#cirquestarter

“You,” he beckoned to the first shadowy figure offstage. “Y’wanna play with fire?"

Flattering yourself won’t change my decision, Walker. Buck up or shut up.

And with that final statement, Parker was floating away from the golden boy, eyes heavy and agitated ━ he wasn’t sure how many more times Micah could god-damn ask.

And the realization that it might take months before Parker lets him back in truly fucks with him ━ hell, it hits him like a shit-ton of bricks.

“Fuck.”

His hands slam down, quick and heavy ━ a vase shatters in the process. He turns, in a whirlwind of embarrassment and aggravation, and continues to mutter obscenities under his breath ━ but then he stops. Glances. 

“Hey.”

For instance, Priya hadn’t been home in two days.

To be more explicitly clear, she hadn’t left the underground of the Waldorf-Astoria for two days, saving for the brief hours she had perused up into a patron’s suite for a brief nap and bout of kissing. 

All the needed amenities were here: shower, extra clothes (albeit fanciful, outrageous kinds), food, liquor. There were books scattered numerous places that Priya had picked up intermittently over the past 48 hours, and the rest of her entertainment had been a whirring amalgamation of shows and laughter and solitude. Here, now, she had finally seemed to place her bender on a halt as she napped against what appeared to be a prop for the new mermaid’s tank -- a surprisingly soft piece of wonder that doubled as an exquisite pillow from her place on the parlor room couch. Priya stirred at the sound of rustling, whether it was foot against ground or flesh against fire -- it was a noise, it was near, and it had woken her.

“Oh, hello.” There’s something fawnish about the way it’s spoken, in the lilt of a ‘60s crafted Disney Princess, sleepy and smooth like honey left out overnight. She stirs enough, but not really. “I don’t suppose this is your rock.”

Although Gordon did like some things about New York winters—the festive spirit, all the hot drinks and thicker clothes—it was definitely not how cold it was. Unfortunately, he had made the bad decision not to check the weather outside and had opted to wear a thinner coat, and his ears and cheeks were now almost numb from the cold outside. On top of that, it was also raining; somehow, the weather was cold enough to make his toes lose feeling, but not enough for it to just snow. (That, at least, would have been lovely to look at.) Shivering as he reached the entrance of the hotel, Gordon pulled his coat closer and walked faster—only to bump into someone also attempting to enter. 

“My apologies,” he said, “I guess my brain is slowly freezing over in the cold as well, I promise you I’m not usually this clumsy.”

Cirque however, was the complete opposite. It was glamorous and so very old yet still shone and sparkled like it was brand new. From the outside looking in, the two places couldn’t have been more different to the naked eye but beauty is only skin deep and underneath the soft red satin, beneath the glamour, there was a darkness, the same that made up Carnival Noir - and every other carnival or show Sol had subsequently worked at.

                  “Are you asking for my honest opinion,         or do you just want me to pat you on the head         and give you a gold star for trying?”

The best place to survey it all? Atop the platform that he will fall from later tonight, seats full and crowd rapt, Thomas defying death and stealing breath, doing it again and again, a trick that has yet to get old. It has gotten more comfortable, he gravitates towards ledges without fear now, dangling his feet over the edge a serenity he can find nowhere else. He isn’t selfish, though. A feeling so grant must be shared, and so when he sees a figure down below, he calls down to them. “Care to join me? The view’s great, I promise.”