Choque @choquiticos - Tumblr Blog

➛ warnings: none • fluff • soft romance • mutual pining • physical affection (non-sexual) • love confession • commitment issues • first date • jealousy themes • slow-burn • hints of an established connection.

➛ characters: harlequin.

gender neutral reader.

➛ resume: you are a dedicated artist navigating the chaos of the circus, diving headfirst into your own writings and drawings. surprisingly, you invite harlequin to spend some time outside that place, at an amusement park — and this opens space for mutual recognition, for the discomfort between you both, and for the recognition of the strength it takes to stay.

This writing was heavily inspired by the songs "Unloveable" by The Smiths and "Lovesong" by The Cure.

The park was a vibrant spectacle of colors and lights. Banners fluttered in the wind, adorning wooden huts painted in cheerful shades of red, yellow, and blue. The sound of that merry, tender, and distant music filling the space was pleasant in the most satisfying way possible, reaching the ears of others like the lull of a fever dream or a soft, almost melancholy memory — of moments when life was essentially simpler, memories of better times. Small, unreachable glimpses of childhood, with its own wounds and tenderness, and the sugary premise of a simple happiness.

For reasons unknown, parks had this peculiarity: the ability to evoke a sense of longing and imprint a feeling of short, comforting, and deceptive belonging. It was as if the few hours spent there, in that small sanctuary bounded by rigid, unbreakable iron gates, were capable of returning to easily shaken hearts that childish contentment. The euphoria of being limitless, of leading a life that was light and without edges.

The false correspondence of the present with the past, however, was usually blatantly punitive. Like a mild caress, but not a lasting one. The attempt at a forced fit; a new image in an old frame, already worn, permanently gnawed by the passage of time.

It is for this exact reason that we can say Harlequin did not let himself be affected by the uplifting atmosphere of amusement parks. It was useless. A mere luxury that, in truth, benefited no one.

Even so, he arrived earlier than usual.

The park hadn't yet decided if it was open or abandoned. Some lights shone with a green and white splendor — mixed, weak colors; others, on the other hand, remained dark, as if saving their charm or having simply burnt out. He chose a random bench near the stationary Ferris wheel and let out a long, bored sigh, resting his hands loosely on his knees.

He wore casual clothes, far too simple for someone who usually shone under the spotlight, telling terrifying stories and seducing the audience with his performances. Still, the green remained there, discreet and stubborn — more than just any color, as if it were a strange extension of his own skin, surpassing the condition of a mere aesthetic choice. His curly, dark hair fell in free, misaligned curves; a heart-shaped curl, shy, hung undisciplined at the level of his eyes in an almost intimate way.

He was restless. Harlequin hated waiting, yet he watched that park like a poorly assembled stage. He harbored no expectations — they seemed like nothing more than an insignificant blur in his mind, something dispensable. Encounters were quick and, in his conception, that’s how they should be: made of calculated entrances and clean exits.

The plot was always the same. A subtle touch of innocence at the beginning, playful hesitation here and there, a slight and blatant brushing of bodies, empty flirtations, and an eventual make-out session under some dim light in a hidden corner. Who could blame him for that?

Harlequin checked the time once more — not out of nervousness, but out of something close to doubt. He considered leaving, getting out of there once and for all. He considered pretending that this had never been a plan.

Then, he finally heard footsteps.

The sound of a restrained gait over the uneven ground of the park, the presence of someone who did not rush time. Harlequin felt a slight discomfort run down his spine, but he remained seated for a few moments, staring at the motionless Ferris wheel. The reflection in the windows of a small night shop on the street showed a figure walking unhurriedly, almost airy, distractedly carrying a sketchbook, a light-colored folder, and a simple dark pen.

You stopped in front of him with a respectful posture. You didn't seem to hesitate, nor did you advance too far. You gave him a polite smile, nodding slightly and clutching your belongings lightly against yourself.

"Good evening, Harlequin."

Harlequin looked up slowly. For an instant, he considered smiling the right way, tilting his head at the exact angle, offering some light irony, but he gave up before he even started.

"Hi. Good evening." The answer escaped simply.

You pointed to the Ferris wheel, shaking your head slightly in disapproval. The ride remained still, its cabins unperturbed and imprisoned in place.

"Seems like we arrived too early, doesn't it?"

Harlequin let out a brief exhale through his nose. It wasn't exactly a laugh, but it wasn't disdain either.

"Seems you're right." He observed your figure for a few moments, catching every detail of your appearance and the clothes you wore with an attentive eye. His eyes didn't reveal much beyond that mocking, lazy glint that reached the edges of his eyelids.

"Want to take a quick walk? We can talk for a bit. We’ll wait until the rides actually start working," you suggested, brushing away a persistent lock of hair that the restless wind pushed against your face.

Harlequin sighed in relief, even though talking wasn't his favorite activity for first or second dates. Despite everything, a walk would be appropriate to calm his nerves, relax his body, and eventually make him attempt a bolder approach, regaining ground.

He nodded immediately, his smile revealing his pointed teeth.

"Please," he groaned lazily, stretching dramatically as he extended his limbs. "Let's hurry. It’s good that we can find something tasty to eat and buy along the way."

"Sounds good."

You responded with a slight nod, a faint smile on your lips. The walk began as a flat path, occasionally dodging cables and crooked signs. The park creaked with mechanical sounds, as if it were breathing with difficulty, preparing for something that, perhaps, would not happen that night or would not be seen.

Harlequin walked half a step ahead, almost without noticing. It was an old habit — to lead, to dictate the pace, to choose the path. He commented on small things, unpretentious observations, the kind of conversation that never required much emotional attention.

"Parks get a bit strange like this...," he began, his tone low. "Without many passersby, without loud music; they almost seem less harmless. But tell me, isn't it like we have a lot of wasted space?" Harlequin’s arm brushed lightly against yours as he played dumb and kept walking.

You sighed softly, holding back a giggle. He had a difficult task ahead of him, and apparently, the stubbornness of a mule.

"I don't think the space is being wasted, Harlequin," you replied after a few long seconds of suspense. "We have a mild, peaceful atmosphere. Sometimes, it’s in settings like this that the most interesting, most rewarding things appear. You just have to know how to look carefully." You shrugged, continuing the walk as the wind filled the space between you like a cool embrace.

"You speak in riddles sometimes. Artist thing," Harlequin gave a little laugh, letting out a lazy sigh. "Seems like you like looking for hidden things," he commented, his own body leaning in your direction with a smile that was familiar, rehearsed.

You smiled faintly, continuing the walk without really giving much importance to the proximity. You didn't return his touch, but you didn't pull away abruptly either. You just looked at his face, your attention fixed on his eyes.

"I believe it's not exactly about looking for hidden things. It’s more about perceiving what remains there when no one is trying to call attention to themselves. Does what I'm saying make sense?"

He nodded his head discreetly and without much conviction.

"Actually, it does make sense, yes. And what do you see now, if you can tell me?"

You hesitated for a few moments, choosing your words.

"I see someone in a dilemma. A silent bargain between the desire to be seen and the other... the one of simply being present." The answer came soberly, without any irony or malice. Just the genuine feeling of recognizing, of seeing through his eyes.

Harlequin frowned, slowing his pace. He looked at you intently for a few long seconds, his lips twisted in a confused pout, before slowly sketching a new smile. Not just any smile, though: a mocking, theatrical smile, but one deeply hurt inside. He profoundly loathed being read like a book; that burning sensation of judgment, as if he were an object subject to critical analysis by people supposedly more educated, wise, exemplary, or genuine than he would ever be. He placed one hand over his heart as if holding it dramatically.

"How you wound me with your words. And here I was thinking you'd say you saw a dangerous and exciting glint in my eyes."

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. Raising your arms in a sign of feigned surrender, you looked at him with a playful gaze.

"How you sicken me with that overly sugary charm of yours, Harlequin. It’s truly a feat."

The provocation made the smile of the man dressed in green broaden further, his white teeth exposed like sharp, imposing daggers. Harlequin’s fingers then brazenly touched your shoulders, drawing random patterns on your skin as if it were a mere game.

"So you discuss me? If I disgust you so much, you must think of me quite a bit."

You ignored his constant teasing, letting out a soft, tired sigh before quickening your pace slightly and letting his fingers brush against thin air. You spotted a cotton candy stall at the end of the next turn in your path, glowing gracefully and lit with small lanterns and decorations.

"I can guarantee that my thoughts do not coincide with what you imagine. Besides, you talk too much," you mocked lightly. "Come on, there’s a cotton candy stand over there. And hopefully, there are other things for sale nearby too."

Harlequin watched your figure walking away for a second longer than intended. His fingers stayed suspended in the air, undecided, before slowly retreating back to his body. The smile remained, but there was something less secure in it now.

"Cotton candy?" His voice came out more like a murmur, a muffled sound reserved only for himself. "Questionable choice. And so much personality in one individual, wow!" Harlequin pursed his lips in a dramatic and exasperated gesture. His facial expression revealed confused feelings, a mixture of admiration and genuine frustration and indignation.

He resumed his pace, now at your side, not ahead.

The stall was small, lit by colored lanterns that swayed with the wind. The sweet scent spread through the air, almost excessive. Harlequin watched the machine spin, the sugar transforming into fragile clouds, and let out a low laugh.

"This here always seemed like a well-told lie to me," he commented. "Beautiful, light… and disappears far too fast."

You shrugged again, delicately taking the two sticks the man offered you. Harlequin paid the attendant, and then you both went to sit on a small treated-wood seat to finally talk for a bit.

"Do you like sweets, Harlequin?" You asked unpretentiously, handing one of the sticks to him.

"I admit that sweets aren't really my thing. Actually, I prefer spicier flavors," he said, grabbing a good handful of the pink candy in his hands. "But I guess a little sweetness won't kill me."

A brief silence. You nibbled on a bit of the pink cloud of sugar too, humming silently while your taste buds assimilated the soft, delicate flavor.

"So, you draw, don't you?" Harlequin asked, distractedly wiping his sugar-stained hands on the sides of his pants. The tone, however, was too casual to be just casual.

You nodded, letting a small happy smile escape; those characteristic smiles of someone with a specific passion, who is in the presence of another and eager to show them what their little world is about. You set the cotton candy aside and carefully opened the sketchbook you were carrying. The pages were already worn at the edges, marked by constant use.

"Yes. Actually, I draw, I write; I do a bit of both crazily, or else I do nothing for days," you admitted with a subtle nervous laugh, flipping through some pages carefully. "It depends on my mood and creativity. Do you want to see my latest work?"

Harlequin hesitated for a millisecond before nodding firmly. You chose some specific pieces, some unfinished and colorless sketches, and some scribbles with words poured over the paper, which he didn't know were poetry or something else entirely.

Delicately, you pushed the sketchbook toward him — and the narrator speaking here can admit that his eyes shone brightly like two stars in that moment. He was suddenly intrigued, curious to see what you liked to draw and write about.

The first figure was a sketched landscape. The light stroke of the pen on the paper showed that you were a careful and attentive illustrator — and a perfectionist. Harlequin narrowed his eyes, invested now, and saw the drawing as a whimsical representation of the circus's main entrance. The tents illuminated by their little lights, some nearby stalls, the elegant and restrained presence of Ticket Taker in the center, captured in a quick, not-too-detailed sketch, yet perfectly recognizable. He held his breath for a second, flipping through the pages further with your silent consent. He wondered to himself why the circus was so important to you. What was so significant behind those colorful lights and repetitive, dazzling performances that made you stay?

Right. Staying. He had always had trouble with that.

The next page was divided into two parts. One contained a small note about a performance watched with rapt attention, but the text itself wasn't long. It was merely a light tribute, without much depth. The writing was accompanied by a slightly more detailed drawing of the red tent, with Pierrot in the center of the spotlight. The moment captured in the sketch seemed to be the end of the show, as Pierrot appeared to hold his daggers between his claws in a solemn bow, thanking the audience for their presence.

Posing correctly. Majestic. Absolute.

The favorite clown of everyone who passed through there.

Harlequin felt the discomfort before he could even name it. That familiar, silent sting, old and persistent. Pierrot always had that effect on people. He didn't need to force a presence; he didn't need to ask for attention. He just had to be there: quiet, charming, inevitably chosen.

Columbina flashed through his mind without warning. Not as an image, but as a memory. As an absence. She appeared in the gaps of his mind from time to time, always on the wrong side of his story. Pierrot’s soft charm, the comfortable silence — the choice that didn't need to be spoken aloud to be understood. He swallowed hard.

It was just a drawing, after all. A faithful portrait of what was already known to everyone. He would never be that other man, no matter how hard he tried. Still, the sensation persisted like a painful needle: the feeling of, once again, watching someone else be chosen first.

He was her favorite.

Why wouldn't he be yours too?

He tried to let out an ironic chuckle, flashing his usual mocking smile. But the smile turned into a trembling, uncertain grimace as he murmured his next comment.

"So we have a sketch of Pierrot here. It seems he really does have this curious effect on the people who see him during his performances." He shrugged slightly, nervously touching that heart-shaped hair lock of his. "That mute bastard."

Harlequin let out a light laugh, but his apparent joy and unpretentiousness felt hollow. After that empty laugh, a brief silence settled in. Not awkward, just suspended.

You didn't counter his comment about Pierrot. You didn't defend the silent artist, nor did you accuse him further. You simply observed Harlequin for a beat too long, as if mentally negotiating whether to continue exposing your more intimate works or to take the sketchbook back and end the sharing right then and there.

"There's more," you admitted at last. Your hand hovered over the notebook for a second, hesitant. "If you want to see."

There was no expectation in your voice. No invitation, no challenge. It was a permission. Harlequin, however, only nodded.

The following page didn't feature sketches filling the sterile white space. Only words, carefully chosen and aligned on the paper. It looked like a short story — a sort of narrative poem using simple figures, personified discreet forces of nature. Metaphors selected with care to star in scenes and interpret the core of complex human feelings: a shy rose, slow to bloom, and a flighty, mischievous carnation. A truly simple premise.

Harlequin's green eyes scanned the essence of the words.

A carnation that tormented the quiet flower, which pulled its petals back in embarrassment. A presence that arrived without asking. Presence without promise. Charm without permanence.

"The wild Carnation is a haughty and proud force. Dense and dark — half amber, half soot. There is beauty in its bitterness, and between its dark brows, there are cloudy eyes, a storm of desires. It surrounds me without haste, but its very presence already pierces me."

"The Carnation is not just a flower. It is a mischievous minstrel, a magician of shadows. Its lyre is made of laughter and traps. He, the mocking poet, delights in collecting the tremors of others. He torments me at all hours of the day."

“In the third hour of his amusement, he laughs. He guffaws without exhaustion. Loud, beautiful, always scoffing. The Carnation sings to the rose, in a mocking tone:

[CARNATION]: ‘Poor little rose, still stuck? Eternally hidden in the shade, enjoying no surprises!’

He sings like one who desires nothing and yet claims the world; like one who lives to touch freedom with the tip of his tongue. The Carnation is never a slave, but a walking king, an adventurer, a bohemian who belongs to no one's garden. And yet, he invades mine. He is like the wind that comes and goes as fast as it arrives — a presence that appears without asking permission and without taking root."

Harlequin felt as if his heart had stopped upon recognizing the words printed on that page. Doubt gnawed at him. Did that work really represent him? He breathed deeply, his left hand wavering slightly, almost shifting the notebook in his previously careful grip. His eyes ran over a few sentences again, trying to twist their meanings, looking for something to minimize the impact; searching for anything that would reassure him that this selfish, laughing flower was not your version of him. For some stupid, unknown reason, he didn't want to be seen that way. Especially not by you. He didn't want to allow it to be true.

He felt the sting rise: uncomfortable, hot, unbearable.

"This..." he began, but couldn't even finish the sentence.

He didn't finish. He didn't ask directly. He didn't want to hear the answer that was already hinting at itself. There was something humiliating about admitting he recognized himself on that paper; the role of an intense, fleeting presence that arrives without promising and leaves without staying. He bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed with himself. He hated that horrible feeling: being observed too closely, almost decipherable. It was strange and contradictory. He wanted to be loved, esteemed — but he didn't want someone to see his flaws with such intensity or detail.

After all, who would stay after seeing all the ugly parts of him? Those parts he judged unworthy of valuing, simply unloveable?

He sighed, however, when your hands gently enveloped his, silently asking him to turn the page. The man in green looked back reluctantly, only to have his composure completely shattered, his green eyes shining in confusion and almost childish ecstasy.

He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

The drawing occupied the entire sheet. A colorful, vivid, complete work. He himself looked almost proud in the representation. Whole. There was no rush in the strokes, no careless improvisation. Every color seemed chosen with clear intent. Every shadow was placed to support, not to hide anything. The characteristic green of his clothes, his personal brand, didn't scream; it affirmed. His body was upright, present, without exaggeration. It wasn't Harlequin on stage. It wasn't the artifice. It was him when he didn't need to prove anything to anyone.

It was your favorite version of him. The Harlequin you appreciated so much, the one you liked to watch. The only version you had chosen for yourself.

The previous discomfort didn't disappear, but it changed shape. Where before there was the painful suspicion of being seen as something that doesn't stay, there was now something else, harder to sustain: the certainty of having been chosen with time. With attention. With permanence.

He flipped back slowly. That’s when he noticed small details scattered in the margins of the pages. Nothing flashy. Nothing overt. Just almost distracted marks: interrupted curved lines, incomplete strokes that, if observed closely, vaguely resembled hearts. Some were half-erased, others seemed drawn without intent, or perhaps with too much.

Harlequin felt his stomach flip. He looked up to meet yours, his green eyes like bright, unarmed crystals. He uttered his next words as a disconcerted, restless whisper.

"You made all this revolve around me? All these drawings, all these words, this poem. This isn't random. Why?"

He couldn't understand the reason. He stared at the figures one last time, his claws carefully scratching the surface of the paper as if he could pluck the image and the complex metaphors and hide those artistic works somewhere deep inside his tormented chest. He slowly closed the sketchbook, returning it to you in a restrained, almost timid gesture — an unusual move for someone like him. Finally, Harlequin let out a silent sigh, his gaze fixed on yours as he waited for some answer for his already racing, pounding heart.

"Because I saw you."

The answer came after a brief silence, as if you needed courage to cross the space between thought and speech. "Not just what you show." You took a deep breath, fingers lightly squeezing the edge of the now-closed notebook. "But what stays when the lights go out. When the stories end. When no one is looking."

You looked up at him, not in challenge. Just presence. "I don't know how to explain it well. I just wanted to record it. My way. As if, by drawing, I could keep that part of you close. Even if just for a little while."

Harlequin's face contorted with an expression bordering on disgust, but it wasn't quite that. He was completely terrified. He tried to think of something witty to say — some flirtation or disconcerting line — but nothing came. His mind was like a sterile space, a dry desert of thought. He didn't answer immediately; he just scratched the back of his neck uncomfortably, looking confused and vulnerable.

"You have a special talent for confusing people with your strange, polished metaphors and your way of thinking." He looked away, abruptly standing up from the seat with a long sigh and a careful stretch. "Don't do that to me again. Or at least, warn me next time."

You blinked two, three times, surprised. But then you simply stood up too, brushing off the remaining sugar from the cotton candy. You gave him a sidelong glance, unsure if your words had been received poorly or if they had secretly pleased him. He was a difficult person to understand.

"We're in a hurry, aren't we?" you teased lightly, though your eyes shimmered with your own insecurity. Maybe you had shown Harlequin too much of your world, the true colors of your heart, to the point where just thinking about it made you feel a bit humiliated. "What are your plans now, Harlequin?"

"Rides. They must be working by now; it’s impossible they aren't operating yet," he murmured, answering as if it were ridiculously obvious. "Aren't they the reason we're here, at an amusement park, on a romantic date?" he added, letting out a giggle and delicately running his green tongue over his teeth in a suggestive way, trying to regain his usual charm.

You blushed, clutching the sketchbook to your chest. Then, you shook your head in disapproval, giving him a glaring look.

"This isn't exactly a romantic date! Who or what suggested that to you, you green dot on the street?" You finally weighed your next words, your tone softening. "I just wanted to show you some things I've been working on."

He laughed spiritedly, dramatically slapping his hands on his knees while looking through you. Strangely, as he did so, he felt a warm, pleasant sensation in his chest.

"Then why are you blushing so much? Because of my quick, harmless words? Come on, you're better than that." He waved his hands dismissively, winking at you. "Just walk. The lines for most rides must be giant."

You nodded lazily, now walking beside him, keeping a steady, habitual rhythm. "And what are your choices, boy?"

"I don't know, something interesting, please!" he groaned playfully. "Something radical or at least demanding. I don't want easy, boring attractions."

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head as you watched him out of the corner of your eye. "Radical and demanding. Noted.”

It didn't take long before you reached a more open area of the park, where the lights flashed more aggressively and sounds overlapped: brief screams, nervous laughter, the metallic creaking of moving structures. There, the tower rose. Too high to be ignored. Its vertical reflectors rose and fell in slow, almost provocative intervals, while the mechanism lifted the seats to the top before dropping them in a sudden, unannounced fall.

You pointed up, casually. "How about that one?"

Harlequin stared at the ride, his green eyes widening slightly.

“A drop tower?" He gave a discreet chuckle, trying to hide his nervousness. "And here I was, thinking you were going to go easy on me. We're just getting started, you know? Usually, we go slower than this."

Your smile widened as you narrowed your eyes in a mocking gesture. "Chickening out now, Harlequin? I thought you were the one who said you wanted 'radical and demanding' rides just moments ago, or am I mistaken? Refresh my memory a bit, please."

Harlequin's expression of comic despair became even more pronounced. "What a pest you are! Full of provocations and mockery. You need a lesson in humility." He leaned closer, whispering softly in your left ear. "I can't wait to delight in your beautiful, desperate screams as we plummet from up there. My little revenge will do me much good."

You joined the line. It wasn't as big as Harlequin had predicted, but long enough to create an uncomfortable wait. He remained restless, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, his fingers tapping lightly against the side of his thigh. Every so often, he cast quick glances upward, always too quick to seem like genuine curiosity.

"I didn't ask you, but have you been on one of these before?" His voice sounded unpretentious, trying to cut through the inevitable boredom of the queue.

"I have, once, when a traveling group set up temporary attractions in my city," you began, slowly crossing your arms. "It gives you butterflies, but there's almost no time to think properly, you know? It's so fast that by the time you realize it, you're back on the ground. Safe and sound."

"Great." Harlequin nodded, as if he had just confirmed something important. "So you practically don't even have time to think about regretting it."

When your turn finally came, the attendant pointed to the seats. Harlequin went to his spot first, sprawling his body exaggeratedly as if trying to reaffirm dominance over the situation. Still, when the safety harness descended and locked over his shoulders, he let out a low sigh. Not of explicit fear, but of tense expectation.

You sat beside him, smiling reassuringly as the ride began to lift you both. The park receded from the ground, the lights turning into blurred dots below. The wind blew colder up there, and for a moment, Harlequin remained in absolute silence.

Then, before the drop came, he murmured almost to himself: "You chose well."

As you suggested, the drop was alarming but fast. When the ride finally stopped, the world seemed suspended and shaky for a few generous seconds. Harlequin, for one, took an extra moment to get up — nothing dramatic, just a brief adjustment of posture, as if he were relearning how to control his own body. You also took a moment to regain your balance, moving your legs softly as you smiled lazily.

"That was quite an experience, wasn't it?" you commented. "What did you think?"

Harlequin shrugged, breaking into a wide grin. "I think we both screamed too much. There must be people who got off that tower and are now deaf forever." He let out a loud laugh, one of those sincere, almost childish ones.

"Yes, that's true. You were screaming right next to that guy and his girlfriend. Poor couple." Giving him a light nudge, you continued: "And don't forget that time, before the second drop, when you squeezed my hands so hard I thought my fingers were going to fall off. Were you scared, Harley?”

The nickname sounded too sweet. Almost intimate. His eyes almost shone with a calm, tender reflection.

"That's not true. Stop talking nonsense," Harlequin retorted, looking away over your shoulders, his eyes narrowed curiously. A new attraction had caught his eye. "Look over there. Those shooting gallery stalls," he said. "Seems like a good option now, doesn't it?"

"It does seem promising, indeed."

Right. Truly, the shooting gallery was smaller than it looked from a distance. Colored lights flashed above the metal targets, and the dry sound of toy shots mixed with the occasional laughter of those who miscalculated their aim. Harlequin approached the counter with a confidence too rehearsed to be entirely true. He picked up the air rifle, weighing the object in his hand as if it were familiar, something he mastered.

"This is going to be simple." His tone emerged proud. "Coordination, focus, a little patience. There's not much secret to it."

You observed him, standing close to him, contemplating his burning determination. Before you both, the prizes were displayed. Various stuffed animals: cute bears, puppies, kittens, frogs, sheep, turtles. Your eyes, however, sparkled when you saw one in particular.

It was a little bear different from the others. A bit smaller, stitched unevenly, with greenish-gray fur that stood out from the sea of vibrant colors. One of the button eyes was slightly darker than the other, and there was a visible patch on its chest; not poorly made, just accepted as part of its history. You liked to extend this even to inanimate plushies, creating backstories for them and everything around you. An artist's restless mind, no doubt.

Harlequin noticed the movement of your eyes, fixed on the little bear. He understood in silence, nodding slightly with a small click of his tongue.

"You want that one, don't you?" he asked aloud, though he clearly already knew the answer. "What a curious choice. But today I'm feeling generous. I'll get that little guy for you, don't worry."

His tone sounded almost affectionate and attentive. You tried to dismiss the idea delicately, but Harlequin shook his head quickly, taking his position and leaning his body slightly, trying to find the best angle to demonstrate his aim. He closed one eye, totally focused on the task ahead, as if he were showing off or trying to prove his value to you.

The first shot missed by a hair. The second made one of the targets wobble but stay upright. Harlequin let out a low sound of frustration, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

"This junk is totally rigged, I can swear it to you!"

He looked at you, trying to gauge your reaction. You weren't exactly angry or disappointed with him. But for some reason that motivated him further and scared him at the same time, he didn't want to see you sad and without your beloved stuffed animal. He would try until the damn park closed if he had to as if it meant giving you a piece of him. A physical, material memory of the time you spent together. Not in kisses or passionate dates, but simply enjoying each other's company in a way he hadn't expected to be so pleasant, so rewarding.

"I... I told you I was going to get that stuffed animal, okay? Just wait. You're going to be parading around with this little thing in your arms," he reassured you, moving the rifle in his hand again. "And your sketchbook, of course."

You didn't comment. You just offered an encouraging smile and stayed there, watching not with overt expectation, but only showing that silent calm that made him want to strive even harder.

He adjusted his aim before spending his last chance. The third shot, surprisingly, hit the mark. The target fell with a dry clink, drawing a brief whistle from the attendant. Harlequin blinked, surprised for half a second, before covering it with a crooked smile.

"See?" Harlequin commented, too fast. "It was a matter of persistence."

You let out an excited laugh, opening your arms wide. Harlequin received the prize from the stunned attendant, whistling in admiration. He pushed the stuffed animal toward you, only to be surprised by your gesture, freezing exactly where he was.

You hugged him. Simple as that.

Instead of clutching the newly won stuffed animal to your chest, you hugged Harlequin with affection and gratitude. For an instant, he didn't know what to do with his own hands. Then, almost without noticing, he relaxed his shoulders, allowing himself to stay there. He discreetly appreciated your proximity: the soft scent of your hair, the small details of your face, the smile lines around your sweet eyes, the look you gave him, loaded with recognition, a kind of patient affection. He loved that feeling.

Harlequin held the hug for a bit before pulling away with a shaky sigh and a contained smile. "Are we getting intimate now, I presume?" he teased affectionately. His tone, finally, was free of any venom or sarcasm.

"Maybe I really am feeling more comfortable with you." The confession came out faint, but genuine. You looked at Harlequin like someone waiting for his next idea. You didn't exactly want the meeting to end, but you had the growing feeling that you two would separate soon — after all, the park was close to closing time.

Harlequin cleared his throat, looking away, and pointed with his chin toward the high structure of the Ferris wheel, illuminated against the dark sky. "Let's go before the line becomes impossible."

You nodded, following Harlequin with renewed energy. The two of you walked together in a comfortable, calm silence, yet one heavy with unspoken words. Your gaze softened as you tried to catch a glimpse of the expression on the man whose hand was dangerously close to yours. You pulled the stuffed animal tighter against your chest, feeling a warm sense of satisfaction. Spending time with him definitely did your heart good; he was being so kind, so affectionate — in unexpected ways, even if he perhaps didn't realize it himself.

You wanted to say something. You wanted him to hear you being sincere about your old and persistent feelings. And yet, you waited. You would wait just a little longer for the right moment. Yes, that seemed like the most rational choice.

A small sigh escaped your lips when your hand lightly brushed his. You yearned for his warm touch, for that same attentive glint he’d had in his eyes when handing you the prize, desperately trying to gauge your reaction. The thought surfaced before you could even resist, making you blush slightly. You wanted to see him again. To be near him often. You wanted it more than you were willing to admit out loud.

When you finally reached the long-awaited Ferris wheel, the line wasn't as large as you had feared. Some people had already left the park; others were occupied with different attractions, too distracted to notice the two of you.

You moved forward and greeted the employee operating the ride. It was then that Harlequin, in a slightly clumsy manner, ushered you ahead, gesturing for you to step up onto the platform. He followed right behind, casting you a peaceful smile: less sharp teeth, more true.

The cabin closed with a soft click. The seat was narrow enough that your shoulders almost touched. As the mechanism began to move, there was that brief instant of suspension, as if the world held its breath before rising with you.

Harlequin leaned his elbow on the backrest, looking far too relaxed for someone who was usually "on stage." His eyes, however, were not on you. They were on the landscape below.

"You really liked this little guy, didn't you?" he asked lazily, his face still turned toward the view.

The park stretched out beneath you like a sea of living lights. The stalls, the rides, the illuminated paths looked small, almost unreal from up there, blinking and glowing as if waving to the two of you.

You looked down at the stuffed animal in your arms, your fingers distractedly stroking the soft fabric. "Maybe I really did like him a lot." You smiled broadly. How could you not, after all? He had tried so hard to win it and finally give you that gift.

Harlequin turned his head toward you, noticing you stroking the plushie. He let out a mocking little laugh, but his gaze was kind.

"Does this little thing have a name yet?" The tease was light, but he truly wanted to know how you would answer. Harlequin knew you were creative.

You blinked, surprised by the question. You looked at the toy for a moment, as if truly considering it for the first time. "I was just thinking about that."

"Hm..." Harlequin rested his chin on his hand, theatrical as ever. "I vote for Grass."

"Grass?" you repeated, incredulous. The choice was curious, to say the least.

"What? Weren't you the one who liked writing funny metaphors about flowers, roses, and carnations?" He chuckled. "I'm just following your line of reasoning."

"Right, that makes sense." You huffed softly, nodding. "I thought of something like Little Leaf. If we're going to highlight his green nature."

"Little Leaf?" His smile widened as he leaned a bit closer to you. "Sounds excessively cute. In my home country, we would say it like “Folhinha”. You know, Fo-lhi-nha,” he murmured, testing the word on his tongue. "I'm not so sure."

The way he pronounced it made your stomach flip slightly.

"You say that as if it’s important," you commented, almost without thinking. "Surprisingly, it seems you're taking this choice more seriously than I am."

"Maybe I am." He shrugged, but his gaze remained locked onto yours. "Names matter, you know."

You went back to staring at the toy, thoughtful. "And what if it were… Moss?”

"Musgo. A more foreign touch to it." Harlequin repeated the name, now with more attention. "Sounds better. More mature than the previous one, and still captivating." A small silence settled in. "We can leave it at that. Musgo."

He tilted his head, curious. "You don't like how it sounds?"

"Mus...go." You tried to repeat it the way he said it, but the word came out marked by your accent. Harlequin let out an affectionate giggle and gave your knees a light tap.

"I'll teach you that word. And many others," he said naturally, as if it were obvious. "Don't worry about it."

You nodded shyly, resting your head lazily against the cabin's safety bar. A deep sigh escaped your lips while your heart beat a little faster.

"Can I tell you something, Harlequin?" Your voice was low. "Something important."

Harlequin didn't make a joke this time. The gentle swaying of the cabin marked the pause as the Ferris wheel reached its highest point. The park lights twinkled below you like artificial constellations. He slowly reached out and wrapped his fingers around your wrist — not squeezing, just enough to anchor the moment.

"You can." His green gaze met yours, attentive in a rare way. "I'm listening."

The silence stretched just long enough for you to take a deep breath and organize your thoughts. Your fingers squeezed Musgo tighter against your chest, as if the small weight of the plush could give you courage.

"I'm not very good at expressing my feelings out loud. I get tangled in words; I hesitate for too long." You sighed, running a hand over your temple. "Maybe that's why I prefer writing and drawing. Feelings flow more easily that way."

Harlequin nodded slightly, his eyes a bit wider than usual. He remained silent, letting you continue.

"But I needed to tell you this. To unburden my heart." You hesitated for a moment, staring into his dilated pupils. "I admire Pierrot. I like him. His talent, his silence, the way he commands the stage." Your voice did not falter. "But he isn't the one who makes my heart race."

Your fingers closed carefully around Harlequin’s wrist, returning the touch. Almost like a request for permission.

"It's you."

There was no urgency in your speech. No demand.

"I prefer you, Harlequin. The way you enter places without asking permission, but also these moments where you stay quiet, when no one is looking."

A shy smile appeared, truly fragile, as you touched his fingers. "I just wanted to go slow. For you to follow my life closely. For us to spend time together... if that's possible."

For a few seconds, Harlequin said absolutely nothing.

The grip on your wrist remained, but his fingers had relaxed, as if he were more anchored than he would ever admit. The easy smile didn't return. Neither did the sarcasm.

"You really have a gift for saying dangerous things as if they were very simple." He breathed with difficulty, as if the revelation had stolen his composure. A nervous smile emerged, and his eyes betrayed his own commotion. "What a pest you are. You planned this from the moment of the invitation, didn't you? The exact moment to tell me."

You shrunk back slowly, thinking it might have been a stupid idea to say it out loud. But before any apology could escape, he placed a gentle hand on your shoulder: warm, firm, reassuring.

"I'm glad you told me that." He ran his free hand through his hair. "Going slow isn't exactly my specialty."

A brief pause. "But for you... I'm willing to try."

Harlequin swallowed hard. His hand remained on your shoulder for a few more seconds, as if he needed that point of contact to avoid getting lost in what he felt. His green eyes dropped to your lips for a moment — too fast to be an invitation, too slow to be accidental.

He leaned in.

The gesture was careful, almost hesitant, as if asking permission from the very air between you. Instead of seeking your mouth, Harlequin touched your cheek with a brief, warm kiss, loaded with an unexpected tenderness. Nothing urgent. Nothing hungry. Just presence.

You practically melted, letting out a soft sigh — of relief, of affection, of something very close to happiness.

"Don't go thinking this means I've become easy to deal with," he murmured, trying to recover a shred of his old mocking tone, and failing miserably. His voice was too low. Too soft.

"I certainly didn't think anything of the sort," you replied, with a peaceful and genuinely happy smile.

He rested his forehead lightly against yours for an instant, taking a deep breath. "But I like the idea of staying."

A short pause.

"As long as it’s with you. Going slow, I guess.”

The Ferris wheel began its slow descent, and the park lights reflected in his eyes like restless little constellations. Harlequin carefully intertwined his fingers with yours — not to bind you, but to accompany you.

Musgo remained squeezed against your chest.

And for the first time in a long while, Harlequin felt at ease. There was no impulse to flee at the first sign of sunlight. The monster who believed they were unloveable went home carrying a new sensation, warm and quiet.

The feeling of being wanted.

Of being, finally, the chosen one.

He had secured another date.

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