midnight circus
midnight circus (sunny hill)
kiseop-centric; pg; angst
summary: The show must go on.
warnings: mentions of abuse
Brush swipes over cheekbone, trailing powdery white; fine snow on smooth silk. Red slicks over lips, bright and gleaming in the dim light, almost like blood. A routine, one that he is familiar with, one that he is sure he would be able to do even with his eyes closed.
The door creaks open, a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway. "Show's on in fifteen minutes. Hurry up."
He nods. Brush sweeps over eyelids, spreading liquid colour within the diamonds outlining each eye. He'd selected a dark gray tone today, stark against the paleness of his skin.
Swipe over skin. Dip into colour palette. Repeat. The man does not go away.
Gaze burns into the back of his head, intense and cruel. "No mistakes today. That last performance was awful."
Hand stills in its movements. Dark brown eyes, wide and terrified, follow the man from his reflection in the mirror as he steps closer, closer, until he's right behind. Close. He shivers. Too close.
Palm rests on his shoulder almost casually, squeezing gently. "And we can't afford any more mistakes, can we?" The man shifts slightly, the ornate gold buckle on his belt catching the light.
Another tremble runs through his slight frame as he recalls that very same belt cutting into his bare skin just two days before. The sharp crack of leather as it snapped against his back, again and again, a torturous cycle. Pain, blooming across his skin from each nerve, harsh and intense.
"Hmm, Kiseop-ah?" The man murmurs, in a teasing manner.
He shakes his head almost indistinctly; eyes downcast and lips pressed together tightly as he puts the brush down and folds his hands in his lap.
"Good." The man pats his shoulder kindly. "I'll be watching your performance later. I'm sure you'll do well tonight." Harmless words spoken in an almost genial tone, but he's worked with the man long enough to hear the threat veiled beneath the encouraging comment.
He sits there, muscles wound taut as a spring; head bowed and hands clasped together in his lap, a silent prayer.
Leather shoes pad out an uneven beat on the wooden floor. Door slams shut, footsteps slowly fading away into silence. The man is finally gone.
Kiseop allows himself to let out the breath he'd been holding ever since the man had laid his hand on him, his lungs throbbing painfully from the lack of oxygen. Relax, he tells himself, reaching out to pick up the brush once more. Don't make the same mistakes you did two nights ago.
He resumes his routine, putting the finishing touches on his makeup. Soft bristles skim over surface of skin, painting on a perfect mask with each stroke.
"Nine minutes!" a rap at the door accompanied by the performer's voice calling out impatiently. "Kiseop-ah, hurry!"
Ignoring the person, he picks up a small, slender-tipped lipbrush. Lower tip into vividly-hued lipstick, smear over lips. Repeat.
He lifts his eyes to view his reflection once he is done. Bright, crimson makeup spreads over his mouth, in an upward curve that reaches halfway up his jaw.
A smile, one that is false and would be cleaned away when he washes up after the performance. Yet, it is still a smile in all its fabrication, one to replace the expression that his lips have never managed to conjour up.
kiseop-centric; pg; angst
summary: The show must go on.
warnings: mentions of abuse
Brush swipes over cheekbone, trailing powdery white; fine snow on smooth silk. Red slicks over lips, bright and gleaming in the dim light, almost like blood. A routine, one that he is familiar with, one that he is sure he would be able to do even with his eyes closed.
The door creaks open, a tall figure silhouetted in the doorway. "Show's on in fifteen minutes. Hurry up."
He nods. Brush sweeps over eyelids, spreading liquid colour within the diamonds outlining each eye. He'd selected a dark gray tone today, stark against the paleness of his skin.
Swipe over skin. Dip into colour palette. Repeat. The man does not go away.
Gaze burns into the back of his head, intense and cruel. "No mistakes today. That last performance was awful."
Hand stills in its movements. Dark brown eyes, wide and terrified, follow the man from his reflection in the mirror as he steps closer, closer, until he's right behind. Close. He shivers. Too close.
Palm rests on his shoulder almost casually, squeezing gently. "And we can't afford any more mistakes, can we?" The man shifts slightly, the ornate gold buckle on his belt catching the light.
Another tremble runs through his slight frame as he recalls that very same belt cutting into his bare skin just two days before. The sharp crack of leather as it snapped against his back, again and again, a torturous cycle. Pain, blooming across his skin from each nerve, harsh and intense.
"Hmm, Kiseop-ah?" The man murmurs, in a teasing manner.
He shakes his head almost indistinctly; eyes downcast and lips pressed together tightly as he puts the brush down and folds his hands in his lap.
"Good." The man pats his shoulder kindly. "I'll be watching your performance later. I'm sure you'll do well tonight." Harmless words spoken in an almost genial tone, but he's worked with the man long enough to hear the threat veiled beneath the encouraging comment.
He sits there, muscles wound taut as a spring; head bowed and hands clasped together in his lap, a silent prayer.
Leather shoes pad out an uneven beat on the wooden floor. Door slams shut, footsteps slowly fading away into silence. The man is finally gone.
Kiseop allows himself to let out the breath he'd been holding ever since the man had laid his hand on him, his lungs throbbing painfully from the lack of oxygen. Relax, he tells himself, reaching out to pick up the brush once more. Don't make the same mistakes you did two nights ago.
He resumes his routine, putting the finishing touches on his makeup. Soft bristles skim over surface of skin, painting on a perfect mask with each stroke.
"Nine minutes!" a rap at the door accompanied by the performer's voice calling out impatiently. "Kiseop-ah, hurry!"
Ignoring the person, he picks up a small, slender-tipped lipbrush. Lower tip into vividly-hued lipstick, smear over lips. Repeat.
He lifts his eyes to view his reflection once he is done. Bright, crimson makeup spreads over his mouth, in an upward curve that reaches halfway up his jaw.
A smile, one that is false and would be cleaned away when he washes up after the performance. Yet, it is still a smile in all its fabrication, one to replace the expression that his lips have never managed to conjour up.