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Almas gêmeas do Circo

Summary: Orange wrapped tight on the thumb, purple elegantly detailed on the index, green playful and cloying on the middle, white neat and simple on the ring, and cyan carefully knotted on the pinkie.

Five active Strings. More than you’ve ever thought was possible at one time. Five soulmates, and you’re left without any idea of who they might be.

But… could it be related to the circus that’s recently come into town?

Read on AO3 | Visual Reference of Strings

Your eyes linger across the back of your hand. Against the skin of each finger lay a string— well, not a real string. Made more of ethereal light than fiber or twine, they have nevertheless wrapped around the base of each digit like a ring. You can’t feel the strings normally outside of the occasional twitch and tug from an unknown partner, but you find yourself curious as to who is on the other end constantly.

Five strings— four more than what is normal— and each a distinctive color that you’ve long-since become familiar with. Orange on the thumb, purple on your index, green on the middle, white upon the ring, and cyan at your pinkie.

There also is… a separate String, though you’re not sure if it’s related to the others or not.

Instead of being entwined around a finger like most people talked about, it was instead wrapped several times around your wrist in a dull, broken pink visible only in the right light. Only when you stare at the faded, broken shape for a prolonged period of time. Where the other end would have led you off into the world to find the person attached at the other side, there was just… nothing. The string was already snapped and frayed by the time you gained yours and could see them properly.

A broken string could mean a lot of things.

What was more interesting was how the strings lay upon your skin— lots of celebrities and soulmate psychologists talked about what the color and nature of a String meant, but you… just saw yours as part of their person from the get go. A series of quirks and traits that you’d hope to learn more about if you ever got the blessing to meet them.

The orange string wrapped around your thumb multiple times, as if making sure that the hold was secure even though a soulmate string wasn’t a material thing to remove. The purple string was simple, but elegant. It felt like silk, and was tied around your index finger in a way that left a thin pattern of diamonds against your skin.

The green string was interesting. It looked and felt normal— as normal as you could assume of Strings and your particular situation— but it was the one that ‘tugged’ the most when you moved your hand too quickly or pulled on them yourself. It felt… like the person at the other end was playing a game, toying with the idea of leading you towards them.

The white string at your ring finger felt and looked almost textbook, matching the description perfectly of what your teachers had explained once. That random class felt so long ago, information about puberty and Strings funneled into young brains that could barely understand it all. You hadn’t paid too much attention or remembered many of the details, but the string on your ring finger seemed immaculate and exact to an almost unnerving degree.

The final string on your pinkie was interesting. Though you knew little about the psychology of strings or the metaphysical rules they followed (most people with doctorates didn’t either) it seemed peculiar in that it was tied upon your finger in a surgeon's knot. It was only mildly uncomfortable sometimes when you tried to curl your pinkie into a fist, but otherwise never seemed to call attention to itself— not nearly as much as the green one on your middle finger.

Five active Strings.

More than anyone else you know has ever had at one time. It’s not uncommon for Strings to fade away or appear over time as a person’s life grows and changes— heavens above, nobody could even agree what a String represents inherently. Platonic? Romantic? Sexual? Up for those connected to decipher, though plenty of big budget company commercials would love to sell you their services to ‘read’ your Strings. Most people knew those things were fake, but there was an appeal in knowing the unknown.

A comfort in a world of uncertainty.

You had a coworker who had two Strings at once; one was for their best friend since childhood, and the other for their soon-to-be husband. The wedding wasn’t for a few more months, and you were still invited despite not working at that company anymore. Sweet people, honestly, but it had also been your only personal example of someone with multiple Strings.

Never five. You had never once heard of someone having five.

A sigh leaves your lips as you stare down at your hand once more, mentally cataloguing each string and wondering what the person was like on the other end. You wondered if they were nice, if they were considerate. You wondered if they would make you laugh and brighten your day. Maybe someone rich and famous, you’d often joke, though statistically that is as likely as being connected to some unhinged serial killer (a staple trope in horror films nowadays).

You wondered if all five of them knew each other. Were they already in a relationship? Family? Friends?

… lovers? If they’re romantically together, what would they think of you? Would it be awkward? Would they like you?

A motion draws you from your thoughts. It’s felt before seen— a gentle tug of the bright emerald-green wrapped around your middle finger. At first the tugging seems random, but you eventually notice a pattern that starts to form and a smile pulls over your lips at the recognition.

‘Good… day?’

Most people don’t take the time to learn String Speak anymore. It’s considered a bit old-fashioned, no longer needed in a vastly inter-connected world of the internet and cell phones, especially since it’s not all that separate from morse code and isn’t very good for long messages.

But it’s always been a way for soulmates to communicate even without ever having met one another. To exchange gentle pleasantries, comforts, concerns, questions— the thought had crossed your mind to offer your phone number, but your green-string soulmate hasn’t offered their own… and you are smart enough to know how dangerous it could be to give any personal information out like that.

But you know String Speak— they taught it as an elective class in school, and you never once thought it would be so very important to you. At the time it was just an excuse to goof off with your friends, but now…

‘Yes… And… You?’

You’ve learned its easier just to tug your middle finger towards your palm than to actually try and pull it with your other hand— technically it’s material enough for you to feel *sometimes*, but you look more like a lovesick fool than anything else when people see you grasping at a String they can’t really see.

‘Good.’ The reply was quick and succinct, as conversational as it could get with a language consisting of tugging an ephemeral string in a morse code-like fashion. ‘Better… if… sending… nudes—‘

You immediately curl your fingers into a fist and physically pull your hand to your chest, effectively cutting off the words with a startled, flushed yelp.

Maybe it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was your little fantasizing heart… but you could practically hear this soulmate’s laugh.

…

Elsewhere, Harlequin is doubled-over in boisterous amusement. He ignores the sharp glare that Pierrot gives him from the center of the stage and tries to tug once more at the string on his middle finger, but finds that there’s no give for him to meaningfully pull on.

Ah, the little thing is smart.

He laughs uproariously again, unsure if Pierrot’s distaste is from Harlequin’s unprompted arrival during his practice or the fact that one of his throwing knives had been forced off-target by the sudden tug on his string— a tug meant for Harlequin, but they all felt it regardless. Pierrot probably figured that it was Harlequin being a nuisance with their own shared String.

How they were connected— still connected— neither truly understood.

… It was hard to label their relationship, but the strings connecting the troupe existed all the same, and they’d yet to talk about it in much depth— it’s not something that Harlequin wants to think about for long either, choosing instead to interpret his connections to the others in their merry band of monsters loosely and fluidly. Humans could barely understand what the ephemeral connections meant and liked so much to parade around differently. But Harlequin knew they were… different. Special even, and intimate on a level he doubted anyone else could understand.

One day Pierrot would see it the same way.

“Am I distracting you, dear Pierrot?” Harlequin finally says, turning his gaze towards the his fellow circus performer only when certain he wouldn’t be able to tease at the string anymore. “You know you could try to talk to them too, hm? Not that difficult to learn, though….” His grin widens, all sharp teeth, “maybe that brain of yours is too stuffed full of silly things to make room for—“

A knife cuts through the air and hits a wooden beam just beside Harlequin’s head with a loud THUNK as the metal tip sinks deep into the softwood.

“Ah, sensitive topic?” Harlequin teases, constantly overjoyed in knowing something that Pierrot simply couldn’t seem to grasp.

String Speak was an archaic language, but one that they’d seen humans develop over time— not hard in the most literal sense, but it required a gentle and subtle touch that Pierrot simply couldn’t seem to grasp. He tended to yank than to tug, and no amount of Harlequin’s attempts to teach him proved fruitful.

But despite his devilish grin, Harlequin felt merciful.

“They said they’re doing good today,” he muses, reaching a hand up to pluck the knife out from the beam behind him and tossing it back to Pierrot in one smooth motion. “Though they did decline my request for nudes, alas. I’m ever so curious to know what our sweet soulmate looks like~”

Pierrot growls, but the noise hardly carries an edge to it. It sounds more frustrated and half-resigned than anything else. He catches the knife without blinking, gripping the handle tight enough against his palm that Harlequin can hear the strain of his leather gloves.

“… Jester says to ignore it now,” he says carefully, voice hoarse and so low that it seems to drag across his vocal cords. “Says it will eventually go away. This soulmate isn’t…. Like us.”

The words feel uneasy and awkward in the air between them, like pungent rotting fruit neither wants to touch.

It hadn’t taken very long for them to notice the new string some months back. The new and foreign color clashing against the mismatched but familiar rainbow set across their fingers. The appearance was shock enough for all of them— as was the realization that it was likely a human on the other end of their new, shared String. The idea seemed impossible, especially since they had been connected to each other and nobody else for… well, as long as they had been together. Too many years to count.

The idea of a human sharing a String with any them, let alone all five of them was…. Well, they each felt differently about it. Some chose not to acknowledge it at all, while others were various levels of curious— Pierrot and Harlequin seemed to be the only two who actually acknowledged and questioned it.

It wasn’t a taboo topic, not technically at least. Nothing like the never-mentioned faded pink String tied all too tightly around their wrists, sometimes feeling like a death grip that never quite faded away.

No, not like that; Pierrot tried often to bring it up, wondering what would happen if they met this soulmate. Would they be allowed in the circus? Would they get to learn about the five connected to them?

The questions hadn’t been met with anger when he’d posed them, but arguably the response was something far worse:

Dismissal.

Doctor didn’t seem to care, Ticket Taker answered in circles, and Jester… well. Pierrot knew better than to ask Jester after he’d already gotten an answer to simply ‘ignore and forget it’. Of course it had been gentler, but the troupe leader had quite a talent in making even the gentlest things feel… painful, even if he didn’t mean to hurt Pierrot.

This odd, new, fantastical String was a mystery that almost commanded attention.

It was the only thing he and Harlequin could bond over. Their shared intrigue into this soulmate where the others didn’t seem to care at all. The painful, bittersweet irony wasn’t lost on either man, given their past… conflicts.

“You’re looking far too pitiful for my liking,” Harlequin finally says, tongue sharp and words sharper… though his tone didn’t quite match the venom. It was… softer, in a fashion. “Why don’t we go and pass out some flyers? I’m sure that will take your mind off things— we’ll even stop by that little bakery you seem stupidly infatuated with if you like.”

Pierrot levels a hard gaze with the other, as if trying to determine if the offer was a veiled prank or not. Harlequin meets his gaze steadily, giving nothing other than the wide grin that seemed almost plastered across his face at all hours of the day. Pierrot finally relents with a sigh, tucking away his last few knives into the hidden pockets across his uniform.

“I’ve wanted to go there for a while,” he finally says, choosing to ignore a majority of what Harlequin said. “There’s a cake I saw in the window I’d like to try making. It looks…. Nice.”

“And I’m sure it has enough sickly-sweet sugar to give someone cavities for a lifetime.”

It’s a purposeful prod to get a rise from Pierrot. He knows this, but he growls at the other all the same. “Just because you don’t like sweet things doesn’t mean they’re bad.”

”Apologies,” Harlequin hums, not at all apologetic. “After all, dear Pierrot. You know that my tastes run a little spicy.”

He flashes the other a wide, suggestive grin and Pierrot has to restrain himself from instinctively throwing a knife at his face.

…

Flyers.

Flyers everywhere.

The streets seem choked and covered with them aplenty ever since that circus arrived and had set up outside of town. You had been annoyed at first by the copious amounts of discarded marketing— and perhaps you still are in some way— but it’s not like the employees of the circus were the ones littering or mindlessly tossing them about. You were more annoyed watching the people take an offered flyer only to look at it for a second, make a joke to a friend, then simply crumple it up and toss it over their shoulder.

Your thoughts of the circus itself aside, it seemed atrociously rude and inconsiderate to simply litter the streets with them. Even the trash cans at work feel as though they’re half-filled with forgotten fliers at the end of every shift. And as much as you’d like to say you weren’t interested at all, curiosity had begun to get the better of you a little more each day. Maybe you’d visit the circus just once before they left, if only to say that you did and finally have a better answer for all the customers who asked you about it.

Maybe…

There’s a gentle chill in the air. It’s a breeze that settles somewhere between a nip and a cold bite over your bare skin— a good thing you tossed on a jacket before running out of the apartment. How soon would it be before the chill deepens? Will it get bad this year? The thought lingers against your mind idly as you turn a corner onto the main road, the one you’d follow to eventually get to the cafe. You wanted to get there early enough so you could ask Carol about covering a shift for you next week.

But something shifts in that moment.

That step.

That turn of your body around the corner of the street.

The Strings tighten against your skin for just a brief moment. It feels as though all of them are digging into your flesh— for the first time in the entirety of having them, you feel led by their phantasmal touch.

The one at your wrist hurts most of all, the pressure and pull so strong that you almost feel your hand physically move to follow its unseen guidance. It’s like the handle of a cheap plastic shopping bag stuffed full of too many heavy items and you completely unable to put it down or disentangle it from your person as it begins to cut off circulation.

Somewhere in the burning pain you realize the direction it’s leading you is straight down the sidewalk on the other side of the road, the side you would normally ignore in favor of a more direct path to the café. But before you can begin to wonder why, your eyes take in the scene unfolding near the crosswalk—

A small group of people. It’s hard to make out the details, but they all seemed to be grouped up around… something. You could hear their jeering from across the street, though it wasn’t until you moved closer that their words came into sharp focus from the din.

“Get out of our fucking town!” Came one shout, sharp and shrill.

“You weirdos shouldn’t be here,” came another, the owner seeming to jab a finger towards the subject of their abuse, “You're the reason that woman went missing huh? You think it's funny to just take people off the street?"

You're moving closer before your mind catches up with your feet, getting a glimpse of someone in the center of the small crowd. Someone in a costume, one of those performers from that circus you kept hearing about. He’s on the ground, head bowed and hands clenching tight at a stack of fliers that he must have been handing out before getting cornered against the building. They look like a lifeline in his fists, papers crumpled against the white-knuckle, trembling grip of dark gloves. Face turned down, his long hair is like a curtain of silver that hides most of his face from view.

He looks scared.

Accusations and threats began to fall like stones. One after another, thick with vitriol and malice that burns against your thoughts. But then, the sound of a glass bottle in someone's grip clinks dangerously into your ear—

"That is enough!"

Somewhere in the thick, suffocating chaos, you barely register that your hand no longer hurts. All you can do is force yourself between a few of the onlookers with a sudden wave of protectiveness surging like a wave upon a stormy beach. With barely a glance towards the red-clad performer other than to make sure he’s physically alright, you turn around and face the crowd with an expression you hope is half as angry as you feel right now.

”What the fuck are you people doing right now? You’re going to gang up on him like this? He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

Blood rushes in your ears. Your lungs burn. Adrenaline leaves your thoughts simultaneously sluggish and sped up into a blur that you yourself can barely follow.

“Haven’t you seen the news?!” One of the crowd yells in a half-hearted attempt to keep up the air of anger that you’d broken simply by speaking out. “They’re kidnapping people, those freaks from that circus. They took a girl just last night!”

For a moment you’re not sure what to say. It feels like a million eyes are on you, watching and waiting for a performance of anger that you can’t keep up for long. Nerves begin to make your fingertips shake as worry creeps into the cracks where confidence fails you.

But then there’s a whimper from behind.

It’s all a blur again, from idly standing with your hands to your sides and suddenly with your phone in your hand, camera open and recording in an open defiance to the mindless anger filling this side of the street. It’s all you can think to do in this moment.

“I will call the police,” you say, words coming off far more confident than they felt in your throat. “I am recording and I will call the police right now if anyone comes closer. Don’t fucking t-test me.”

One part of you genuinely expects to get hit while another begs for them to leave. Just leave. Please leave. Go away. All you can do is stand there looking halfway like a fool, one person within a crowd of angry and anonymous faces who had been so close to doing this poor man genuine harm. But your camera continues to record. Your threat hangs in the air.

Eventually, the near-mob dissipates with several low threats and demeaning insults— mostly to the circus performer behind you. You stand trembling even as the dozen turns into a handful, then a few, then to none.

It’s only once the entirety of the crowd is gone and your momentary paranoia settles that you feel safe enough to turn off your phone’s camera and slowly turn around to the man you had defended, tucking the device into a pocket.

You reach your hand out, eyes flicking back and forth to either side of the sidewalk, as if worried that someone else would kick up a fuss again while you were helping him up.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” the words tumble from your lips in an awkward heap. “Some people here are… not too fond of the circus. B-but that doesn’t give them an excuse to corner you like that!”

He doesn’t take your hand. You continue to babble.

“A-are you okay? Can you stand? If they hurt you then I can help you to a clinic or something…“

And that’s when your eyes look down at your hand. Extended, fingers splayed in an instinctual gesture to grab his and help him up. It takes a few seconds for your eyes to filter exactly what you’re seeing—

The String on your thumb is bright and glowing, so much that it almost blinds you for a moment. A warm, golden color wrapped several times over your knuckles like it was desperately trying to hold on. The free end falls, visible now for the first time in your life, towards the pavement where it winds ahead loosely and…

… the other end is wrapped around the mysterious man’s thumb. It glows so bright against his glove, unmistakable and clear as day. The other end to one of your Strings.

One of your Soulmates.

His eyes seem wide with shock in equal amounts, giant pools of obsidian darkness only pricked with the same golden color that made up the String shared between you both.

“Pierrot!” A shout forces you out of your reverie just in time to turn your eyes down the sidewalk where another circus performer turns a sharp corner. “Are you—”

He is dressed in a similarly odd fashion but with an outfit of bright emerald green— his eyes lock upon the man in front of you (Pierrot?) with what looks like a flash of worry-anger-relief before turning towards you. Anger is quickly tucked into a visage of calm (is this a worried coworker?) before his eyes drop to your outstretched hand.

Time seemed to stop.

As if the universe didn’t already have enough things to throw at you in the span of just a few seconds, you notice a line of bright green snaking across the pavement in the half-dozen paces the new man stood from you. Following it, you find either end of the String tying your hands together in a second connection— the holder of the green string on your middle finger.

The one who had just a few hours before asked for nudes.

You can’t speak. Neither can Pierrot. But this new man, unnamed but so familiar in ways you couldn’t begin to describe, seems to sum up the moment in a brief but sharp curse as a look of horror spreads across his face.

“Puta que pariu.”

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You can call me Ruth