ʚɞ @lunarjasminee - Tumblr Blog

⋆ WHEN THEY MAKE YOU CRY

in what scenario do the circo members make you cry, and how do they comfort you?

"ahora entrégate / si lloro o tiemblo es por ti, amor / siénteme, soy el hombre que muere contigo, amor / now give yourself / if i cry or tremble, it's because of you / feel me, i am the man that dies for you"

tags & warnings: pierrot x gn!reader and harlequin x gn!reader, part one of two (second half including ticket taker, jester, and doctor), individual scenarios with specific cw for each one below. my bad for being a yapper. character studies, fluff and hurt/comfort, the mc and the circus members are making genuine mistakes, but it’s teaching them more about each other

total wc: 7.2k (2.5k pierrot, 4.7k harlequin...)

✮ PIERROT

cw: broken glass, blood, injuries, established relationship-ish, mc has a vague understanding of the circus and who they really are

the moment he notices the first tear dropping, pierrot is at your side apologizing immediately. his comfort comes in the form of promising to love you, serve you, and take care of your every need until you feel better.

it's hard to imagine a scenario for pierrot; his entire existence is dedicated to pleasing you, acting as whatever version of himself you like best so that you will love him as much as he loves you. so how would he ever let himself make you cry?

he really should have just waited for you to be done with work. he could’ve texted you, or just met you outside, but the sight of you through the window had him feeling like he had to be with you immediately— he couldn’t wait any longer.

but when he’s fidgeting with the back door, trying to get it unlocked, and he pulls a wire he knows he shouldn't have, he freezes.

you’d been on edge all day after customers wouldn’t stop talking to you about everything going on in the news. more and more were disappearing, and while some did blame the travelling circus in town, you were under the assumption that it was something else.

if it was just people blaming the circus, you could have cared less about what they had to say. no one knew anything about the circus, and that's precisely what they didn't like about the vibrantly dressed masked performers on the streets. humans don't like to be left in the dark— to be made a fool of. before anything stronger or smarter than them can overthrow their position at the top of the food chain, humans suppress and destroy. as a result, everyone in town was blaming the circus for even the slightest mishaps.

but in your mind, that gave any criminal the perfect scapegoat for their plans. whether they steal something or make someone disappear, no matter what they do, they can say, “it was those circus freaks!” and the town will take their side. crowd hysteria thrived nowhere better than situations like this.

that’s what scares you. humans have always been the real monsters. in the few weeks that you've known him, even if pierrot won’t tell you much about his family, you’re more confident that no one in the circus would hurt you than you are that you'll make it home safely tonight.

pierrot's nature gave you a sense of peace and safety you'd never felt around anyone else before; he'd held your hands and promised he would protect you multiple times, and he's kept true to his promise in every situation you've wound up in since.

but you're sure he has a performance tonight, so you’ve rushed to close the café, attempting to get home as early in the night as possible. you're closing alone, and you hope that fact alone will make your boss cut you some slack. you’ll be sure to text him a small apology anyway.

by the end of your shift, you’ve distracted yourself enough from the paranoia that you’re not dreading the walk home as much anymore. maybe, you think, if he isn't busy, you’ll call pierrot to keep you company over the phone once you’re outside.

you only have a few dishes left to put away when the lights suddenly go out. the glass you had been drying slips from your grip, shattering into glittering pieces across the floor. between the noise piercing your ears, being left blind in the dark, and the frantic beating of your heart, any semblance of peace you had quickly vanishes.

you can barely swallow with the anxiety growing in your throat, your eyes darting around the darkness, but everything looks the same. you close your eyes, and it still looks the same. your breathing is only getting more erratic, and you place a hand over your heart to try to calm yourself. “it’s okay, it’s okay… i just… have to find the breaker,” you whisper to yourself, trying to silence your racing mind.

you shuffle your feet, trying to kick away any broken glass rather than stepping on it. there's a lamppost outside that's reflecting the slightest bit of light through the store windows, and you use it to navigate over to the walls, running your hands along them until you eventually feel the ridges of a metal box. you sigh in relief, tears pricking your eyes—but whether that's from happiness or the pit in your stomach telling you something's lurking in the dark, you're not sure.

you try to take another step closer to the breaker box, but in a moment of weakness, a curved object beneath your foot snaps, sending pain shooting through your heel. you can only bite down on your lip, a small whimper still escaping your throat as you work through the pain to flip the right breaker. you can barely see, and the hot tears that slide down your face only make it harder.

when the lights turn back on, the first thing you do is look around. while nothing immediately catches your attention, that hardly makes you feel better. there are too many blind spots, too many places to hide. the café wasn't built to be empty like this, so when it's finally devoid of bustling customers and noise, and the windows outside are nearly pitch-black, it always feels like something’s off.

next, you look at your shoe. there's a tiny piece of glistening glass poking out of the sole of it; the rest of the glass had surely pierced through the entire bottom of your shoe and probably into your foot. you blink back more tears at the sight, placing your shoe back on the ground without putting any weight on where the glass is.

it doesn't hurt as much as you just feel hopeless. you’re not sure what to do with yourself— part of you wants to just ball up on the floor and wait until the morning for someone to find you, but then you're just wallowing in your own misery. you could call someone, but you're not sure how long you’ve stayed past closing time. would your boss be awake? he has to be up early tomorrow morning, anyway. you’d rather try to fix this on your own. the best idea would be to clean up the glass and go home.

you crouch down, one arm holding your knees close to your chest while you begin to pick up shards of glass with your other hand. you should go find the dustpan, but between your injury and exhaustion, you can't find it in you to care. all you want to do is go home, so you keep picking up and dropping the pieces of glass into your other hand. they’re big pieces, anyway. it shouldn't be too dangerous. but a door slamming closed behind you makes you jump, and suddenly beads of red are spilling out of your fingers.

there’s a strange ache of pain going down your neck and shoulders, a physical manifestation of the weight of despair and dread you’re feeling. as if your night hadn't been worse enough before, now someone was breaking in. but a ring of a bell follows the sound of the door closing, and you’re not sure if you start crying more at the sound of it or at the sight of the source moments later.

“my dear? where—” pierrot’s standing in the doorway of your backroom, and when his eyes find you crouched on the ground, tears running down your face with red staining your hand, he’s immediately at your side. “oh, my sweet, what are you doing?” he’s moving his hands frantically, unsure of where to go first, take the glass out of your hand? wipe your tears? hug you? find bandages?

“pierrot? what are you doing here?” your voice cracks, and his face seems to drop even more at the sight, as if he's about to start crying with you.

“my star, i'm so sorry. please, tell me how to help you.” he's not sure why he asks; he’s already started to pick the glass out of your hand, placing it in a pile on the ground where it won’t touch either of you. he can’t help but wish doctor was here, or jester. he knows how to take care of himself; he had to know when he was alone and just a kid. but he needs guidance right now because his beloved is bleeding— they are the ones who need help, and it’s his fault.

the doctor would handle this more calmly than him. he would probably lift you immediately and take care of your wounds. pierrot’s barely said a thing to comfort you, and he’s only just finished taking the glass out of your hand.

jester would know how to admit fault without making you more upset; how to rationally calm you, listen to what was hurting you, and what to do immediately. he's still scrambling to figure out what to do next.

he’s neither of them. he’s pierrot. and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. he doesn’t usually make these mistakes; that’s what harlequin does, and then ticket taker chides him, and pierrot cleans up.

right, he needs to clean up.

“my dear, please come here. i’m sorry,” he’s reaching his arms towards you, wrapping them around you and helping you stand up. you’re not responding to his apologies, and it’s making him feel worse. he wants to say sorry again—maybe you didn't hear him just now—but what point is there when you don't even know what he's apologizing for, and he’s scared to say more? “do you know where you keep… an aid kit? in the back?” he asks, and you nod quietly, pointing towards the door he came through.

he almost runs into the doorway on his way through, scrambling to find what he needs. he’s quick to return to your side as soon as he finds the bag, gently bringing your hand up to rest in the palm of his gloves. he wipes away the blood on your hand as carefully as he possibly can, but his hands are so big compared to yours it’s almost impossible to see what he’s doing. every time you wince his eyes flick up to yours, your face making him more and more dejected.

“my dear, i’m almost done. i’m so sorry this happened. please, forgive me,” he speaks to you again, not sure if he'll get a response, but he can't help but try anyway. his heart hurts at the sight of your pain; he just wants to hear that you're okay. it’s been a while since he was the one talking, not the one who was always silent.

“pierrot…how did you get in here?” you ask, and when he meets your eyes, his heart drops. he’s not sure how to answer, what will you think? his gaze drops back down, trying to focus on bandaging your hand.

“i wanted to see you, my star... i came through the back door, and the power shut off as i opened it. i didn’t mean for it to happen. i know i should have waited, i'm sorry, my dear. please forgive me, i don’t know what i would do without you.” he finishes the bandage with a small knot, pressing a gentle kiss to it afterwards. his stomach is twisted into its own bundle of anxiety and worry. he looks at you, waiting for your response, a reaction, anything.

despite your best attempts to choke it back, a small sob escapes you after hearing his answer. your forehead drops to his shoulder, hiding your face from him. he watches your body tremble, a hand hovering over your back, unsure that you would accept his touch. he wants to believe that you leaning on him is a good sign, but he’s so scared of what he’s done.

and you’re not angry, you think. yes, he did cause this; he put you through this fear and pain, but you don’t have it in you to be angry at him because he just wants to be at your side. you know that. he didn’t mean for this to happen, and there’s a small part of you that’s relieved that you’re not alone anymore. not just in this moment— he's proved it multiple times, he will always come for you. even if he caused your pain, he's also the only person you know who would come to soothe it. when you're alone in bed, unable to fall asleep, or too stuck in your own head, he's shown up and kept you company. even when you think you're alone, he comes. always.

you see pierrot’s right hand out of the corner of your eye, twitching, flexing open and closed. he’s unsure of what to do, where to move, how to exist in this moment. you reach for it, intertwining your fingers with his, as you take a deep breath in. “it’s okay, pierrot. i forgive you,” you exhale, closing your eyes. pierrot stares at the top of your head, waiting for you to continue. “but please, next time, just text me. i’ll let you in anytime, pierrot. i promise. i like your company.”

your words send a wave of relief and happiness over him that he's extremely grateful for. he knows he has no right to worry about preserving himself in this moment, yet you still take the time to reassure him. that was one of the first things he noticed about you from the start that made him fall for you, after all: your willingness to put others before yourself, to help them even if you had something more urgent going on. you needed to get to work, yet you still stopped to help him when he was just a stranger.

“thank you…my dear,” he squeezes your hand back, looking at the way your fingers intertwine with his. his are abnormally long and pointed compared to yours, yet you don’t seem to find touching him repelling. “your kindness is too good to me.”

you both sit in silence for a moment, your tears starting to dry as you rest on him for a few minutes, and he lets you. he bides the time by admiring your features—something he could do all day for the rest of his life. “...my dear, i want to take you home. i think you need to rest in bed… is that okay?” he gently breaks the silence, taking care to not startle you.

you nod, pausing for a moment before you speak, “we just need to sweep up the glass, and we can go. i think there’s some glass in my shoe, too. so i might need some help walking home, if that’s alright.”

his eyes widen at your words, “my dear! how could you not tell me? you must be in so much pain–”

his exclaim makes you laugh, and the sound hushes him immediately as he listens to the sound that sends chills down his spine. “it’s– it’s okay. it… hurts, but being with you distracted me, pierrot. thank you for being here. we can take out the glass at home, i’ll have better tools there anyway.”

your words bring a small smile to his face, a slight red dusting part of his mask. he smooths the top of your hair, placing a small kiss to it that makes your heart flutter before he responds, “of course, my dear. i will take care of the glass, and i will carry you home– you will not walk a step. i will cook for you and clean everything; i will take care of your every need. i promise you.”

“oh, that’s not necessary— you really don't need to—"

“i insist, my star.”

𑣲 HARLEQUIN

cw: half of this is a sap yap and domestic fluff, i got distracted, i'm sorry. mc and harlequin argue, but no raised voices or anything of the sort. harlequin is simultaneously unsure and sure that mc will eventually leave him, mc is anxious about expressing their intentions to stay around him, aka they're in that part of a relationship when you're telling a person things like "i want to be around you forever" and it's more intimate than something a friend would say but you haven't exactly answered the "what are we?" question. ending is also a little bit of comforting harlequin more than him comforting mc

harlequin is a little awkward when he sees tears. he always knows when he's pushed too far. he stops right before that breaking point to avoid tears, because he's not good at fixing broken things. so when he finds you crying despite how careful he is, he knows he’s messed up. he keeps you company, although he can be a little distant until you tell him what you need to comfort you. tell him what you want and he’ll do it immediately.

harlequin has a list in his hand.

he’s not exactly sure what makes him the optimal grocery shopper, but he’s not complaining.

well— if he thinks about it, ticket taker’s too busy making the lists and time schedules for whatever jester is thinking up; halloween being the only time doctor can walk outside and not immediately turn every head says enough for the poor man, and pierrot– well, harlequin’s factually better than pierrot in every sense, so that one’s easy.

but he enjoys being sent out to explore every time the circus travels, so he doesn't mind when the list is placed in his hand and he's told to go. he wanders into more places than he needs to because he never sticks to instructions, and in the end, he always comes back with everything he was asked to get, so does it really matter, anyway?

today, he feels like he'll need a little company while he's out fighting old ladies in the produce section for the exact variant of apple pierrot demands.

company from someone he enjoys.

the clear choice is you, obviously.

and it’s his lucky day, because you have the day off, which means you have no excuse not to be with him.

although he's traded his normal attire for something more mundane to fit in with the crowds, he's still just as much of a menace banging on your window until you finally unlock the porch door for him, and it really makes you consider if keeping your door unlocked would be the better alternative. yes, it would give harlequin the freedom to enter your place whenever he pleased, which was a danger of its own, but in that sleep-deprived moment, it was truly starting to sound quite rational. at least then, he could let himself in instead of begging to be let inside like a dog left outside in the rain.

once he’d dragged you out of bed, the adventures had started. it didn't take much for him to convince you; it was rare for him to talk to you about something other than the circus, much less seem so excited about something as casual as grocery shopping. he still threw around dirty remarks as he always did, as if trying to convince you it wasn't just grocery shopping, but underneath his talk was a genuine invite to hang out with him.

you wished you could find a way to make him sit still for one second and explain he didn't have to disguise his words with promises of it'll be interesting or flirts and teases. you know it'll be interesting, because its him. and you're not interested in him just because he flirts with you. what interests you are moments like these, when he reveals more of his true self to you than normal, invites you seemingly to learn more about who he truly is without seeming to realize it. but it would take a truth serum and tying him down to a post to make him directly answer you a question as simple as "what did you eat for breakfast today?" so, you'll settle for what you have now. just being the one at his side, for him to drag along wherever he pleases.

somehow, harlequin’s list had ended up in your hands, and the first store you followed him into was definitely not going to have anything the circus needed. you had been trying to decipher if the neat handwriting was more likely to be ticket taker’s or pierrot’s when you looked up to see him wandering into a glassware art store, quickly trying to catch up to him.

“harlequin, i'm not sure we need anything here,” you warn as you enter through the door behind him, an aged bell alarming others of your presence, although no one else seems to be in the store.

“i know, i just wanted to see,” he answers simply, continuing his walk forward. his voice has something in it similar to childlike wonder, or an inner child being healed. this wasn't the kind of store you would expect harlequin to want to go into, but you can only pray ticket taker didn’t give harlequin a curfew.

you’re careful not to bump into anything on the shelves as you follow behind harlequin who, despite how tall he is, seems to be easily navigating the narrow wooden shelves, littered with small painted glass figurines ranging from birds and other animals to seasonal festive motifs.

your eyes never leave his back, and something inside your heart strains as your brain works to process the emotion you’re feeling. your brain finally discerns it as your throat barely choking back the words “i like this. i like when we hang out like this.” you ignore the feeling because you don’t want to ruin this casual moment with something serious, but at the same time, you’re scared that if you don’t say something, a moment like this will never happen again.

harlequin isn’t worried about anything. he’s observing the glasswork on a shelf against a wall, two fingers holding his chin as he thinks. despite how cozy and local the place feels, funnily enough, he always seems to end up in places just like this. humans have a weird way of separating cultures, yet sharing so many similarities without knowing it. there’s only small differences, like the way this creator’s hands molded the glass, compared to the hands of an artisan in brazil. here, most glass birds are painted blue, while in the last town he visited, in a store just like this, he could barely find a bird figurine that wasn’t red. compared to the doctor, harlequin was able to venture out much more freely. he knows the doctor is fine keeping to himself in his tent, but harlequin stills visits these gift stores when he can, trying to make up for the doctor's restrictions by bringing him back stories and figurines.

harlequin isn’t worried, because he knows that if and when he turns around, you’ll be there. he likes when you’re at his side, and the way your presence feels when you trail behind him obediently. he likes that you seem to like him, at least enough to stick around and humor him whenever he asks you to do something for him. he likes that when he enters a place and all the eyes turn to see whose walked in, you’re at his side, like his prized possession– and they can stare at you all they want, the moment they see him, they know you’re already taken.

“mm, i’m bored now, let’s move on to the next store,” he decides, immediately heading for the exit, but not before grabbing your arm to drag you along with him.

“are you sure? you were looking at the little cat figure for a bit. i can buy it for you, if you’d like.” the words sound stupid coming out of your mouth as you follow behind, only the slightest bit hesitant to leave the store. you’re talking to a man who is part of a mysterious travelling circus, who probably has more money alone than you've made in your entire life, but you offer anyway.

he laughs, the grin that spreads across his face is inevitable as he looks back at you, “you’re funny, dear one. save your money for something that's actually important. not on me. although, if you’re that eager to give me something i know something else i want~”

you roll your eyes at more than just his flirt. he’s hit you with his double toxic approach of avoiding your question by turning it into something dirty while simultaneously sneaking in a self-deprecating statement. “no, not that," you reject him immediately, "but i will buy you anything if it’s out of your budget, whatever ticket taker allocates that to be. just tell me.”

the look on his face bares semblance to a frown, as best as it can with his mask. your answer is a little harder to deflect now that you’ve stubbornly doubled down on your insistence to buy him something, and why do you care so much, anyway?

“yeah, sure,” he shrugs as you continue walking together. you’re a half step behind him, but his gloved hand is still holding loosely onto your bicep, not letting you fall behind. “i doubt i’ll want anything, but you can try, pretty thing. what i want isn’t an object.”

you wait for him to expand on his words but when he doesn’t say anything else, your eyes flick to look at him, only to find him already staring back. he practically cackles as your quickly avert your eyes, face growing red, but his hand that was on your arm slides up to your other shoulder, pulling you closer to him.

it’s going to be a long day.

–

you don’t know much about the circus business, but you don’t think it’s normal for a shopping list to be this extensive and… specific.

you have to imagine the brunt of the list was written by ticket taker, having in mind what they routinely get for the circus. the more detailed items have to be pierrot, or one of the other members, who apparently needs a new blender. someone also wants a 24-pack of mason jars, and you spend an extensive amount of time in the makeup aisle, piling all kinds of different products into a basket.

several people pass by, and you can't blame them for looking. it's surely a strange sight—you're with a 6-foot man crouched on the ground, a basket full of makeup on the ground between you. he won't stop making unhelpful comments, either.

“do you think this is pierrot’s shade?” and it’s foundation powder in the shade "elephant’s breath."

“i think we should get this for pierrot, his lips have been looking a little pale, and this name is really speaking to me.” he’s holding a box of lipstick. said name is “lobster burp.”

“please, harlequin. put it back.”

while you’re in the aisle, on the list is also a specific brand of shampoo. you learn from harlequin it’s jester’s, but pierrot and ticket taker decide his hair products. when you think about it, everyone in the circus does have quite healthy looking hair, but it never occurred to you they might have a hair care routine. it’s even sillier to think that jester, in all of his intelligence and dominance, doesn’t choose his own shampoo.

“and you? what shampoo do you use, harlequin?” you ask, placing jester’s shampoo in the cart. the basket got too full, you had to move to something bigger.

the question seems to offset him, his head is turned away, and is he blushing? “...what does it matter? no comment.”

you sigh, crossing shampoo off the list. “it doesn’t, i was just curious. your curls are nice, that’s all.”

he looks at you, and something feels wrong in his chest. “what’s with you today?” he doesn’t mean for his words to come off so accusatory, but they’ve left his mouth before he can fix it.

your eyes flick up to his, “what’s that supposed to mean? i didn’t realize haircare products was such a touchy subject for you, just tell me next time. there’s no need for you to be rude about it.”

“it’s not that. you just keep… saying those kinds of things to me.” he’s trying to maintain a delicate balance of answering you without revealing too much, but he's failing.

"what things?" you tilt your head, unable to follow him.

"...you keep saying nice things to me. like a compliment. like you care." now you're forcing the truth out of him, and he's not sure he likes that, or how you respond to what he just said.

“what? i’m always nice to you. and i do care. i like hanging around you.” you furrow your brows at the conversation you’re having as you look up, trying to find which aisle has what you need next.

“see? you keep saying things like that. it’s weird. i’m the one who usually says stuff like that. are you messing with me? do you want something from me?” he tries to meet your eyes, but you keep looking around.

what could you possibly gain from saying he has nice hair? you thought he was trying to tease you at first, but now it feels like he's accusing you. “no, you say things like ‘spend the night with me’ and ‘come to my tent and you’ll find out.’ i say things like ‘i appreciate that you exist.’ there’s a difference. you’re flirting and teasing me. you're messing with me." maybe, you ponder, if you say what you've been wanting to say all day, it'll finally get through his thick head that you're here, right now, in a grocery store with him, because you like him. not because you're trying to get anything out of him. "i’m just trying to tell you i think that you’re a good person... and i enjoy being around you. i don’t want anything from you, just for you to be who you are.” you start pushing the cart, and he follows after you.

“but i’m not a good person,” he seems to sneer at the words like you’ve insulted him, “and i’m not just teasing you, i mean everything that i say. so what are you getting at?”

you might just be getting defensive, but his tone hurts a little. you have to blink back the sudden tears that burn your eyes. “i’m not getting at anything, harlequin. just forget i said anything.” this is what you were afraid of, and it's left a sick feeling in your stomach now that you can't take back what you've said. the moment you tried to express any kind of appreciation for him, he accused you of having bad intentions.

maybe that’s what hurts a little. you’re getting a little tired of everything you’re saying being deflected. you've been trying to show your gratitude for him in not just your words, but your actions, too; you're lucky to have a friendship with him, and you wanted to express that. you wanted to hold just one conversation with him that doesn’t feel like you’re only seeing the tip of the iceberg, like you’re talking to someone who's not really all there, because they won't show you their whole self, but he doesn't seem to care about this the way you do. you’re not sick of him, hell, you want him in your life for however long the rest of it might be, but maintaining a relationship is difficult without some bit of vulnerability. what hurts is that you want to think that harlequin and you are getting close, why else would he invite you out today? but now, it feels like he's just been trying to get something out of you. maybe he never felt anything for you. it was all in your head.

“no, i don’t understand why you’re saying these things. are you just playing with me? you can tell me the truth, you know.” people are manipulative; they say things to gain favor, and they give gifts expecting something in return. that is the currency, the cultural laws of exchange and humanity that harlequin is used to. but you go against all of that for some inexplicable reason; it's why he was drawn into your orbit. you don’t seem to share those same human qualities, you've never asked anything of him, you're just there. you hang around him without looking at him like he's something to be used, and anytime he asks you for something, you say yes without even seeming to question or judge him. but if you’re not being selfish, he doesn’t understand your selflessness. and of all people, why would you be selfless around someone like him? it’s written all over in the color green. he is envy. he’s selfish. he’s a liar. you’ve humored him and continued to hang around him, and he really can’t understand why.

your lips press into a thin line; you don’t have it in you to answer. you've never argued with him like this, and he’s twisting everything you say and using it against you. what is there left to say? “i am telling you the truth—” is all you can manage to say, but your voice cracks a little at the end. you pray he doesn’t notice. your eyes keep burning even if you don’t want them to, and every time you look at harlequin now, it hurts something in your chest, threatening to send you over the threshold into a mess of tears. “there’s something on this list i can’t find. i’m going to ask an employee. if you want, here’s the list. just go find everything else. i’ve already crossed off everything we have in the cart.” you force the list into his hands before he has the chance to respond, walking away calmly until you’re out of his sight.

then, you’re running, feeling like something is about to erupt from your chest if you don’t get outside now. you find a nearby bench to sit on, and a humiliating sound still escapes your throat before you can cover your mouth. you hate how exposed you feel when you cry in public, but at the same time, no one cares enough to bat an eye in your direction. yet the thought doesn't comfort you— it makes you feel worse. to go from the attention harlequin showers you with back to feeling like an apathetic underachiever who has no purpose, compared to everyone on the streets in iron-pressed clothes, on the phone with people who matter– it only adds to your pain.

you playing him? you would like to consider yourself a kind person. you don’t manipulate people and drop them as soon as you get what you need from them. if anything, you can probably list a few times that you've been used like that. for your kindness to be accused as something akin to that cruelty hurts more than anything, because if that’s how harlequin sees you, you’re not sure who you are.

you can’t stop the flow of tears escaping your eyes despite your best attempts to dry them on your sleeves. you need to go back inside before harlequin comes looking for you once you’ve been gone for too long, but you can’t pull yourself together.

“...hey. where have you been?”

if you hadn’t embarrassed yourself enough already, your lip seems to quiver at his voice, and you can’t meet his eyes. you’re completely bent over yourself, feet planted on the ground, head turned to the side and resting on your knees.

you feel the shift in presence as he sits next to you, and it’s uncharacteristically silent for a moment. your tears are just falling sideways now, running over the bridge of your nose and into your hair. it’s too late for you to run again; he’s already found you, and you still haven’t stopped crying.

and he won’t let you out of his sight again. he's always been good at knowing when to stop before he pushes someone too far. he’s good at teasing people, not comforting them, so he’s learned how to avoid it. but maybe he got a little too heated— a little too personal in the store, he realizes, looking at you now. he knows he needs to apologize, but he’s not too sure what to say.

“...hey, i’m… sorry. i pushed too far, didn’t i?” it’s awkward. he doesn’t know what to say. he’s not trying to force you any farther, but he’s not sure what to do if you won’t talk to him.

you let out a deep breath, giving him the tiniest nod as an answer, but you still won’t turn to face him. he feels like he should do something with his hands. but where do they go? does he put his hands somewhere to try to comfort you, try to get you to turn to him, or just keep his hands to himself?

he settles for a hand on your head. he's a little hesitant, like he's about to retract his touch at any moment, especially when he feels you freeze under his touch, but when you make no sign to escape his touch, he relaxes a little bit. "please don't cry," he murmurs, rubbing your head ever so slightly.

the way he says it, it's not in a way like your crying is bothersome to him, surprisingly. but he pleads it, because he doesn't like seeing you turned away from him like this. he wants to see your face again. he's not used to you ever hiding it, he's used to being able to admire it and tease it whenever he wants. he didn't mean to fight with you like this, bring you to the brink of tears like this.

fights with pierrot are much easier, and maybe harlequin's taken that for granted. despite his “no talking” rule, pierrot’s quite expressive, even without words, about how he’s feeling. he matches harlequin’s pettiness and anger, and there’s some sort of reassurance in their fights that they’ll still come back together the next day no matter what's said or done. they’ll wake up and still be enemies—that will never change—but they’re also family. harlequin will still bring back everything from the store pierrot asks for, pierrot will still cook for him.

but fighting with family is different from whatever he has with you, he knows that. if he wants you, he has to say it. he’s good at saying those kinds of things. he's great at telling people what they want to hear—what makes them feel special—so why is it so hard right now?

because it’s hard to be genuine. it’s hard for him to be honest. it's much easier to say mindless flirts he doesn't mean, or twist words and conversations away from anything he doesn’t want to think about. but you’re always on his mind. he can’t avoid mending this fight even if he wanted to. he knows he’d just come straight back to your home later if he left now.

and you don't get angry the way pierrot does— you don't seem angry at all, even if he hurt you. that's something else that he can't understand. why are you so forgiving towards him? so patient? even in the past, when he hadn't done anything wrong, one look at him and anyone can tell he's an easy person to blame. he looks like a monster, and with time, he learned how to act like one— it was the only way to fight back when that's all anyone sees. but it's like you don't see that, so what do you see when you look at him?

“i’m.. sorry. i shouldn’t have questioned you or talked to you like that. i’m just not used to people… showing me kindness without wanting something in return. and you've never done that— you’re nice to me. you don't ask me to do anything. and you tell me you’ll stay around. but i keep thinking you’ll… leave. you’re going to find me boring, eventually. or unkind. or see one of my hundreds of other flaws. you’re going to change your mind.” he pauses ever so often between his words, forcing the thoughts out of his mouth as soon as he forms them. there’s a feeling in his chest, maybe something like panic, that’s rising. he doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this honest. when he’s last revealed this much about himself to someone. his hand remains on your head, fingers playing with a few strands of your hair— a nervous habit he'd never admit to on his own.

his voice and touch soothes something in you as he talks, you stop crying almost immediately, while on your own, you couldn't stop the tears no matter how hard you tried. you want to look at him. you want to see what he looks like when he talks about himself. you need to tell him it's okay. he told you all you needed to hear. you wipe away any remaining tears from your face and slowly sit back up, orienting your knees towards him. his hand falls back to his side as you sit up, and you meet eyes with him for a beat. his hand reaches up again, he feels a pull to hold the side of your face, to wipe away the stray tear that escapes your eyes, running down your cheek. but then he looks away, ashamed.

he looks a little grim. you’re not used to seeing him without a grin on his face, but it's nice to see this new side of him, underneath the facades he’s usually wearing. no one's ever always happy. “thank you,” you start. it’s a general thanks, for everything he’s said, everything he’s just revealed to you, for trusting you enough to give you a little taste of what goes on in his head. “all i was trying to do was reassure you i am going to stay, but i wasn’t saying it fully, i was scared of coming off as sappy or emotional. and despite all my promises to stay around, i left you in the store. i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay,” the words are automatic, coming out of his mouth, before he’s even processed what you’ve said. it's not, really. he realizes. but he tells himself it's okay, because it's you.

but you don’t take his words as some sort of excuse for your guilt. “it’s not,” you deny.

“you got upset. you left. it makes sense,” he tries to double down on his words, because why are you suddenly flipping the apology onto him? why do you seem to notice so much about him?

“and you had to come find me, even though i should have been the one to come back to you. i’m sorry. but thank you for being kind enough to come find me. for giving me a second chance." you’re looking at him, but now he won’t look at you. he seems to be staring at his hands in his lap, or something unperceivable to you.

he’s not sure what to say. "kind" has never been a word used to describe him. when you left abruptly in the store, he wasn’t sure what to do. wasn’t sure where to look, where you would be, if you were even around. he doesn't feel kind, he made you cry. he didn't give you any kind of second chance, you're just smart enough as you are, somehow reading his mind before he's even processed what's happened.

when he doesn’t respond, you continue: “i won’t do it again, i promise.” you try to test the waters, moving the slightest bit closer to him, until your knees almost knock into his. he doesn’t move away.

“okay,” is the only thing that makes it out of his mouth. when you reach for his hand, he freezes. you feel the way he tenses underneath you, but he doesn't move, and another second later, his hand relaxes again, letting you hold it.

“i’m never expecting perfection from you, harlequin. and i’m not going to get bored of you. you’re the most interesting person i’ve ever met, and i still have so much more to learn about you, whatever you decide to share with me. you’re not a bad person. you make me feel comfortable and safe. i think that makes you a good person– the fact that you can make someone feel that way. i like to be around you. i want to be around you forever, if you’ll let me.” you lean your head to rest on his shoulder next, eliciting the same reaction from him as when you touched his hand, but he doesn't push you off or lean away.

he’s not used to this kind of physical contact, not used to taking things so slow or normally. but something about your touch makes him realize how much of his past is artificial, because he never let anyone come the slightest bit close to him. your touch is nice, the same way your words are. they soothe him. you’re telling him things about how he somehow comforts you, but you have no idea what you’ve done for him. he’s not sure he can even articulate what you’re making him feel right now. but he says what he is confident in, what he does want: “yeah, you can stay. i’d like that.” he adds on the last part after thinking about it for half a beat: “please do.”

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