[Isalynne]

(A warning to any who wish to read this thread: this storyline includes physical, emotional, and sexual abuse. If this is something that will make you uncomfortable, you may find this difficult to read. Thank you!)

On the winter wind, the nameless circus blew into town. No ceremony heralded its arrival - no advertisement had been curated to warn of its coming. It sprung up from the grass of a paddock on the fringe of the forest, bordered not by a fence but by a circle of delicate flowers, bright even in the moonlight. Colourful tents were set up in proximity to the hulking big top. Its size and rippling black exterior, shimmering with a glittery gold hue, made it intimidating rather than inviting.. and yet, opening night came and crowds approached from miles around, eager to watch the show. Something had drawn them in.

Something unexplained, maybe.

Strings of lights hung from stall to stall, criss-crossing along the walkways and lighting the path to the ticket booth. It was a short walk from the makeshift hedge gate to the clerk sat behind the desk.

She didn't seem much like your average attendant. Dressed in pale satin and silver chain, she was a striking image against the dark and whirling colours surrounding her. It was clear that it wasn't her true job, and that she was filling in, because she fidgeted like there was no tomorrow. The only thing on her mind was when she could get back to her horse for practice. It would be tight, considering the line was so long--

The cold, oppressive sensation of dread crept over her. A glance sideways; the shadowy figure of the Ringmaster in her peripheral had her standing up straighter, smiling wider, straightening out her skirt. She didn't need that. He'd told her to do a job, and she intended to do it, if it kept him quiet for ten minutes. Cruel bastard. At least he wasn't as vicious as usual..

She'd seem him visiting Osamu. That was no doubt the reason for his good mood.

"Later.. I'll see him later.." She made a quiet promise to both herself and the boy before turning her gaze to the next customer. "Welcome! Entry for you?"

[crow]

"So hey," James was saying. "The circus is in town." He was leaning, casually, up against the frame of the door, shoulders lax, a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. He reached up to hold it between his fingers, taking a slow and even drag--- deep breath in, and then out, through the nose. Whorls of smoke rose up in pale grey clouds around his face.

Matteo, glancing up, thought it made him look otherworldly. The devil you summoned who wore a pinstriped suit and smiled toothily at you before it made you sign a contract to bargain something away--- your name, your firstborn, fifteen years of your life. James wasn't that; James was just James. But he was in law, so maybe the comparison wasn't entirely unfounded.

Matty wondered if he could paint that. He began at once to scribble in his sketchbook, fast and loose. A dark, amorphous piece composed itself in one corner before he quickly scratched it out. He just wasn't feeling it.

By now, James had cottoned onto the fact that Matty wasn't paying attention. "Hey," he said. "Earth to space case. Did you hear me?"

"You said the circus," replied Matty. "Which circus? Cirque du Soleil?"

"Do we look like we can afford to go to Cirque du Soleil?" said James, arching a brow. He motioned to their apartment, which didn't even have two rooms unless you were counting the bathroom. Any illusion of separated spaces was achieved through strategic positioning of shelves and couches, most of which were mismatched and clearly second-hand. Some looked old and beat-up enough to be third- or fourth-hand. It was hard to tell what from what at junk sales, and the sellers were usually a little desperate, just as poor, and eager to tell you whatever you wanted to hear to make the sale.

"Good point," said Matty. "Which circus then?"

James shrugged. "Don't know. Thought we'd maybe go check it out. It looked big enough, and you're in a slump anyway, right? Come out and have some fun. Maybe seeing a clown on a tightrope will get those creative juices flowing."

Matty, who had never seen circuses or clowns outside references to them in children's shows from ten years back, tried to imagine it. Ronald McDonald and the Joker got out of a tiny car, and one smacked the other in the face with a pie.

Matty frowned.

James misinterpreted his expression and sighed. "Okay, fine. I don't want to write my paper, and I'm using this as a convenient excuse. But hey, it's still worth a shot, right? Not like you're getting anything done here either."

Matty glanced down at his sketchbook, filled with crossed out composition sketches. "Alright," he said. James was right. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. Even if he didn't think clowns would help.

"Great." James grinned, grinding out the butt of his cigarette in the ash tray on top of the shoe closet. "It's settled then. Let's get dinner, and then we'll go."

---

James complained about his coworkers the whole walk down. He worked in one of those uptown clothing stores in a mall fifty minutes away. It didn't pay nearly as well as you'd expect, given what it cost to shop there. They'd hired him on because he looked good wearing what they sold. Everyone working the floor was underpaid and young and miserable, and everyone in management was a prune-faced asshole who had never had to clean a toilet in their life, to hear him tell it.

Matty was only half listening. As soon as the tents came into sight, he felt his pulse quicken unaccountably. It was as if the fluttering of the fabric promised the anticipation of something, though he couldn't have said what it was.

He hadn't expected the big tent to be black. Maybe that was the childhood cartoons lying to him. Somehow he thought it would be more... colorful. Tacky, maybe.

Maybe all circuses had modernized with the times. Maybe everything was a 'du Soleil' and not a 'Big Bozo's Wacky Fun Time' now.

As they drew up to the edge of the circus proper, Matty could see other tents, these more vibrant than the big one in the center, though still not kitschy enough to match the expectations he'd had in mind. Which was probably a good thing. There was already a line outside the ticketing booth, though mercifully for the both of them, it moved quickly.

That was when he saw the flowers. For the briefest of moments, that sense of excitement turned into a thrill of fear shooting down his spine, coiling into something almost like dread in the pit of his gut. But the moment passed, and then the woman in the booth was speaking to them.

"Oh," said Matty awkwardly, a beat too slow.

James wasn't the least distracted, striding forward with a smile. "Admission for two," he said. He wasn't dressed up at all, but he could half sell the idea that he was somebody just from the way he carried himself. James never stalled uncomfortably in front of the counter at a fast food place while the line behind him stared daggers at his back. Times like this, Matty was all too happy to let him do the talking.

[Isalynne]

The girl barely registered the two - they were another pair in a seemingly endless line of patrons that she already wasn't bothered about. All that mattered was getting them all in as quickly as possible, so the Ringmaster would lurk elsewhere and allow her to breathe. The tightness in her chest was nigh unbearable.

His eyes were on her. Specifically, on her. The way her pulse leapt and quickened beneath her skin was signal enough, her nerves alight with phantom prickles of pain.

"Of course," She answered James with a vacant smile. "For two.. twenty, please and thank you."

Not a steep price, by any stretch of the imagination, but they had enough visitors to compensate. The money was shoved into the drawer of the desk and exchanged for tickets; tiny slips of silver paper embossed with inky, cursive writing, proclaiming their value of admittance for one each. It was all unceremonious. They were waved through with a flick of the girl's arm, and left to leave through the back of the booth, into the bustle of the grounds.

The twinkle of the string lights and the scent of cotton candy heavy in the air made for the standard carnivalesque atmosphere. No clowns in sight, and no pies, either. A firebreather on stilts, a starry setup offering fortune telling -- complete with crystal ball, to boot -- a vendor twirling lollipops and strings of hard candy like batons. Making one's way towards the big top was straightforward, in the most literal sense. The path had seemingly been worn down. How so, with its arrival having been so recent?

They were welcome to seat themselves. Unlike bigger companies, they didn't bother with a plan; if the public wanted to squabble over their preferred perch, that was down to them. The benches closest to the ringside had already filled up, but there was room enough for them elsewhere, whether it be in the upper tiers or mid-range. Rather than raucous drums, harp music was faintly audible beneath the chatter of the growing crowd.

A spotlight shone, already, upon the centre of the ring. Looking up to the tent's ceiling would reveal no source.

~

Osamu's heart thrummed.

Another night, and another show to perform. Staring up from between the curtains to his trapeze made his extremities tingle with both anxiety and excitement; he could forget, for a moment. He could swing and dance and pretend that this was a job earned through passion, through skill, through the vaguest scrap of normality.

The Ringmaster's gaze would be on him, like his hands would be on him, pressing, digging--

His eyes fluttered shut. A deep, steadying breath. The bruises had been painstakingly covered with makeup and glittery cloth that matched his eyeshadow. Catching glimpses of himself in mirrors was catching glimpses of a stranger - this sparkling, radiant thing, with stretches of unmarred skin and perfectly styled hair. If he could smile, he could keep up the pretence.

If he could smile, he would survive.

[crow]

The corners of James' mouth puckered slightly, but his smile held as he passed a crumpled bill from his pocket to the woman. He palmed the tickets, then studied them, unimpressed, as the two made their way in. At Matty's curious look, James handed one over to him, before surveying his surroundings with interest that might have been more feigned than genuine.

Hadn't he been the one who wanted to come? Matty thought it, but couldn't quite bring himself to ask. Instead he turned the silver ticket over in his hand, watching the subtle play of light over its surface.

A man in stilts brushed past them, starling James and making him curse under his breath. His fingers twitched for a cigarette--- Matty caught the tic before James jammed them into his pockets, muttering. The air was thick with the smell of sweets, the heady perfume punctuated by an undercurrent of something... else. Something earthier, maybe... or maybe something crisp, something sharp.

There was so much to look at. Men and women in bright costumes, booths decorated with mysterious fabrics that rippled under the flickering lights. Matty would have liked to take it all in, but James was already making for the big tent in the center.

James breathed a tired sigh as he saw the scene inside the tent. "Damn. We should have come earlier," he said. The best seats were already taken, leaving them to decide whether they wanted whatever view they could get in the middle of the crowd, or the relative privacy of the back. James led them up the stairs to the highest seats. Matty didn't complain. He wasn't usually scared of crowds, but something about this place felt claustrophobic, for all the expansive size of the tent itself.

The lights dimmed, and the murmuring of the crowd dimmed with it. A man took to the center of the ring, welcoming them to the show. Matty's gaze was fixed on him, but even so, his attention was distracted. There was a faint buzzing in the back of his mind--- he couldn't put a name to it. And in the shadows of the man's face, Matty saw--- but then he would blink, and it would be gone.

The show went on: animals and jugglers and contortionists who bent themselves in such a way as to make Matty nearly sick. And all throughout, that butterflies feeling in his stomach swelled, as if building to some sort of sick crescendo. At one point, in a lull between acts, James glanced over at him and asked him if he was alright. Matty, pale faced and white-knuckled, could only nod. James' eyes narrowed, but he didn't pursue the point, merely turning his attention back to the show. He had paid for it, after all. Ten dollars may not have been much to someone else, but it wasn't cheap to him.

And then--- the announcer barked out another introduction; Matty hadn't caught the name--- but when the lights went up again, he felt his heart stop.

There, swinging from the beams, was the most beautiful boy he had ever seen.

Matty could feel his stomach lurch--- his breath catch--- but only distantly. His body was almost an afterthought, his eyes wide as he watched, transfixed. The boy, the performer, seemed to dance upon his swing, a routine of exquisite beauty... But it was sad somehow too. The feeling of tightness in Matty's throat wasn't only for the beauty of him.

Matty's own fingers twitched where they clutched his knees, aching for a pen, a brush, anything to capture each motion, each pose and shape and curve. It wasn't until the routine was over, and the boy disappeared, that he realized he had barely been breathing. James was giving him another long look from the periphery of Matty's vision, but now James was just about the last thing on Matty's mind.

"What did that man say his name was?" Matty whispered fervently.

James' frown deepened. "I don't know," he said. "Isamu? Osama? Something like that."

Matty's hands tightened their grip on his knees, barely holding back the tremor that ran along the length of his body. Suddenly he was all too anxious for the show to end.

[Isalynne]

Performing was one of the small joys left in Osamu's life.

At least, when he swung and danced under the spotlight, he was an individual. The eyes on him were appreciative, admiring, rather than possessive - they were fascinated by his skill, content to observe without having to own it. Each movement had a purpose. There was no aimlessness in trapeze; he had to know every turn, every leap and glide, with utter precision. It was a matter of life or death. To let his focus slip was to let his life dissolve from beneath him.

Yet, would that be so bad? He caught snatches of the mat beneath him in his flight. It looked almost comfortable. Still, he knew it was a useless thought.

The Ringmaster would never let him die.

No. He had to be strong. If his eyes were blurred with tears, he wouldn't be able to see his hoop, and then he would truly have to deal with the reality of a mistake. The disappointment of the crowd would wilt his soul, or what was left of it. Making them happy was all he had. If that became a lost cause, he would lose himself for good.

It was over too soon. The ground was in reach before he knew it, and he stepped down on shaking legs to take a bow, allowing his heart to sing at the applause. It would pacify him. When the Ringmaster visited his cabin that evening, the smiling faces of his audience would spring to mind, and he would be okay.

Christiana smiled and waved at him, atop her horse, as he slipped out of sight. She was doing her best for him, he knew. It was a pity that she could do nothing to help, not really.

The show wound up within twenty minutes.

"That concludes our performance for the evening, ladies and gentlemen!" The Ringmaster's slick speech boomed around the tent, effortless in its captivation. "If you still haven't had your fill, our attractions will remain open until twelve midnight! Thank you, and we hope to see you again!"

Osamu's shoulders sagged as he pulled a shawl around them. The sooner the crowd filed out, the better.

[crow]

By the time the show wrapped up, Matty was hardly listening to anything the ringmaster was saying. As soon as the lights were back up, he jerked to his feet, making for the stairs. "Hey!" said James, still more startled than anything, too caught off guard to even wonder where Matty might be going. He grabbed for Matty's arm, but Matty shook him off, nearly lurching as he descended the stairs as fast as his feet would take him.

It was only when he ran out of the tent that it dawned on him that he didn't know where he was going. But even so, he pressed on, spurred by some unknown sense of urgency. He didn't even stop long enough to dwell on it. It felt as though any chance of finding the boy would vanish if he so much as paused to think.

He had to find him. The boy on the trapeze.

"Excuse me," he said, to one of the men in stilts. "E-Excuse me, I... Where do the performers go when they've finished their acts?"

"The performers?" The man looked puzzled. "They'd be in the back by now. But---"

"Thank you!" Matty clasped the man's hand tightly, then let go, dashing off before the man could tell him that the area was off limits to the audience. He ran all the way around the big tent until he came to the back, then burst through the first opening he found.

[Isalynne]

Arlen was trying to take a load off.

The time between the show's ending and ten o'clock was sacred to him - his only break in the shift to recover from the endless stream of customers to his candyfloss stall. A reprieve from sticky fingers and the nauseatingly sweet stench following him wherever he turned. Not that he didn't love the chance to speak to those outside of the carnival's vice grip; it was refreshing, and allowed him to clutch to some tiny scope of the outside world and its events. Still, it was tiring, and any opportunity to freshen up was gratefully received.

He was brushing his hair out when the stranger burst through the tent flap. The ornate handle of the brush had been sliding smoothly through the dark lengths, but was nigh immediately tangled when his focus was lost. Trying to yank it proved both fruitless and painful. His expression soured from curiosity to discomfort, then flickered back again, and at last settled at confusion.

"Can I help you?" Arlen's voice was as gentle as it could be, without a hint of intimidation. If anything, he was concerned about what might happen to the man if the Ringmaster happened upon them and found him snooping. Death would have been a happy result in such a situation. "I don't recognise you.. members of the public are not supposed to enter the backstage areas."

Like reading from a script. He cringed inwardly at his own response, that awful parroting of a man he loathed to his core. It was unfortunate force of habit.

[crow]

Matty didn't know what he thought he would find when he burst in through the tent. His thoughts were all for the boy on the trapeze, the images of the performance still burned fresh into his mind. Had he stopped for a moment, it might have occurred to him how foolish this was, how little the chances were of finding someone whose name he didn't even know.

Now, however, he could only stand there, struck dumb at the sight of a stranger brushing his hair.

The man asked him a question, but words had never been Matty's forte. "I-I... I..." Still breathless, he could only stutter, quickly averting his eyes. He was of half a mind to just run out again and try his luck elsewhere, but the man had asked if he could help him...

"Do you know a--- The boy on the trapeze," he said. "Do you know where he is?"

[Isalynne]

Arlen was silent. His fingers worked at untangling his hair from his brush as he sat, contemplative - was it wise to give away Osamu's location? A stranger could have any intentions with him, and god knew he was damaged enough. Still, the man didn't look particularly threatening, only frantic.

He wasn't solely concerned with Osamu's safety, though. If the Ringmaster found out, the pair of them would suffer unmatched torment.

"You should leave," He settled with saying. The brush finally pulled loose; he laid it on his dressing table, and sighed through his nose, a long, weary sound. "It is too dangerous. If you are discovered, it will not end well."

That was meant to be the end of it. The guy would leave and there would be nothing more to worry about. But Arlen couldn't let it go. He couldn't throw dirt into his friend's chance at speaking to someone, anyone, who may be of solace to him. A sliver of hope, just to take the edge off.

"... However, if you are willing to take that risk... you will find him two tents over."