A Sweet Poison
Harlequin lounged at the small corner table in the bustling café. His green-and-black jester hat sat slightly askew, the bells at the tips of its points jingling faintly whenever he tilted his head. A few stray curls of short black hair, one side shaped almost like a heart, framed the edges of the mask. The white mask clung to his face with its perpetual wide grin of sharp teeth, though his eyes narrowed in quiet scrutiny. His gloved hands, claws subtly visible through the fabric, cradled an iced coffee that he barely tasted. From this vantage point, half-hidden by a potted plant and the afternoon light filtering through the windows, he had a perfect view of the counter.
A perfect view of Monarca.
Just a human, he thought, the corner of his grin twitching with something between amusement and irritation. Why the hell is Pierrot so fixated on them? Pierrot had become utterly obsessed with them—Monarca this, Monarca that—ever since that first clumsy encounter. Even without his smitten murmurings, his obsession had been obvious from the start: moon-eyed and dramatic, the way only that fool could be. It had been almost comical at first—the fool trailing after this barista like a lost puppy.
But Harlequin couldn’t see why Pierrot was so enamored. Monarca moved behind the counter with grace and competence, apron tied neatly around their waist, handling the morning rush with a firm smile and a patience that bordered on saintly. Nothing particularly remarkable at first glance. They were ordinary. Soft. Breakable. A human among humans. They would wither away in a handful of decades while someone like Pierrot—or himself—moved on to the next town, the next performance, the next century. Even if Pierrot somehow won their affection, the ending was written.
A tragic end. That was the only way it could go. Even if Monarca somehow returned those fluttering feelings, what then? A brief spark of warmth followed by inevitable heartbreak? A relationship would only end in heartbreak, or worse. Harlequin’s forked tongue flicked briefly against the inside of his sharp teeth at the thought. He wasn’t here to play hero or savior or chastise the fool’s decisions. He was here because Pierrot’s obsession amused him, and stealing Monarca’s attention had been a delightful way to poke at his rival. At least, that had been the plan.
And yet…
His gaze lingered as Monarca smiled at a customer, that same gentle smile they’d given him. At the counter, Monarca was patiently explaining something to an older customer who was growing red in the face. Harlequin watched the exchange with predatory interest, the green pupils of his mask gleaming. “A cappuccino with no milk is still a cappuccino,” the customer insisted. “You’re wrong. I know what I ordered. Just make it right.”
Monarca’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly—Harlequin caught the micro-expression, the brief flash of frustration in their eyes—but their voice remained kind, civil, that professional warmth never cracking. “I understand, but without the milk it’s essentially an espresso. Would you like me to make you a dry cappuccino instead, or perhaps—”
The customer cut them off with another complaint. Most humans would snap by now. Raise their voice, roll their eyes, mutter something nasty under their breath. But Monarca simply smiled that same professional smile, explaining again with gentle persistence. No bite in their tone. No sharp retort. No venom. Just... civility. Harlequin’s fingers drummed faster against the wood. How tedious. How strangely compelling.
Their kindness and patience reminded him of that night. He had shown up unannounced. He had expected suspicion after their encounter in the tent. He’d been teasing, flirtatious as always—maybe a little threatening, the way he liked to blur the lines between play and peril. He had expected irritation, perhaps fear, maybe even the thrill of a chase. Instead, they’d treated him with kindness. They had looked at him with genuine worry. Worry for him. And before he could spin another seductive line, they had wrapped their arms around him in a hug.
Harlequin had frozen completely when their arms wrapped around him. His eyes had widened in genuine surprise, the wide grin faltering for a split second into something almost vulnerable. Affection wasn’t something he dealt in often. Seduction? Yes. Handsy teasing, sharp little bites meant to mark and claim? Absolutely. But this… this worried embrace because they’d been *concerned* for him? This soft press of their body against his chest, the worry in their voice as they asked if he was alright, the simple feeling of affection without a hidden agenda... He remembered how his own arms had hovered awkwardly before he eventually managed to recover enough to ask if it was an invitation—one to continue what they had started in the tent. His claws had itched to pull them closer, to turn their kindness into something more familiar. “If you want me to touch you again so badly, we can—” Monarca had softly sighed, exasperated, and let him go. No fear or irritation. Just... understanding? Pity? He still wasn’t sure.
Why? Why waste kindness on something like him? Even after his flirtatious threats, his wandering hands, his deliberate provocations, his sadistic little games, they had treated him like something worth worrying over. The memory made his chest feel strangely tight sometimes, an unfamiliar flutter that had nothing to do with playful seduction and everything to do with the way they had worried for him. And Harlequin hated how it made him feel. He shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. His fingers tapped faster against the table. He didn’t like it. He liked the chase, the thrill of watching Pierrot squirm, the game of stealing Monarca’s attention just to see what would happen. He liked the heat, the desire, the way his tendrils and forked tongue would make them focus only on him. He liked the idea of taking them to dark rooftops or empty parks, away from prying eyes, where he could be as handsy and teasing as he pleased. Where no one else would witness the bite of his teeth or the mark of his claws. Where he could test how long that patience would last. But genuine affection? It complicated things. It irritated him in a way he couldn’t quite name. It made him want to push harder—to see when that patience would break, or if it ever would. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be curious. He was supposed to toy with them, enjoy the game, and move on.
Monarca was wiping down the counter now, the frustrated customer momentarily placated with a fresh drink. Harlequin’s eyes lingered on the line of their neck, the way their hands moved steadily as they prepared customers’ orders. He imagined those hands on him again, not in seduction, but in that unexpected gentleness. Wondering what it might feel like if those same arms hugged him without the excuse of worry, simply because they wanted to. It made his heart beat a little faster when he thought about it. What is it about you? Harlequin thought, eyes narrowing further until they were thin slits. Pierrot sees something worth breaking his own heart over. And I... He wasn’t sure if he’d enjoy watching them break. Whether he wanted them to curse him or embrace him again. Whether he’d prefer them crying out of hatred or pleasure. He wasn’t sure which outcome intrigued him more. He took a sip of his iced coffee, the sweetness dancing on his tongue. Their kindness lingered like sugar, cloying in the same way this wretched drink was. The kind of sweetness that could rot him if he let it linger for too long. He muttered under his breath, “Too sweet,” though his gaze never left the barista. The drink wasn’t the problem. They were. Too sweet. Too kind. Too human. It didn’t fit with the circus he thrived in. Yet here they were, patiently remaking a drink for a rude stranger while he sat in the corner like some lovesick fool spying from afar. Unlike Pierrot, he didn’t constantly hover at their workplace. That wasn’t his style. But when night fell, he found himself waiting in the shadows outside, ready to walk them home. He finished the coffee in one final gulp. Then, Harlequin adjusted his cape before standing up, letting the chair screech as he moved. Monarca glanced up at the sound, their eyes meeting his across the café for a brief moment before they smiled at him. He offered them a dramatic bow, sharp teeth flashing in that permanent grin. His behavior and costume drew a few curious glances from other patrons, but he paid them no mind. With a final glance at the cup, how they had written his name on it, Harlequin turned and slipped out of the café, the bells on his hat chiming. Outside, he paused on the sidewalk for a moment, glancing back through the café window. Monarca was already helping another customer, that same polite smile in place. Harlequin’s clawed fingers flexed at his sides. The afternoon sun felt too bright as he melted into the foot traffic. He wouldn’t go far. Not yet. There was still time before nightfall, after all. He’d be waiting outside their shift later. Wait in the shadows near their workplace when the shift ended. Walk them home if they’d allow it—maybe brush a clawed glove against their arm just to see them shiver. Perhaps even allow them to hold his hand as they walked. To claim that gentle warmth for himself, even knowing how fragile it all was.
Gatinhe. The word echoed in his mind with reluctant fondness. A playful, slightly sadistic smile curled his lips. Somehow, Pierrot’s tragic little obsession made slightly more sense. Perhaps Pierrot wasn’t entirely a fool. But if anyone was going to unravel Monarca, it would be on his terms. Where their sweetness could be tasted slowly... and perhaps corrupted, just a little. Even if he knew how the story would eventually end. After all, even tragedies could be entertaining.
