LE CIRQUE DE LA MIRACULEUSE - CHAPTER 7
The circus arrives at midnight; a place for mystery and magic, it hosts an unwilling contest between two magicians who are players in a game they can’t control… (Miraculous Ladybug Night Circus AU)
A/N: [rises from the dead to fling a new cirque chapter at you nearly two years after the last one] as always, thanks to @weytani for beta-ing, you truly are the best!
Previous | Start from the beginning | ff.net | ao3
Night fell, and the circus came to life.
Nobody was quite sure how they timed it to the precise second that the first star appeared, glittering teasingly in the sky, but in the space of a heartbeat the lights which dotted the circus snapped on, and the gates slid open. The crowd, which had only grown over the course of the afternoon, took a few seconds to absorb the sight; whilst not blinding, the pale, glowing tents were enchanting in their simplicity.
“Mama, come on! Let’s go!” a small voice broke the mesmerised silence, and the crowd began to move, their excitement almost palpable.
During the day, stalls had popped up around the tents, offering food and drinks which could tempt even the strictest of parents; cotton candy which shimmered in the fading light, light as air popcorn that never seemed to have a stray kernel threatening the safety of the visitors’ teeth, and warm amber cider which permeated the air with scents of apple and cinnamon were favourites, so the circus made sure there were multiple stalls to meet demand.
It didn’t take long for queues to form outside certain tents, which were known to perform on an individual basis – the fortune teller and the matchmaker’s tents, which had been placed side by side, had lines which began to weave together as people tried to decide which to visit first. Other tents, lights draped across the roof edge, had chalkboards twined to ebony-painted posts with show times written on in an elegant script. Whilst some lingered by these tents in anticipation, wanting to be first through the doors when they were pulled open, others ambled round slowly, watching as performers displayed their talents on small circular stages.
Faint music washed across the night, notes from a piano clear over the squeals and gasps of delight from children experiencing their first Cirque de la Miraculeuse, though not quite drowning them out. If you asked, nobody would be able to tell you exactly where the music came from, or even what it was, but for the next week it would be hummed inside the circus and out. Tonight though, whispers cut across the music, flitting from person to person as quickly as a hummingbird.
The excitement from before swelled, encompassing all those who had entered through the gates. Queues formed quickly outside the tents, some even leaving the line they were currently in, everyone keen to be the first to see the new acts. The times written on the chalkboards outside were staggered, so audiences would have an opportunity to see both before the night was through, if they so wished.
Many were drawn to the red tent, the colour a curious change in the sharp black and white aesthetic the crowd were used to. If anyone was counting, the line for the red tent may have been ever so slightly longer, but the simple black tent, stark next to the dusky shadows of the lightbulbs next door, had an attraction of its own.
Stillness did not exist in the circus; even though many had decided to wait for the new performances, others still moved through the throng in order to visit their favourite acts. There would be other days to see the new shows, after all. But a restlessness murmured through the line, couples sending one another away to the food stalls to get snacks while they waited. Hushed arguments about who should stay in the line were dotted throughout the queue, and parents held their children’s hands tightly to prevent wandering.
Eventually, a bearded gentleman taking a look at his pocketwatch let out a small gasp; the second hand hit 12, dragging the hour hand to 7, and the entrance to the tent pulled open. Barely a second later, the queue began to move in as politely as possible, all while trying to make sure as many of them could squeeze into the tent.
Darkness welcomed those who entered, with strings of fairy lights providing just enough light to lead the patrons to the four rows of seats which followed the curve of the tent. A stage greeted them at the back of the tent, just big enough for one person to stand on. As the final seat was taken, the tent door fell shut to the vocal irritation of those next in line.
Those lucky enough to view the first new show in years turned to face the empty stage, anticipation thick in the air. A second passed, then another. Then another. And then the lights flickered out, bathing the room in heavy darkness for just a moment before they began to glow red. Some of the children in the audience grasped the hands of their parents, some of whom clasped them back just as tightly.
The lights grew brighter, coating the room in a crimson hue, until one near the stage seemed to burst; with a gentle pop, the light went black in what the murmurs of the audience clearly thought was a technical glitch, until a voice went “Mama, look!”
A tiny finger pointed up to where the light had, in fact, started to move. Almost fluttering, the glowing red ball moved toward the stage, and another pop shortly followed along with another light. Then another. Then another. And, in the space of seconds, the tent was filled with soft pops like bursting bubbles as the lights flew into a whirlwind covering the entirety of the stage, climbing higher and higher until they reached the top of the tent, where they scattered once more across the ceiling.
As the lights floated back upwards, slowly leaving the stage, the audience noticed a pair of ebony shoes where none had been before. And, with every movement upwards, the tiny whirlwind of lights shifted to reveal a woman standing on the stage, one hand placed on the hip of her blood-red dress as the other held open a small compact mirror which her masked eyes stared into, facing the left of the audience.
When the final light had made its way home, the woman turned her head towards the audience, a smile gracing her lips as if greeting old friends. The mirror snapped shut, the click echoing through the air far more loudly than should be possible.
“Welcome,” the woman said. “I am Ladybug, and it’s an honour to have you all at my first performance at Le Cirque de la Miraculeuse.” A little girl clapped her hands, and Marinette’s smile turned directly to her.
“I see you approved of my first trick, Mademoiselle,” Ladybug said with a laugh. “But you have come all this way to see more than a light show, I believe.”
The little girl, eyes wide and full of curiosity and wonder, nodded. Her father opened his mouth apologise, but Ladybug silenced him with a wave of her hand. The other hand swiftly reopened the compact mirror, which began to emit a silver glow, lighting up Ladybug’s face as the red lights dotting the roof of the tent dimmed. Ladybug took a step back, never breaking eye contact with the little girl, and pressed her gloved fingertips to the glass.
For a second, nothing happened. Then the glow from the mirror seemed to fade, the audience still entranced even by such tiny actions. Such attention was vital, as when Ladybug moved her fingers away from the mirror, waving them gracefully at the audience she held captive by her movements, they noticed that her fingertips were now stained with silver, which began to seep across the black of her gloves, coating her in an ethereal glow as the material began to shine.
Slowly, it spread onto the sleeve of her dress, the red hue absorbed by the glowing light which saturated her outfit until she glowed from the collar of her dress to its lace hem. Only her boots and mask remained black, matching her loose hair.
She twirled once, showing her entranced audience the full extent of the dress, and once she faced them again, she held up her empty hand. All eyes were on the silver glove, and gasps filled the canvas walls when, as Ladybug snapped her fingers, the silver melted off her clothes at once, spilling down over the stage and moving across the floor like molten metal. A few audience members lifted their feet instinctively, whilst some of the younger members jumped off their seats to press their hands into the shining floor, only to come away with glowing palms. The silver did not stick or stain, but the tent was filled with a light which overwhelmed the red dots at the top.
Another click of her fingers brought the audience’s attention back to Ladybug, only to go back to the glow which began to rise like mist. She spun her index finger thrice, and the mist split off into sections, one in front of each individual in the audience, and begun to twist and turn into miniature hurricanes. They began to curl in on themselves, shrinking into small balls as they solidified.
“Please, open your hands,” Ladybug asked softly, and almost in unison the crowd held out open palms in front of the spinning silver. Each ball moved forwards into the shaking hands, and gently stopped spinning. With a soft thud, each person found themselves holding a tiny silver Ladybug pin.
“May these ladybugs be your lucky charms,” Ladybug announced, grinning at the young girl who clutched hers to her chest, brown eyes now the size of dinner plates. “Thank you for visiting my tent.” One more snap of her fingers, and all the lights in the tent went out, coating the room in darkness. A few second passed, and the red lights slowly grew bright again, only to reveal an empty stage.
The applause could be heard across the circus.
“She did well,” Aurore said as she left the tent; either her disguise had been good enough that Marinette hadn’t seen her, or the girl had been too nervous to notice. The girl had held her nerve, but Aurore could see the slight tremble in her hands during her first performance, though she was confident it was imperceptible to anyone else.
Her companion nodded in agreement. “It was similar to her Underground show”, he noted. “Although as it is her first night, we will forgive her. Make a note, though. She must try something new in three cities’ time.”
Aurore nodded. She didn’t need to write it down; she would not forget.
“I wonder who told her the audience would understand her despite the language difference,” Aurore murmured.
Her companion adjusted the cufflinks on his shirt; the silver butterflies shone against the purple of his suit, so dark it was nearly black.
“It matters not,” he replied. “It enhanced the performance; that’s all that matters.”
“To the boy’s show, then.”
A single rope hung from the centre of the tent. The seats were placed in an extending spiral around it, members of the audience facing each other awkwardly as they watched it. The rope stood still, not even the movements of the audience as they took their seats stirring it.
There was no stage, no further equipment. All eyes were on the rope, plain except for the strands of green which wound through it.
When the final man took the last remaining seat, slipping through the tent doors just before they fell shut, they did not have to wait long. Almost as soon as he sat down, pale green lights coursed up the sides of the tents, lining the tent folds and startling the audience.
“Welcome mes amies,” a voice called out from above. Arching their necks, the audience watched as a figure who they would later swear hadn’t been there before slid down the rope, as gracefully as a dancer.
He wore simple clothes, loose black trousers and a matching shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. A black mask adorned his face, gloves covering his hands, and cat ears rested in his tousled hair, staying in place throughout his descent. With barely a blink, he twisted so he was upside down, still balancing on the rope which he had curled around his knee and around his waist to balance him.
“My name is Chat Noir,” he grinned. “Welcome to my show.”
Not waiting for a response, he pulled himself upright again, one arm gripping the rope as the other tugged out a tiny stick from his trouser pocket. Pressing a button on the top of the stick, it extended into a baton which he thrust into the ground beneath him, pushing him up into the heights of the tent.
He did a somersault in mid-air, earning a smattering of applause, and angled the baton so that as he began his descent he was immediately pushed back up, snatching the rope and using it to follow the curve of the tent. Once he began to circle the tent smoothly, he let go, and somehow continued to circle the tent as he jumped back to the ground.
He landed smoothly next to the gentleman who’d entered last, resting his arm on the back of the chair.
“Impressive, no?” Chat asked. Before the man had time to respond, Chat had slammed the baton on the ground again, flinging himself to the other side of the room. A woman in an elegant blue dress looked up in surprise as he landed next to her.
“Very impressive,” he continued, answering his own question. “And handsome, too.” With a wink at the woman, whose face turned a pleasing shade of pink, he leapt once more, landing exactly in the middle of the third row. “But all he’s doing is jumping around,” he sighed to the extremely confused boy who stared up at him. “Anyone could do that!” Chat nodded to himself, raising one finger to the boy. “But could anyone do… this?” And with one final slam of the baton, causing the ground to tremble at the force, he flew into the air, aiming for the tent’s centre.
Walking in, the tent had seemed no different to the others; it was the same size – nothing out of the ordinary. But as Chat ascended above them, the audience swore the height of the tent increased to accommodate his leap. The baton shrank as he rose, and it couldn’t have disappeared, but he certainly didn’t put it anywhere. All thoughts of the baton disappeared as Chat Noir arched backwards when he finally neared the top of the tent, curling into an elegant double flip. He began to shoot downwards once more, the audience gripping each other as he plummeted towards the ground. Time seemed to slow all at once, until they realised it was him; slowly, calmly, he floated down, one arm outstretched with his index finger pointing out as he pressed it into the ground. He balanced completely on only his finger, his grin never moving.
“But, as we all know,” he said to the audience, before flattening his hand on the ground and pushing himself up into one more extravagant flip, this time standing upright, “cats always land on their feet.”
The applause was thunderous as he took a bow.
“And the boy’s performance?” Aurore asked as they wound through the circus, two anonymous attendees to anyone’s eyes.
Papillion frowned. “Very simple. He can do better. But, as with her, we shall forgive him for the first performance. He must also improve by London.”
The queues for the new tents never died down, but it was an unwritten rule that the performers deserved breaks. So when the hour struck 9, and the chalkboards at the front of the tents clearly stated ‘Rest’, the queue waited as politely as their impatience would allow.
Round the back of the tents, hidden where the onlookers couldn’t quite see, Marinette slipped out of her performance area, breathing in the crisp air as she pressed a spare silver ladybug between her fingertips. She rolled her shoulders, stiff from the poses she had held, and congratulated herself on her forethought to keep her hair loose; hours of it tied into tight pigtails would have been tugging at her scalp by now.
Somewhat lost in her thoughts – the circus was nothing if not overwhelming, especially to new performers – she didn’t hear the footsteps exit the tent beside her. It was only when he spoke that Marinette noticed Adrien had moved beside her.
“How’s it going?” he asked. His voice was careful, as if speaking to a deer which would dart away at the slightest movement. Given Marinette’s tenacity in avoiding him over the past few days, it was not an unfair comparison. Behind the mask, her blue eyes widened, and her palm clenched shut around the closed pin.
“Adrien!” she squeaked, before regaining her composure. “It… well. It’s going well.” She paused. “Yourself?”
He smiled, folding his arms and glancing around them. “I don’t think I’ve done this much jumping around in my life,” he said with a laugh, refusing to let the awkwardness in the air linger.
“Jumping – oh, of course. Acrobatics.” Marinette nodded. “I’ve heard the applause for you from my tent. I’m… I’m glad it’s going well for you.” She ignored the heat rising in her cheeks, determined to be nothing more than civil.
“Thank you,” he replied. “From the applause I’ve heard for you, I assume you’re doing something incredibly mystical and spectacular?”
For the first time since they met at the circus in Paris, Marinette gave him a small smile, even as a voice in her head (which sounded a lot like Tikki, naturally) scolded her for continuing the conversation, for not walking away as soon as Adrien had appeared.
But there is something in the flame, something which the moth can never quite resist.
“I try,” she grinned. It was still easier with the mask on, easier to pretend they could be friendly strangers. Easier to pretend she didn’t love him, and couldn’t love him.
“You’re clearly succeeding. I’ll have to sneak in and watch to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Trying to steal my secrets?” she teased, knowing she shouldn’t.
“Like I ever would. I want to win fair and square, Princess.”
And there it was, a joke that hit her like a knife to the heart. The awkwardness fell back between them like a closing curtain, and Adrien could see the exact moment Marinette withdrew again.
“I should go back,” she said, her voice now more polite, more like when she would speak to him at the shop in the early days of their acquaintance; polite, distant.
He hated it. But he couldn’t blame her.
Adrien didn’t stop her as she turned around, pulling open the flap of the tent. But before she ducked inside, he called out softly.
Marinette froze, and Adrien thought he’d said something wrong once more. But instead, she squared her shoulders, marched over to him, and grabbed his hand. Opening his palm, she placed the shining silver ladybug in his hand and wrapped his fingers over it.
“Good luck, Adrien,” she replied, and the sadness in her voice was a punch to the gut. She didn’t wait for a reaction, instead swiftly walking back into her tent.
It wasn’t a positive thought to carry into his next performance, but he did so anyway.
