Another illustration with the studio @春醴记工作室! I’m so happy to see Harlequin receiving so much love! Thank you, everyone! So many beautiful and adorable artworks of our lovable little green menace! Happy Birthday, Harlequin!

And just like Pierrot, I ended up making another little tribute haha

Also, only today did I realize Harlequin’s cake flavor would actually be different… oops! =u=''

“Ah, ma'am... You're so juicy! ♡”

I needed to do something with him

I was practicing how to draw Harlequin and Jester, so this is my first time drawing them.

[ "The poison had bled itself dry, with nothing left but a bitter aftertaste of what remained."

Or

A fanmade Dead Leaves oneshot where Harlequin seems to have some difficulty trying to sleep. This AU does not belong to me, but to @destinysquared. Please make sure to check out and support Destiny's original story linked here! No beta reader we die like the man aka the circus' ringmaster . I am not dissing my hg Columbina here ] .

2K+ words.

࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.🍂࿔*:･༄˖°.

It was another one of those nights again.

Gripping the pillow in his sleep, Harlequin buried his face deeper into it. His body shifted, twisted and turned underneath the soft blankets of his bed. Claws twitching every so often, they almost seemed to try to reach for something that was no longer there. One arm remained wrapped tightly around the pillow while the other curled beneath it, holding it close against his chest in a desperate sort of way.

As if it could stop something from leaving him again.

The sleeping chambers of his tent were dark save for the faintest sliver of moonlight peeking through a small tear in the ceiling. It cast pale lines across his form, illuminating parts of him before shallowing them whole again. His hat had long since been discarded somewhere nearby, leaving his curved horns exposed among curls of black hair. Even in sleep, tension sat heavy upon his face. His brows furrowed. His lips stuck in a frozen frown. Occasionally, a strained breath escaped him.

Almost like he was fighting something unseen.

Or perhaps remembering it. 

Two rings glistened somewhere on his bedside table.

Carefully placed upon a folded handkerchief, the gold bands rested side by side under the dim light, with one being slightly larger than the other. Time had not dulled them despite the years that had passed. Harlequin made certain of that. He polished them often, more out of habit than necessity now, rubbing away fingerprints and dust with almost obsessive care until the metal gleamed like it was brand new. 

Monsters did not wed.

Not truly at least.

There were no ceremonies among his kind. No vows exchanged between two people alike. No blessings or papers that bonded one to another. Creatures like Harlequin were not built for permanence. They wandered. They bit and bited. They tore into open wounds and flesh. 

They consumed. They hungered. 

They survived.  

And yet you still confidently slipped one ring on anyway while he held the other.

He remembered the way you laughed breathlessly afterward. 

Harlequin teased you for it at first. Of course he did. He teased everything that frightened him.

Yet later that same day, he couldn’t stop staring at the gold around your finger.

Or the matching one resting upon his own.

You were the first human to look at him and not immediately see the act.

Not the grin.

Not the sharp teeth.

Not the monster beneath his costume.

Just him. 

Harlequin himself.

Ironically enough, you didn’t get along with him very well during your first meeting. 

At the time, Harlequin still dressed himself in the venomous green and yellow, stitched through his costume as though to represent his poison laced into silk. And even the markings upon his mask seemed sharper back then. 

It was fitting for him.

Passing out the circus’ flyers throughout the day, he twirled the papers between his claws while the disinterested humans of the town hurried past him without sparing a single glance. Most avoided eye contact entirely. Others looked at him with fear and disgust in their eyes.

Harlequin found all of their reactions boring and displeasing.

Then he saw you.

You stared.

Not with horror or awe, but with curiosity.

The green clown remembered slowing to a stop in front of you, grin stretched like a Cheshire Cat as he offered a flyer with dramatic flair. 

“Care to visit the circus?” He had asked you. “But you know…Stare for too long and I might charge for admission.”

Instead of becoming embarrassed like how most people would, you glanced between him and the flyer before raising an eyebrow.

You had said something completely unexpected. 

And that caught him a little off guard. 

He was fascinated almost instantly. 

Most humans either feared him or adored the performance.

You did neither.

You looked and spoke to him as though he were simply another person speaking to you. Strange.

Real.

And somewhere along the line, Harlequin found himself lingering around you longer than intended after your small talk continued and handing out his green ticket much later. 

Then longer still.

He remembered wandering past the crowded grounds at the circus beside you late into the night using some shortcuts, though somehow the noise always seemed so distant whenever you spoke. The lights shined overhead while the roars of applause, the screams, or laughter spilled out from the nearby tents. No matter what though, his attention remained entirely upon you during those sacred moments when his performance was over for the night. After all, the sound of your voice, the casual brush of your shoulder against his cape, and the way you looked whenever he said something particularly stupid or pervy was everything to him.

He remembered walking you home beneath skies of  orange and bleeding red.

He remembered sneaking away from the circus after it closed solely to hold you for another hour before dawn stole him away again.

He remembered pressing kisses against every single inch of you simply because he could.

Your knuckles.

Your forehead.

The corners of your mouth.

The inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered.

Everywhere.

Harlequin always pretended affection came naturally to him, like how his seduction was merely another trick hidden under his sleeves.

But you knew better.

You saw every pause hidden behind his grin.

Every hesitation.

Every fragile thing he buried with a wicked and unbothered demeanor. 

And somehow, despite it all, you stayed.

His claws started to twitch again, starting to tear into the fabric of his pillow.

The dream shifted.

Just like it always did.

This was because time was cruel and unforgiving. 

Your face that once carried the softness of spring slowly began to shift. Not all at once. Never all at once. Time was more careful than that. It worked slowly, deliberately, like a painter determined to finish what they had started with a new project.

Your eyes tired first.

Then the smile lines settled deeper beside your mouth.

Your skin changed into something thinner, gentler, with your veins becoming more visible too. Your hands changed. The same hands that once tugged him without hesitation trembled ever so slightly whenever they held his own.

Harlequin noticed everything.

Every wrinkle.

Every ache.

Every deep and drained breath you tried hiding from him.

To watch you age was to watch a masterpiece being finished, one stroke of the clock at a time.

Humanity called that beautiful. 

Poets and scholars alike spoke of time as the ultimate virtue, or a gift bestowed upon the living to be savored and honored. It was the currency of the soul, a precious, finite resource that gave meaning to every “hello” and weight to every “goodbye.” Humanity held time up as a blessing, a golden thread that wove experience into wisdom. And even some of monsterkind agreed with them.

How absurd of a concept that was.

Time wasn’t a virtue. It was a burden. 

And that burden would weigh itself on his shoulders like an unmovable force of nature. 

And Harlequin hated it.

He hated the way your body slowly betrayed you. Hated the medicinations lining your bedside. Hated the fatigue you felt when you still perked up near the end and when you still tried comforting him through your own pain.

Most of all, he hated himself for being unable to stop it.

Because his kind was “meant” to survive, and yours, unfortunately, didn’t last for so long.

Yet there he stood, like a helpless little thing, while something as simple as time took you away from him piece by piece.

He would never be able to meet your eyes again.

Or intertwine your fingers.

Or feel your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his claws scratched patterns across your skin. 

Or feel your legs tangled with his beneath the sheets.

Or press your body against him while he could hear the steady beat of your heart.

Or even have his lips press against your own, capturing your taste with his poison to create something that was once so beautiful. 

But as cruel as time was, that itself faded away too.

The poison had bled itself dry, with nothing left but a bitter aftertaste of what remained. 

And just as his claws just barely touched your shoulders, it all went away too soon for his liking.

You faded.

Not suddenly, but just slowly enough just to hurt.

Like standing among the dead autumn leaves while the final colors of spring disappeared.

Like watching smoke unravel into thin air.

Like trying to hold onto a reflection in old glass while cracks slowly split through it until nothing recognizable remained.

Your smile blurred first.

Then your voice.

Then your eyes.

The very culmination of your being faded away until there was nothing left for him to reach.

His eyes finally opened.

For one horrible second, the dream still clung to him.

He could still smell you.

Sweet. Earthy. Familiar.

Then the cold morning air ruined it.

A ray of sunshine slipped through the opening of his tent, stretching across his bed like mockery. Morning was supposed to feel hopeful, wasn’t it? It was supposed to bring the promise of a new day. A fresh start.

Instead, it only showed the dampness that stained his face.

The pillow he had been holding onto throughout the night remained trapped between his claws. Tear stains darkened the fabric where he held it against himself all night long, but most of it had already dried up by now.

Blinking groggily, Harlequin stared at the ceiling of his tent. He felt less like himself and more like the empty room.

His breathing felt uneven.

Heavy.

Like something sat on top of him refusing to let him move.

The dull ache behind his eyes remained unbearable. Sleep still tugged at him, trying to lure him back towards the promises of a fantasy he both craved and despised.

Sometimes he woke up screaming.

Those nights were worse.

Pierrot once nearly tore through the tent walls trying to reach him after hearing the noise. Other times, Ticket Taker or Jester rushed inside only to find Harlequin gasping violently among tangled sheets and pillows, clutching his chest with a single hand as though his own heart attempted to escape him. Doctor usually had to get involved when this happened too, as he knew exactly what to do in order to make him calm down.

Those nights usually ended with shaking claws, sweat-soaked skin, or something far worse.

This morning, however, was quieter.  

…

Slowly, Harlequin rolled onto his back before lifting a palm toward his face, dragging it down from the start of his hairline to the bottom of his chin. His throat tightened. 

Even after two hundred years, grief still found new ways to hollow him out.

Eventually, begrudgingly, the scaled monster forced himself upright. 

The room swayed as the pure and utter exhaustion settled into his bones. His gaze drifted toward the bedside table almost immediately. Toward the two rings resting carefully on top of the folded cloth.

Waiting for him.

Always waiting.

After all, there were more pressing matters to take care of. Ticket Taker and Jester were already up for the day, with the Doctor more than likely helping them out to gather supplies and do other preparations. Only a month remained before the fae trials began, and Pierrot would be the first to face them. 

He had to play his role too. 

Because he was the Harlequin.

And the Harlequin was meant to laugh in the face of misfortune. To dance alongside the suffering until tragedy itself became an entertainment. To remain high in spirits even if life itself left him feeling unsatisfied.

That was the role he was meant to perform best. The clown all dressed up while his inner turmoil quietly rotted away. 

A performer until the very end.

Harlequin slipped the rings back onto his fingers.

Gold caught onto the light for only a moment.

Until that too would start to fade away.

= ･ׅ 𝜗℘ ･ׅ =

in the game, pierrot tells us he calls the fools "jesters and harlequins" because he doesn't like the title of "fools" that everyone else has given them right? we understand, of course, why he calls them "harlequins" even if there is only one harlequin in the circus, truly.

but "jesters"?