, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, simply... was. Held. Touched. Seen.

By you.

He Pats You:

When Jester’s hand descended, time stood still.

Not with any sort of flourish, but with the weight of his attention, the force of his presence, focused intently on you. His hand came down, resting over your head, warm, heavy, but strangely gentle.

The weight of his gaze fell on you, and you felt it, steady and heavy, while the rest of the world melted away: the distant din of the circus, the soft glare of the lantern, the beat of your own heart. It was all about him, his presence, his hand, this instant.

His hand was warm and real, solid and steady, and somehow that didn’t contradict the softness of his touch. He wasn’t pushing, grabbing, possessing. More like he was simply resting his hand on you, and that was somehow a blessing, a promise.

“You fit,” he said, and his deep voice was full of awe. “Under my hand. You fit.”

His thumb moved through your hair, slow and careful. He studied it, felt it, explored it. He learned the texture, the weight, the you inside it.

“This is... pleasing,” he says, the words costing him something to produce. He speaks from a place that doesn't often speak. “The texture. The warmth. The way you trust me enough to let this.”

He says it again, and again, his hand moving through your hair as a question, a venture, a statement.

Nobody touches the Jester. Nobody dares. 

And yet here you are, underneath his touch, soft and trusting, yours in a way he hadn't realized he might want you to be.

He finally spoke, his words a little softer now, a little more intimate. "You can have this whenever you want. My attention. My touch." A pause followed, a heavy one, a meaningful one. "My softness. I don’t give it away easily. I don’t give it at all. But for you..."

He left that sentence hanging, unfinished.

Because his hand was resting on top of your head, still, still touching, still connected. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t done anything but stand there with you in that moment, allowing you access to him in a way he’d never allowed anyone else."

His other hand rose to cup your jaw. He tilted your face up to meet the intensity of his gaze.

"You are mine," he said quietly. Not a question. A fact. "Do you understand? In this moment, in this touch, in this softness—you are mine."

His thumb traced your cheekbone. "And I..." A pause. The words caught. "I am yours. However briefly. However impossibly. Yours." He pressed his forehead to yours, just for a moment. Just enough to feel real.

Then he straightened, his hand giving one last, gentle pass over your hair before, reluctantly withdrawing. "You may return," he said, his voice regaining its usual weight. "When you wish. For more... softness." A pause. "I will be here."

And the way he looked at you as he turned away...

That wasn't a decree at all.

That was a promise.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇

You Pat Him:

He froze completely.

The Ticket Taker’s figure went stiff, first white, then white and blue eyes flashing in rapid, chaotic bursts—like a system suddenly overloaded. His pen suspended mid-word. His shoulders locked. Every muscle became a rigid monument of startled professionalism.

“Visitor,” he uttered, the voice flat but tight. “What are you—”

You touched lightly at the back of the Ticket Taker’s skull, at the point where his collar met his hair in perfect starch and perfect grooming.

His breath caught. "I don't—this isn't—" He swallowed, hard. "There’s no protocol for—" He raised a hand, not to stop you, but to grasp his own sleeve. A desperate attempt at grounding himself.

"If you continue to press the issue," he went on, "then I shall be forced to..." He hesitated, unable to find the words for this, the proper construct for kindness.

"...Again," he breathed at last. "If you must. I suppose I could... endure... this moment.”

He Pats You:

He approached it like a task.

Because the Ticket Taker approached each instant as if it were a task to be fulfilled—exact, precise, businesslike. 

His hand came down with a precise angle, a precise rhythm, as if he had spent years studying the art of quiet observation. When it came down on your head, its pressure was just so neither too hard, nor too soft.

It started out quietly—his eyes relaxing, his shoulders unkinking from their usual rigidity. His hands, those tightly coiled instruments of precision, relaxed and fell into a natural rhythm, unashamed to meander. He touched you without a plan—threading through your hair, making slow, aimless circles on your scalp, finding you by feel rather than by numbers on a page.

"This is... pleasant," he admitted softly, the edge in his tone replaced by something softer, more gentle.

There was a pause, his fingers continuing their movement, steady, sure.

"Your softness, your warmth, the way you seek out the contact without hesitation." Another pause, longer than the last.

"I have made countless observations about you, your habits, your preferences, your patterns." His hand paused again, the fingers continuing their movement.

"But this... this was not in any file." His fingers continued, well past the time when the data collection would have been finished, well past the time when any rational being would have stopped.

"I find myself... reluctant to stop."

His words came hard, like they had to be wrestled out. It was in the way his grid of eyes darted, faster and faster, in the slight clench of his jaw. It was in the way his stiff, orderly life seemed to try and avoid feeling.

“Is that… acceptable?”

The question was soft, tentative, out of character for the man, out of character for the Ticket Taker, the man who processes, files, controls everything, asking for permission to continue touching you.

You nodded.

He exhaled, a soft sound, almost relieved, like he’d been holding his breath without even knowing it.

His hand found its rhythm again, this time gentle, steady, present.

“You are,” he whispered, the words falling into something intimate, “the most pleasing variable I’ve ever met.” The words were suspended there, just full of significance.

Not 'specimen.' Not 'subject.' Not 'visitor.'

His other hand rose, hesitantly, and hovered close to your face.

"May I?" he asked, his voice low and quiet.

You nodded, and he cupped your cheek in a way that felt almost impossible. His thumb moved across your cheekbone, your jaw, the edge of your mouth, and each gesture was a question, a discovery, a revelation.

"You're warm," he observed, his voice steady and his tone full of awe. "Always so warm." He hesitated, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I've noticed that before, but..." He cleared his throat. "It's different, feeling it. You're different."

He pulled you close, not in anger, not in need, but in a way that felt almost certain, almost safe.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” he said, admitting defeat. “With you. With the way you make me want to… stop filing. Stop processing. Just… be. Here. With you.”

His forehead against yours, his grid-eyed gaze melting away to nothing.

“This is inefficient,” he said, his voice a whisper against your skin. “This is… illogical. This is everything I’ve spent centuries avoiding.”

He paused, breathed, and then said:

“I don’t care for once.”

He kept you there, in the quiet of his kingdom, his hand still tangled in your hair, his other hand still cradling your face.

He moved closer, his words brushing against your lips. “Take it if you want. When you want. My time. My attention. My… gentleness.” He paused, then added, “If that would be... acceptable.”

He pressed forward, “I find myself... reluctant to stop.” The words seemed to cost him. “Is that... acceptable?” When you nodded, a sound escaped him, a sound almost like a sigh of relief, and he went on.

“You are,” he murmured, “the most pleasing variable I have ever encountered.”

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇

You Pat Him:

His head was cocked at an odd angle—a chance since he’s too tall for you to reach, his eyes fixed intently upon you as you approached, as if he were some kind of specimen under glass.

“Curious,” he said, his voice almost clinical. “What is your—”

And before he could complete the question, your hand reached out to touch his head, his hood, wherever that dark shape could be said to possess a head.

The light from his goggles shone brightly cyan as he talked.

“Physical contact. Voluntary. With me.” He sounded shocked. “Fascinating. Your heart rate increases and levels off immediately. Your pupils dilate, yet remain constricted. You’re not afraid; you’re enjoying this.”

He leaned forward just enough for you to notice.

“Pleasant,” he said. “The pressure. The warmth. The intent behind it.”

His eyes locked onto you with renewed interest.

“I think I’d like to research this further—the effects of light touch on your physiology. With your permission, naturally, sweetie.”

He Pats You:

 His touch began as clinical curiosity, precise and methodical. His cyan eye scanned you like a specimen under a microscope, cataloging every micro-expression, every twitch, every physiological response to his fingers in your hair.

“Fascinating,” he breathed, barely above a whisper. “Piloerection at the base of the scalp. Pupil dilation within normal bounds but clearly reactive. Heart rate…” He paused, listening to the rhythm. “Elevated, yet not a fear signal—more like interest, perhaps pleasure.”

His fingers moved with care, tracing the contours of your head with a scientist’s exactitude.

And then something changed. It was small, a shift away from clinical detail and towards warmth, a softness creeping into his analytical eyes.

“Aha,” he breathed, his tone tinged with true surprise. “I see now. The allure.”

His hands continued to move through your hair, softer than you had ever heard, softer than you had ever felt.

“Your answers are lovely,” he said, his tone quiet, a quietness that was new, a quietness that was different.

“The ease with which you let go, relaxing against my touch. The trust you place in me, closing your eyes, leaning forward, offering yourself to my hands, unhesitating.” His thumb traced the shell of your ear, feather-light.

"I have studied many subjects over the centuries. Countless specimens.” A pause. "None of them have ever looked at me the way you do. Like I'm not something to be feared. Like I'm just... me."

He continued on, lost in what he was seeing, and something more, something that could have been affection had he kept a file for such things.

“I could do this for hours,” he said, his words nearly dreamy. “Analyze the effects of gentle touch on your body, catalog all of your reactions, measure all of your shivers and sighs.” A pause. “Enjoy the process. Enjoy you.”

His cyan goggles looked at yours, and for a moment, there was nothing clinical about it.

"Would you permit that? Extended observation? For... science?"

The word was almost a joke now—a thin veil over something realer, something softer, something he didn't have a name for.

His eyes glinted, but this time, they were softer, almost affectionate.

“You know, sweetie,” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unhurried, the diminutive slipping out as if it had been there all the time, “I have spent centuries searching for anomalies, for exceptions to every rule, for things that refuse to be categorized.”

His hand never wavered in its gentle, unhurried caress.

“I thought I was searching for data, for discoveries, for breakthroughs.” Pause. “I was searching for you, but I didn’t even know it.”

He drew you closer, settling you at his side, his fingers continuing their gentle, unhurried stroking through your hair.

“Stay,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, “just a little longer, please, I want to remember this, the weight of you, the warmth, the feeling of you pressed against me as if you belonged there, as if you had been meant to be there.”

Pause, soft now, the word almost a caress, almost an acknowledgement, almost a claim.

“You are my favorite specimen, my most interesting subject.” Pause, searching for words that didn’t exist in his medical lexicon.

And for the first time in centuries, the Doctor didn’t just observe...

...didn’t just study, didn’t just think—he felt.

✑ 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝓊𝓂𝒷𝒾𝓃𝒶

You Pat Her:

She froze the moment you touched her.

Not from fear, but from awe. Her one pink eye opened wide with a spark of light, and she shivered at your touch. When you scratched gently behind her horns, she let out a little breathless moan.

Nobody touches her. Nobody sees her. Nobody—

Except you.

Her hands reached out to grip your sleeve, drawing you closer to her. Her face pressed into your hand, hungry for more touch, more warmth, more reassurance that all of this was real.

When you finally pulled your hand back, she looked up at you with a sky full of stars in her eyes—thankful, but sad from loneliness. And then she reached out to put your hand back on her head, nodding resolutely.

Again. Please. Never stop.

She Pats You (Silently?):

Her touch was a whisper—almost nothing, cautious, curious, hopeful. 

And when you didn’t pull back, when you moved closer to it, her whole face changed to joy. Pure joy, quiet joy, joy unadorned. She handled you with a gentle haste, her small hands outlining you, learning the feel of your hair, the warmth of your skin. Each touch was a question:

Is this okay? Do you want this? Do you want me?

As you nodded, and your smile touched hers, she made a noise that was not a noise—a tremor of joy that you felt rather than heard. Her forehead rested against yours, her eyes shut, her hands steady on your face.

Thank you. For really seeing me. For touching me. For staying.

When you had to go, she held your sleeve once again, and pressed a kiss into your palm.

Come back. Please come back. I’ll be here.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

your hands guide his on your body with so much ease, you let him know where you need him and geto thinks he could cum right there and then--but he couldn't. he wants to come inside you when he knows you're ready.

you grab his hand and slide it down to your pussy, you press his fingers against your clit and give him that pretty, needy look you always give him when you want something.

"sugu, wanna cum so bad," you help his fingers rub at your clit and he gives you a toothy grin, pressing a loving kiss to your stomach before he's taking over.

how could he deny his pretty girl when she asks so nicely?

Life has been... life-ing. 

If that's even a word. (it's not.) Lately, these days, everything feels chaotic and unpredictable and just... too much. 

You've been busy, like legitimately busy. Just dealing with things that required you to stay away from the circus for a while. you can't just live there like some monster who doesn't have real-world responsibilities. 

You have a life. Or, you had one.

You switched from full-time to part-time at the coffee shop so you could focus on school. Exams got thrown at your face repeatedly—irritating doesn't even begin to cover it. but now the exams are done. everything should be over. 

You should be resting. Recovering from your busy lifestyle.

At least maybe even feeling good.

But every morning, you wake up and you just... don't move.

You’re aware of it, vaguely. The way your body feels heavy, like someone filled your bones with wet sand while you were sleeping. the way your phone is always in your hand before you've even decided to pick it up. the way hours pass and you've done nothing but scroll and blink and exist.

Your boss has noticed. Fuck.

“You okay?" He asked last week, eyes scanning your face like they were looking for something you'd lost. “You seem... rather tired."

“Just busy," you said, and you almost believed it.

they asked again yesterday. “Seriously, are you sleeping? eating? you look—" He stopped himself, however, you heard the word they didn't say. 

Empty. Stuck. Motionless. I’m fine," Which you always say. 

Same words. Same tone. Same lie.

You know you're not fine. You know that. But acknowledging it feels like opening a door you're not ready to walk through. So you ignore it. You ignore the way your energy drains faster than it used to. You ignore the way getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. You ignore your boss's concerned glances and the way they leave an extra pastries by your bag every shift now—just in case you haven't eaten.

You ignore it because ignoring is easier.

Because if you didn't ignore it, you'd have to admit that something is wrong. And admitting that means dealing with it. And dealing with it means... what? 

Therapy? Medication? Talking to someone? Changing?

You don't have the energy for any of that.

Causing your boss eventually stopped asking. Instead, he just... gave you time off. a week, then two, then three. "take as long as you need," he said, with that same worried look you kept pretending not to see. 

He figured, like maybe hoped that staying home would help. that rest would pull you out of whatever hole you'd fallen into.

So you stay home. You live in and out of your bed. some days you're awake enough to sit on the couch. most days you're not.

Every now and then, someone comes to check on you. A friend. a family member. someone who cares enough to show up unannounced. 

You don't have the energy to be annoyed—again you don't have the energy for much of anything—but you also don't want them to worry. So you clean. Just enough to make your space look lived-in instead of caved-in. You shower. You put on clean clothes. 

You play pretend.

“I’m good,” you say, same as always. “Just tired. exams took a lot out of me."

They nod. they leave. and the second the door closes, you're back in bed, phone in hand.

All you want is to be alone. all you want is to scroll. to disappear into the glow of the screen where nothing matters and no one expects anything from you.

Your handheld game helps, sometimes. one of your friends bought it for you as a congratulations gift—"you finished your exams! you earned this!"—a wildly popular life simulation series where you populate a bustling, personalized island with mii avatars of yourself, family, friends, or fictional characters. 

You act as an god like caretaker, watching these little digital people interact, fall in love, fight, perform concerts, navigate bizarre daily dramas.

It was supposed to be fun, relaxing, a reward for once.

Now it just feels like another task. another thing you should be doing. Another reason to feel guilty when you don't.

You even listen to music, too. Your favorite artist. The same songs on repeat, over and over, hoping to feel something. A spark of the person you used to be before everything got so heavy.

But at last, nothing comes. 

Just the same boring numbness. Same hollow ache. You're lying there, thumb hovering over your phone screen, when you hear it.

A knock. Soft, but definitely there. Weird thing is—it's not coming from your front door. It's coming from your balcony window.

"What the hell…?" You freeze. Your heart does this weird thing—not panic exactly, but something like recognition. Because normal people don't knock on balcony windows. Normal people can't even reach a third-floor balcony.

You turn your head slow.

And there's a silhouette on the other side of the glass. 

Tall. Familiar. Just... waiting for you to open up.

✑ 𝓅𝒾𝑒𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓉 

“…Pierrot?"

Your eyes watch the figure on the balcony moves, seeing a shift of weight and tilt of the head. Enough for you to recognize that shape anywhere—just a too-tall frame, slump of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like he's always bracing for bad news.

You set your phone down then swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your body feels heavy, each step toward the balcony window an effort, close like wading through water.

The lock sticks for a few secoud, you haven't opened this door in weeks, no truly months. But it finally gives, and the late afternoon air hits your face, cool and sharp, and there he is.

Just standing on your third-floor balcony like it's the most natural thing in the world. His white masked face is even paler than usual under the dim city lights, and his starry eyes—those beautiful, swirling eyes—are wide and wet and devastated.

“My dear," he breathes.

And then he's moving, crossing the small space between you in one long stride, and his hands are cupping your face before you can say anything, his cool fingers trembling against your cheeks.

“We thought you were dead," he whispers. his voice cracks on the last word. “We… )-I thought—when you stopped answering, when the days turned to weeks, we thought something had happened to you. we thought you'd left me forever."

HIs eyes search your face, and you watch the worry settle into his features like a physical weight. Those now starry pupils flicker as they take in everything—such as the dark bruises under your eyes, the unnatural lightness of your skin, the way your cheeks look slightly hollowed out like you haven't been eating enough. 

His gaze drops to your hoodie (the same one from three days ago, you can't remember the last time you changed), then to the room behind you, displaying a dim, messy, stuck look, then back to your face.

“And you were just..." his voice cracks. tears spill over, tracking silver lines down his powdered cheeks. “You were just… scrolling?"

You open your mouth. the excuse is already there, the same one you've been giving everyone: i'm fine, just tired, exams took a lot out of me, i just need rest—

Pierrot shakes his head before you can even say it. “No," he whispers. “Don't. Please don't lie to me. i can see you, my dear. You're not fine."

You close your mouth.

He steps closer, his cool large hands finding yours again, holding them like they're something precious. “You look..." he trails off, searching for words. “Dim. like someone turned down your light. like you're fading."His lower lip trembles just a bit

“Please. Tell me what's wrong. I don't understand the things you humans go through, but I want to. I need to. because seeing you like this—" his voice drops to barely a whisper. "it's breaking me."

You don't have an answer. 

You don't have words for what's been happening inside your head. Burnout? Depression? Exhaustion? All you know is that you've been stuck and numb and tired in a way that sleep can't fix.

Pierrot doesn't wait for you to figure it out.

He pulls you into his chest again, but this time he doesn't let go. his arms wrap around you tight—not painfully, but firmly, like he's afraid you'll dissolve if he loosens his grip.

His face presses into your hair, and you feel him breathing you in, shaky and desperate. “I’ve got you," he murmurs against your head. “I don't know what's happening, but i've got you. you don't have to explain. you don't have to do anything. Just... let me hold you."

You were still there for a long moment, limp in his arms, letting him support your weight. and slowly—so slowly—you feel something unfreeze in your chest.

He starts moving you toward the bed. not pushing, not dragging, just... guiding. His long body curls around yours as he pulls you onto the mattress, arranging the pillows behind your head, tugging the blanket up over both of you.

“Pierrot, what are you—"

“Shh." he tucks you against his side, one arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other coming up to stroke your hair. “We're going to stay here. in this bed. and you're going to rest, and I’m going to hold you, mayebe later I can cook for you and eventually—" he presses a kiss to your forehead. 

“Eventually, you're going to feel better."

“You don't know that."

“I believe it," he says softly. "and sometimes that's enough."

He doesn't understand burnout. Doesn't know the word for it, doesn't have a framework for the way modern life drains the life out of people. But he understands sadness. He understands exhaustion. He understands what it feels like to be so tired that moving your body feels impossible.

So he holds you. His fingers trace gentle patterns on your back. his chest rises and falls against yours. And every few minutes, he whispers something soft and reassuring into your hair.

“You're safe." “I’m here." “You don't have to be anything right now."

His starry eyes never leave your face, even as the minutes stretch into an hour. he watches you like you're the most precious thing in the world—like he's memorizing every detail, every breath, every small sign that you're still here.

“Pierrot?"

“Yes, my dear?"

“…Thank you. For coming."

Your felt his arms tighten around you. “Always," he whispers. “Always, always, always." And for the first time in weeks, you close your eyes and let yourself be held.

✑ 𝒽𝒶𝓇𝓁𝑒𝓆𝓊𝒾𝓃

“What the fuc… Harlequin?”

You whisper his name before you even open the door, and Harlequin's silhouette goes still. “…What?"

“Uh, just... come in."

You slide the door open, and he steps inside like he owns the place—because of course he does, it’s him. You notice his neon green eyes sweep across your apartment, taking in the dim lighting, the messy blankets, the general stagnation of it all. But instead of concern, his face splits into that familiar, jagged grin.

“Well, well, well," he purrs, dropping onto your couch like a cat claiming a sunbeam. “The human seems alive or, well… enough. Same difference."

You sit back down on your bed, phone already finding its way back into your hand. 

“So,” he drawls, kicking his feet up on your coffee table. "you gonna explain why you've been ignoring me? or are we just pretending the last few months didn't happen?"

“I wasn't ignoring you—"

“Oh, really?" he pulls out his own phone, scrolling with one claw. “Because i've sent you... let's see... forty-seven reels. FORTY-SEVEN. and you haven't reacted to a SINGLE one."

You open your mouth. Then close it.

The truth is, you've watched every single one.

You couldn't not watch them—harlequin has a way of knowing when you've seen his messages. but the things he sends you are... cursed. Like, genuinely deranged. Last week he sent you a video of a raccoon riding a roomba while wearing a tiny cowboy hat, set to dramatic classical music. The week before that, it was a compilation of geese committing what could only be described as war crimes.

You weren't sure if you were depressed or just terrified of birds now.

“I watched them," you mumble.

“Oh yeah? Then why didn't you react?"

“Because I don't know how to react to a goose stealing someone's sandwich." 

Harlequin snorts. “That's fair. That one was art."

You fall into something almost comfortable—him sprawled on your couch, you curled on your bed, both of you on your phones. This is normal for you two. parallel play, he calls it. existing in the same space without being annoying about it.

Except.

Except you stop responding to his commentary. Your thumb keeps scrolling, and scrolling, and scrolling. reels blur together. cats, memes, a video essay about something you don't care about. Harlequin says something—a joke, maybe, or a sex joke—and you hum in response, not really hearing him.

“Hello? Earth to the human who's been ignoring me for months?"

You don't look up.

“Okay, that's—" he cuts himself off then you hear him stand feel the bed shift just a bit as he moves. Suddenly his hand is on your phone, tugging it gently but firmly out of your grip. “Hey—"

“No."

You look up. Harlequin is standing over you, your phone in one hand, his neon eyes fixed on your face. and for the first time since he arrived, he really looks at you.

The grin fades while his head tilts—catlike, curious, assessing. his gaze traces the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders slump, the hollow emptiness in your expression that you've been hiding from mirrors.

“You look..." he pauses, searching for words. “Bad. like, really bad. When's the last time you slept?"

“I sleep."

“That's not what I asked, little thing.” Still, you don't answer.

One of Harlequin's tendrills flicks behind him—a nervous habit he'd never admit to. He looks at your phone, then back at you, then at your phone again. something shifts in his expression. 

Something almost like... guilt? 

“Was it the reels?" he asks, quieter than usual. “Did I… was I the reason you—"

“No.” and for once, you're being honest. “It's not you. I’ts… everything. I’ve just been stuck." He stares at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he shoves your phone into his pocket. Sits down on the bed beside you. Like Close, very close than he normally would.

“Okay," he says.

“…Okay?"

“Okay, you're stuck. Okay, you've been ignoring me. Okay, you look like a sad, wilted lettuce." he bumps his shoulder against yours. “I’m still here, aren't I? I’m not going anywhere."

You lean into him without meaning to. One of his tendrills curls around you. “You're gonna be fine," he mutters, almost to himself. “You're annoyingly resilient. it's one of your few good qualities."

“I have other good qualities."

“Name three."

“…I’m not doing this right now." He laughs—soft, real, nothing bitter about it. And for a little while, neither of you moves.

✑ 𝒿𝑒𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 

“The hell, Jester…?”

You whisper his name through the glass, and for a long moment, nothing happens. 

He doesn't move, speak, just stands there, massive and still, like a statue someone forgot to finish. you almost think you imagined it—the knock, the shape, the whole thing—when his voice finally cuts through the night.

“You took longer than expected to open."

it's not a complaint. not really. just an observation, delivered in that low, resonant tone that makes your bones feel weird. You slide the door open, and Jester steps inside.

He doesn't say anything at first. just stands there in the middle of your tiny apartment, taking it in. The messy bed. the scattered snack wrappers. The phone in your hand, screen still glowing.

His purple eyes, just sharp, steady, ancient eyes—sweep across everything in your place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate. “So this is what modern humans consider meaningful existence. Staring at box of light. Ignoring the living world.” He crosses his arms, and you feel the full weight of his judgment pressing down on you.

You should probably say something. Defend yourself at least. Explain your poor behavior. But your throat feels tight, and his presence is a lot, and all you can manage is a weak, "...hi."

One of his eyebrows lifts. just slightly. just enough. “Hi," he repeats, like the word is foreign. like he's testing it on his tongue. “You disappear for months. you stop responding to all forms of communication. You let me believe—" he pauses, something flickering across his face too fast to read. “And all you have to say is hi?"

You shift your weight, just a bit. “I didn't know what else to say."

"the truth is usually a good starting point."

You don't have the truth. Not one you can put into words, anyway. So you just stand there, phone still in your hand, and let him look at you.

He does, like for a long time. 

And then he unexpectedly moves. Well not toward you. Toward your kitchen funny enough. You watch, baffled, as the jester—massive, purple, terrifying jester opens your cabinets. Peers inside. Closes them. opens your fridge. makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a hum.

“You have no food," he states.

"i have... some food."

“You have instant noodles and expired yogurt." he turns to face you, arms still crossed. “This is not food. This is desperation or a cry for help.”

Vefore you can respond, he's pulling out his phone—a sleek, expensive-looking thing that seems too small for his hands—and typing something with practiced efficiency.

“What are you doing?"

“Ordering groceries."

“You… you can't just—"

“I can," he says, not looking up. “I am. Watch Me.”

And you do. you watch the most intimidating monster you've ever met stand in your messy kitchen and order you groceries like it's the most natural thing in the world.

When he's done, he pockets his phone and turns to you, expression unreadable. “You're going to eat," he says. "real food. more than once a day. i will ensure this."

“You don't have to—"

“I am aware that I don't have to. I am choosing to." his purple eyes meet yours. “There is a difference."

You don't know what to say to that, so you say nothing. He looks at your bed, all of the the rumpled blankets, the pillow you've been hugging for warmth and then back at you.

“When's the last time you slept? Truly slept? not the restless, nightmare-ridden version you've been enduring."

You blink, "how do you know about—"

“I’ve notice things." he says it simply. like it's obvious. "you have dark circles beneath your eyes. your posture has collapsed. your energy is... dim than before.” a pause. "you are not well."

It's not a question. “I’m just tired," you try.

“You are exhausted, burned out. there is a difference." he moves toward you—slowly, carefully, like you're a wild animal he doesn't want to spook. “And you are not going to fix it by staring at that device."

He gestures at your phone, still clutched in your hand.

"Give it to me."

“What? no—"

“Give me the phone, little human."

There's something in his voice—not a command, exactly. more like... an invitation. like he's offering to carry something too heavy for you. And maybe it's the exhaustion. maybe it's the numbness. maybe it's just that he's him.

But you hand it over.

He takes it gently, like surprisingly gently and sets it on your dresser, face down. “There," he says. “Now you have no choice but to exist in the present moment."

“That’s… terrifying."

“Good. Fear is motivating."

He sits on the edge of your bed, which it creaks under his weight and pats the space beside him. “Come. sit. tell me what has happened to you. or don't. Either way, you are not going to be alone in this room tonight."

You hesitate then you sit.

His presence is huge and warm and solid, and somehow, despite everything, you… feel something loosen in your chest.

“To be honest… I don't know what's wrong with me," you admit quietly.

“Nothing is wrong with you," he says, and his voice is softer now. almost gentle. “You are a human experiencing human things. Burnout. Exhaustion. The crushing weight of existence." he glances at you. “It happens. it passes. and in the meantime..." he shifts, draping an arm across your shoulders—heavy, grounding. “You’ll have to deal with me.”

“I disappeared for months."

“And I found you." he says it like it's obvious. like there was never any other option. “I will always find you." 

You lean into him without meaning to. Again, surprisingly, he lets you. And for the first time in weeks, you don't feel quite so alone.

✑ 𝓉𝒾𝒸𝓀𝑒𝓉 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇

“Wha.. Ticket Taker…?”

You whisper his name, and the silhouette on your balcony straightens. instantly. like he's been waiting for permission to exist.

You slide the door open, and Ticket Taker steps inside. His eye don't wander. they scan. every corner, every surface, every crumpled blanket and discarded wrapper. his expression is unreadable—that perfect, black-and-white symmetrical mask he wears like armor.

But you see the tension in his jaw. The way his hands clasp just a little tighter behind his back. “You didn't show up," he says. No greeting, nor small talk. Just facts.

“I know—"

“To work. To the circus. TO anything." His voice is clipped, controlled, but there's something underneath it. Something that might be hurt, or anger or both. “You failed to appear. Repeatedly. Without notice. Without explanation."

You open your mouth. close it.

he pulls out a small notebook—the one he always carries, the one filled with your schedule, your preferences, your existence filed away in neat, precise handwriting. he flips through it, not looking at you.

“Your screen time has increased by approximately 400% since your departure," he states, adding on, “sleep deprivation is evident. your circadian rhythm appears to have collapsed entirely." his eyes flick to your fridge—you forgot to close it earlier. "nutritional intake is minimal. inadequate. frankly, embarrassing."

He closes the notebook with a snap.

“This is unsustainable. Even for an human, I will be implementing restrictions immediately."

"Restrictions?"

“ON your device usage. on your sleep schedule. on your diet." he finally looks at you, and his gaze is sharp. disappointed. "you have disappointed me."

the words hit harder than you expect.

“I didn't—"

“You didn't show up." his voice cracks, just slightly. just enough. "you didn't show up, and you didn't tell me why. I had to infer. I had to calculate. do you know how many variables I had to account for because you wouldn't simply communicate?"

You don't answer.

He paces—short, sharp movements, like a caged animal. “I have been maintaining everything, hoping and preparing for your return, assuming there would be a return." he stops, faces you. “And then i find you here. In this state. Living like..." he gestures at the room, at you, at everything. “Like this."

“Like what exactly?"

“Like someone who has given up."

The words hang in the air between the both of you.

And something in his expression just changes, a little  softens, just a fraction. He looks at you, see him notice the dark circles, the hollow cheeks, the way your shoulders slump like you're carrying something too heavy.

He exhales as a hand through his hair already slick black hair—which is a rare tell, man’s was worried about you.

“…I’m pushing too hard," he says quietly, not a question more like observation. 

You don't confirm or deny. You just stand there.

He sits on the edge of your bed—perched, really, like he's afraid of wrinkling his suit. his hands rest on his knees. he looks almost... uncertain. “Let's start smaller," he says. “Carefully. one thing at a time."

He pats the space beside him. “Sit.” which you do.

He doesn't touch you—he never initiates touch, not really—but he's close. closer than usual. his presence is solid, steady, there.

“Tell me," he says. “How do you feel?" It's such a simple question. and you don't have an answer. not one that fits into words.

“I don't know," you admit.

He nods, like that's acceptable. like he was expecting it. "then tell me what you do know."

You think about it. "i'm tired."

“Obviously."

“Like... bone tired. Mentally, the kind of tired that sleep doesn't fix."

He's quiet for a moment. then: “Continue."

“I haven't been eating. or... I have, but not enough. not the right things." you glance at him. “You noticed."

“I notice everything." his voice is softer now. less sharp. “It's what I do."

“Yeah."

Silence but like it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of silence that happens when someone is actually listening. “I miss the circus," you hear yourself say. “I miss... everyone. I just didn't know how to come back."

He turns to look at you. Now those cool, calculating eyes—but there's warmth there, hidden underneath.

“You're here now," he says. "that's a start."

He pulls out his notebook again—but this time, when he opens it, he doesn't start calculating. he just... holds it. like he's waiting.

“I’m going to help you," he says. “Whether you want me to or not. i'm going to make a schedule. I’m going to ensure you eat. i'm going to monitor your sleep. and eventually—" he meets your eyes. “Eventually, you're going to feel like yourself again."

“You can't know that."

“I can." he says it simply. “I’ve calculated the variables. the probability of recovery is high. provided you cooperate."

You almost smile. Almost. "...and if i don't cooperate?"

His lips twitch—the closest he ever gets to a smile. "Then i will be very persistent. you know this about me."

You do.

He stands, straightens his cuffs and looks down at you with something that might be fondness, if you squint. “We'll start tomorrow," he says. "Today, you rest. I’ll stay." He sits back down.

Doesn't touch you but his shoulder is close enough that you could lean on it, if you wanted.

✑ 𝒹𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇 

“Is that, Doctor??”

You whisper-yelled his name through the glass with confusion, not expecting an answer.

You're about to call out again when you remember—oh. Right. This is Doctor. He doesn't do spontaneous visits. He doesn't leave the circus unless it's Halloween or the entire month of October when he apparently haunts the mortal realm like a goth Santa Claus. 

Any other time? Good luck. He's in his greenhouse. 

Talking to his ferns. Listening to heavy metal. Dissecting things that probably shouldn't be dissected.

So the figure on your balcony? On a random Friday? 

You're either dreaming or he's lost.

But then he ducks because your balcony door is not small, but this man is very much tall. Like, Pirrot tall. Maybe taller. His horns scrape the top of the frame and he has to bend his neck at an angle that looks deeply uncomfortable, and you realize with a jolt that you completely forgot how big he is. 

Doctor is not a man who looms. He's a man who exists in the background, in the shadows, in the spaces between things. But up close? In your tiny apartment? He takes up soo much space.

“Well,” he says, his voice that low, pleasant hum that somehow makes your skin crawl in a not-entirely-bad way. "You look awful.”

"...Hi?"

"Hm." He sets down a medical bag you didn't notice he was carrying and starts circling you. Like a shark. Like you're a specimen in a petri dish. "Pupils are dilated. Skin is pale. Posture is collapsed. When's the last time you saw the sun?”

"I don't know. Two week ago?"

“Disgraceful."

He pulls out a small penlight and shines it directly into your eyes without warning. You flinch as you heard him clicks his tongue behind his mask, "Follow the light. Don't blink. Try not to be dramtic about it, sweetie”

"I'm not being dramatic—"

"You're flinching. That's dramatic."

He makes a note on a pad that has also materialized from nowhere. His handwriting is surprisingly neat. Almost pretty. There are little botanical doodles in the margins.

"Your eyes are strained," he announces. "You've been staring at that—" he gestures at your phone, still glowing on the bed “—Rectangle for hours. In the dark. Without proper lightting.”

"I have a lamp—"

“A lamp  is not sufficient for retinal health. You need ambient light. Natural light. Just light that isn't blue and screen-sourced." He pulls out a small handheld scanner—you don't even want to know where he got it—and runs it over your face. It beeps. He frowns.

"Your melatonin production is essentially non-existence. Your dopamine receptors are fried. Your circadian rhythm is destroyed." He looks up at you, cyan eyes sharp. "You've turned your brain into much.”

"Wow. Thanks…”

"You're welcome." He pockets the scanner and tilts his head, studying you the way he studies anything else.

"Here's the thing, sweetie," he says, stepping closer. He doesn't ask permission. He just... occupies space. "I don't do interventions. I don't do heartfelt speeches. I don't do whatever Pierrot does—the crying, the clinging, the I thought you were dead theatrics." He waves a hand vaguely, like he's shooing away a fly. "Exhausting. All of it."

"You came all the way here though."

"I did." He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he did. "Because you're interesting, and interesting specimens don't just get to... wither. That's wasteful."

He pulls a small glass vial from his bag—something pale blue and faintly glowing. "This is a tincture. Herbal. I made it myself. It won't fix you, nothing fixes anything, not really but it'll help your body remember how to sleep. Real sleep. The kind where your brain actually resets."

He presses it into your palm. His fingers are cool, much larger than your own. "Drink it before bed. Not with your phone in your hand. Not with the screen glowing in your face. Just... close your eyes and exist in the dark for a while."

"This isn't going to turn me into a frog, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous." A pause. "Frogs require a much higher dosage."

You stare at him. He stares back, completely deadpan.

"...That was a joke."

"Ah. Well. I can see that."

"Was it funny?"

You didn't have the heart to answer. Just looked away.

He followed your gaze, glancing around your apartment agaia—the rumpled blankets, the scattered wrappers, the general stagnation of it all. His mask made his expression hard to read, but something in his voice softened. Just slightly. Just enough.

"You've been existing, not living," he said quietly. "There's a difference. I know you know that."

Again, you didn't answer.

He didn't push. Instead, he moved toward you, not looming this time, just... present. Close enough that you could smell the dried lavender and chamomile clinging to his coat.

"You're not a failed experiment," he said, tilting his head. "You're not a specimen that's been left on a shelf to collect dust. You're just... unwatered. Like my ferns when I forget to open the greenhouse blinds."

"...Are you comparing me to a plant?"

"I'm saying plants don't choose to wilt. They just don't have what they need." His cyan eyes held yours. "You haven't had what you need either. That's not a moral failure. It's just... a missing variable."

You blinked. "That's... surprisingly gentle. For you."

"I have my moments." He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, pale blue, faintly glowing, and pressed it into your palm. His fingers were cool, dry, steady. "This will help. Not because I'm kind, but because I don't like watching interesting things wither. It's inefficient."

"You could just say you care."

"I could." He didn't. But he also didn't move away.

The silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just... full. Like something had been waiting to be said, and neither of you knew how to say it.

"I don't sleep much," he said finally, quieter than before. "I listen to music. I check on my plants. I... could sit with you. If you wanted."

"...You?"

"Surprised?"

"A little."

He almost smiled. Almost. "So am I."

He didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood there for a moment longer, his presence solid and steady.

"You should drink that before bed," he said, nodding at the vial in your hand. "Preferably in the dark. Preferably without your phone. And preferably..." he paused, something unreadable wavering across his masked face. "Preferably not alone."

"...Is that an instruction or an invitation?"

"Yes."

You huffed something that might have been a laugh. It felt strange in your chest.

He turned toward the balcony, his silhouette massive against the dim light. His horns scraped the top of the doorframe again, and he ducked with that same awkward grace, pausing at the threshold.

"If you need anything," he said, not looking back, "I'm in the greenhouse. Or the tent. Or... somewhere. You know how to find me."

And then he was gone, leaving behind a faint scent of dried herbs, cool earth, and something that might have been chamomile.

You looked down at the vial in your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you thought maybe you weren't as alone as you felt.

♤ — 𝓉𝒻𝒸 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ