fic: leaving this old fairground behind [1/2]
title: leaving this old fairground behind
author: Fee (linckia-blue)
rating: PG-13/R (bad words and not very graphic sex)
word count: approx 17,500
disclaimer: I do not claim profit or ownership of any recognizable plots/characters.
warnings: general ridiculousness, bad parenting
summary: Circus Au. Yusuf is the magician, Ariadne is the equestrian vaulter, Arthur is the fire-dancer, Eames is the trapeze artist, Dom is the ringmaster, Robert is the horse-whisperer son of rival circus Fischer and Friends owner. Espionage and popcorn ensue.
(Originally written for a kink meme prompt: (HERE).
which I started months ago. Sorry it took so long. The fill I started posting there has been heavily edited, so don't rely on that version!)
PLEASE NOTE: Though this is not written as a crackfic, I would like to disclaim it by stating that I feel the general premises I have built this fic upon are ridiculous enough that it could warrant a place in the genre.
:)
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leaving this old fairground behind
---
Ariadne goes to the circus on Saturday.
Whenever there is one in town, she goes if she can get away from home and watches them closely, very closely. She’s not looking for how well they perform; she’s looking for some hint that the people involved are good to each other. Ariadne wants to join. She isn’t looking for fame either; she’s hoping to run away from one home to gain a better one.
She’s just turned seventeen, raised with everything she could ever want and nothing she needed. In three months, Ariadne will either be sent to the awful boarding school her father has so kindly selected for her, or she will be far, far away, somewhere she ran to. She goes to see the Dream Circus knowing there’s not much time left until her necessary escape, but enough that she doesn’t need to make any panicked decisions.
The Dream Circus seems nice enough. She likes the feel of the wooden rides and the curving calligraphy on the hand painted game signs. It’s a small production, which Ariadne prefers. The magician, a man named Yusuf with a complexion like Assam tea and tight, dark curls, gives a performance that leaves her breathless. There is an elegant tightrope walker, and a slim, pale, polite looking man whom Ariadne thinks must be an announcer until he opens his mouth and breathes out fire like a dragon. Even Ariadne, who is no circus virgin, shrieks at that. It’s a good circus, but nothing truly extraordinary, nothing to make her think I would give up anything to make this world mine also.
What changes her mind isn’t a death-defying act, or a feat of wonder. Nothing incredible at all, really. It’s something that touches that part of her yearning for family.
It’s late; the circus is closing and Ariadne slips around the back of the tents, trying to avoid the masses of crowds pouring out through the main exit. It’s cold enough that she’s shivering in her thin cotton jacket. Her mother and step-father said they’d be out late but as she checks her borrowed pocket watch she quickens her pace. She’ll be in awful trouble if she doesn’t beat them home. The servants are willing to tell her parents that she hasn’t been out, but their loyalty only extends so far.
“Hey,” someone says behind her. She freezes in place, thinking they must be speaking to her, about to yell at her for sneaking around behind the scenes. It wouldn’t be the first time. She turns slowly, and sees that, in fact, it’s the fire-breathing man, knocking on the door of one of the wagons. “I know you’re in there, Dom. I’ve got to talk to you about tomorrow’s line-up.”
Ariadne takes a few steps back, into the shadow of another wagon. Light pours from the threshold as the door swings open. The Ringmaster steps out, jumping the two stairs down into the night-dampened grass. He’s taken off his dark coat and top hat and is dressed only in shirtsleeves and dark breeches, but she recognises him easily.
“Sorry, Arthur,” the Ringmaster says. “I was putting James to sleep. Have you seen Phillipa around anywhere?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s in our wagon. Eames is reading ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ to her. I’ll remind her she’s supposed to tell you where she is on show nights.”
“That’s fine. I’m not worried if she’s with you guys.” The Ringmaster sighs, sitting down on the first step of the wagon. Ariadne decides to think of him as Dom now.
“Look, I came to tell you that Eames’ shoulder is still fucked. He’s not going to be able to do tomorrow night either. I’m sorry.”
“Damn it.” Dom pinches the bridge of his nose, more tired than angry. “I gave him a week. Your show is our main attraction. We had to fill practically thirty minutes of time with the fucking clowns. They aren’t that funny. We’re going to loose revenue here.”
“Tossing yourself through rings of fire is just slightly dangerous, Dom. I’m not letting him work again until he doesn’t grimace every time he picks up anything heavier than a book.”
“A book?”
“Well, maybe that was slightly exaggerated.” Arthur offers.
“Can he lift you okay, yet?”
Arthur makes a noise that clearly means, not really. Ariadne finds herself getting caught up in this half-understood problem. She’s worried for them.
“Daddy!” A young voice calls. Ariadne watches as a little girl in a plain cotton dress comes running from a huddle of wagons farther into the gloom of the misty clearing.
“Pippa,” Dom says, smiling as she launches herself into his arms. “Oof.” He breathes out harshly as her weight hits his stomach. “Soon you’ll be so heavy I won’t be able to pick you up anymore,” he laughs.
“No,” she says. “I’m gonna be a tightrope walker like Mommy was so I’m have be light as a feather.”
“Hmm…maybe,” Dom offers dubiously. “Or maybe you can do magic like Yusuf!” Dom says, sounding more enthused.
“Just because you’re terrified of heights,” Arthur says, dryly.
“With good reason,” he replies, sounding sour. Arthur’s mouth drops for a second into a frown with more sadness than Ariadne would expect from the flippant comments they had exchanged. He turns back to Phillipa. “And how is Alice doing, Pippa?” he asks, tipping his head to her like a knight to a damsel.
“She’s stuck in a house and she keeps growing bigger and bigger and she can’t get out,” Phillipa says, gleeful. Ariadne thinks it sounds like a familiar kind of life.
“Well, these things tend to work out for people in books,” Arthur says.
“I don’t know,” Phillipa says nervously. “Eames says you have to be careful about eating weird mushrooms that guys smoking hookahs give you like Alice did. He says worse things can happen than growing bigger.”
Dom laughs and stands up from the steps, propping Phillipa on his hip.
“Oh, Jesus,” Arthur says, slamming a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Dom. I can’t believe he said that.”
“It’s fine. You can tell Eames he has till Monday off, but Tuesday is our last night in town. If you guys perform that night I can work out some sort of way to claim it’s a special grand finale performance. Maybe I’ll get some customers to come twice.”
“Thanks Dom.”
Dom slaps Arthur on the shoulder and his teeth flash white and cheerful in the dark, briefly. Ariadne looks at her pocket watch and realises nearly twenty minutes have passed. She is going to be so dead.
But then again…maybe it won’t matter. She watches the retreating back of Arthur; sharp, deceptively slim, running errands for his show partner, and the silhouette of Dom in the wagon tucking his daughter into bed. She feels like maybe she’ll be somewhere new, somewhere home before anything her father can do matters at all.
---
Dom is distractedly shuffling through the papers he’s just been to collect from the ticket office, so he nearly walks right into the horse blocking the entrance to his cabin.
“Jesus Christ!” he splutters as he drops the papers and they fly up, catching in the breeze.
The horse twitches one ear disinterestedly, leaning down to snuffle at some of the sheets settling in the grass.
“Crap,” a girl’s voice mutters. Dom peaks his head around the side of the horse. A young woman in jeans, a t-shirt and a scarf is sitting on his steps. Her feet are propped up on a suitcase and she’s holding one end of a long rope lead, presumably the horse’s.
She tucks the lead under the bar on the suitcase and scrambles to pick up the papers, saying “Sorry, sorry.” Her hair gets stuck in her mouth as she frantically picks up Dom’s bills. She looks about sixteen; maybe she could pass for eighteen at a push. Dom offers her a resigned smile.
“It’s fine,” Dom offers, taking the papers from her as she stands up, looping the horse lead back around her wrist, and pushing her hair out of her face with her other hand. The horse is now chewing on a particularly green patch of grass. Dom suspects she needn’t worry about it running off. “I should have been watching where I was going. In case of…horses.”
“It is a circus,” the girl points out.
“We’ve only got smaller animals, dogs and a few birds,” he replies.
“Fair enough.” She sets her hand on the horse’s neck, as if she’s grounding herself. The horse seems much too tall for such a small girl, but it tips its head down, butting against her shoulder gently. Its coat is a light, dusty tan, but his mane is ink dark. Dom thinks the colouring is called buckskin, but he’s not sure. The girl rubs his nose. “Good boy, Dandelion,” she mutters.
“Are you and your horse and your suitcase here for any particular reason?” Dom asks, already knowing the answer. He thinks he’d probably like the girl; it’s too bad he’ll have to turn her away.
“I want to join your circus,” she says, plaintive.
Dom offers her an apologetic smile, “Look, I’m very sorry Miss-”
“It’s Ariadne.”
Good circus name, very mysterious, he thinks. “I’m very sorry, Ariadne, but we don’t have the space for a-”
“It’s voltige, like equestrian vaulting.”
That’s something not every travelling circus has, he thinks. “Right, well, we don’t have space for a voltige act. You look pretty young, do you even have any show experience?”
She bites her lip, shifting foot to foot. “Well, not as such. But I’m good. And I need the job, really, really bad.”
“I’m sorry, kid. The fact of the matter is that we don’t have the money to pay you right now. I’m only just making ends meet as it is. All those papers you just picked up off the ground were my bills. I don’t have the budget for another main act, especially not one that requires maintenance for the horse.”
She looks a little desperate, finger tightening around the mane. “I’ll…fuck…I’ll work for room and board for Dandelion and I. You don’t have to pay me a cent, just take us with you.”
Dom scrubs his hand through his hair. He can feel another headache coming on already. “We just can’t…”
“Look, my father is sending me to school in the middle of nowhere and Dandelion will be killed when I go. He’s a gelding and he’s not fast enough to race. My dad won’t bother to sell him off; he figures he’s got enough money. I thought I had three more months to make arrangements, but last night he told me he wants me gone by the end of the week. If you don’t take me, that’s fine, but please take my horse.”
She’s standing as still and strong as can be, with her chin tilted just slightly in defiance. It makes her look proud like a soldier and Dom suspects that what she wants is to cry. Is Dom really supposed to say no to that?
He sighs. He just can’t catch a break.
“Fine,” he says. “You can join, but I don’t even know if you’re actually any good and I don’t have the money for a performer, or the time to watch you work. I’ll bring you on with the same pay as the guys who work the rides and you can lead kids around on the back of the horse. He’s gentle enough for that?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “He’s as sweet as can be. Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” She looks like she’s about to add more, but she bites it back, keeping the words to herself, smiling now, at least.
“What?” he says.
“I just…I was jus wondering if there’s a chance I’ll be able to perform eventually. Because…because that’s all I really want to do. Ever.”
Dom feels that maybe there’s actually a chance he’s made the right choice here. No one lasts long on the circuit if they don’t love it. “Maybe,” he concedes. “There is a slim chance. I’ll show you the practise ring and your new wagon after I put this stuff inside. If you stick on with us for a while and the top performers and I agree you’re good, possibly you can do a few shows.”
She grins a full, brilliant smile. “Thanks. That’s really good of you. Just, really...really great.”
Dom opens the door of the wagon and drops off the papers. Phillipa and James are making a mess with watercolours all over the kitchen counters. “You guys okay to be left alone in here for another twenty minutes or so?” he asks. Phillipa is pretty sensible for a seven-year-old, and as long as it’s only circus folk around, he’s not too worried even if either of them does venture outside.
“Yeah,” they say, in unison.
“Okay,” he says, already imagining the amount of scrubbing he is going to have to do at bath-time later on to get all the paint off.
“Are those your kids?” Ariadne asks as Dom leads her across the grassy clearing to where the animal trailers are parked. The girl is lucky they have a horse-box from when they used to have donkey rides, because otherwise Dom really would have had to say no to her.
“Yes,” he says. He knows he’s got a stupidly proud smile on his face, he can’t help it.
“They seem great.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I worry it’s not good for them, being on the road. But then they’re always looking happy. We’ve got a tutor with us, as the tightrope walker and the ride mechanic both have kids too. They’re getting an education at least.”
“Sometimes being stuck in one place is no good life for a kid either,” Ariadne says, softly, so that Dom knows she’s speaking from experience.
“Am I going to need to worry about someone coming after you?” Dom asks after a moment of silence.
Ariadne shakes her head, no. The look on her face says she almost wishes she had a different answer.
He shows her the wagon she’ll be living in after they’ve settled Dandelion in. “You’re sharing with Lucy. She does the fortune telling. You’ll probably like her. She’s a bit of a pragmatist.”
“A pragmatist fortune teller?” Ariadne asks dubiously.
“She used to be a political spin doctor. I think she thought it would be funny to become a real illusionist after she was fed up with politics.”
“Right,” says Ariadne, dumping her suitcase on the empty bed. She sucks in a surprised breath when she looks up and sees the constellations painted painstakingly on the wooden ceiling of the wagon. “Wow,” she says, quietly.
“You like it?”
“Yes,” she says, even more softly. Her fingers brush the homemade quilt folded at the end of the bed, the bookshelf with it’s motley collection of old classics rescued from charity shops, the fat silk ribbons tying the curtains back from the window, which is slightly open, allowing a popcorn breeze into the room.
“Good.” Dom replies, suddenly swallowing against some strange emotion in back of his throat. “I’ll show you the practise tent now.” He says, gruffly. “There is a sign up sheet outside to reserve the space. You can have two single hour slots a week. If you become a performer, you get a lot more. The fire-breather and the trapeze artist are in right now, but you can still look around.”
“The trapeze artist wasn’t in last night’s show,” Ariadne states it like a question.
“You’ve seen us?”
“I wouldn’t have asked to join if I didn’t like the show.”
“Very sensible,” Dom says. “Eames, he’s the trapeze guy, caught himself wrong a few weeks ago. He’s been doing a few limited solo performances since then, but Arthur, he’s the fire-breather, informs me that if I want them back in their double act, I’ve got to let him have time off.”
“The fire-breather and the trapeze artist are a double-act? That seems unusual.”
“They’re fine on their own. But together they’re really spell-binding. It’s too bad you didn’t see them work together.”
“What do they do?”
“You’ll have to wait for a show to understand what makes it so good,” Dom says. “But it’s mainly about Eames swinging through various flaming obstacles. It looks a lot more dangerous than it really is. Arthur can do just enough acrobatics to work as a foil for Eames’ flips, but it’s mainly his job to deal with the fire.”
They’ve reached the largest tent now. It’s slightly smaller than the colourful big top that the main show is in, and made of plain, cream canvas, very functional looking. Dom sweeps a curtain back and gestures for Ariadne to enter. There are a few benches lining the wall. At first, Dom thinks he was wrong about this being Eames and Arthur’s practise time. Then he looks up.
Eames is sitting on the trapeze bar like a swing. He’s got chalk smudged up to his wrists and he’s wearing torn sweatpants and no shirt, but he looks good anyway, broad and tanned. He hopes poor Ariadne doesn’t get any ideas about Eames, or Arthur for that matter. Eames slips down confidently, holding on with one arm and then using the swing of his body to flip back up without letting go so that he’s standing on the trapeze.
“Arthur,” the man calls. “We have an audience.”
“Don’t start showing off, Eames,” a voice calls back. Arthur steps out from behind one of the stacks of equipment in the corner. He’s wearing tightly fitting dark clothing, possibly leather, and holding a bottle of paraffin in one hand and a metal torch in the other. “Hey, Dom,” he calls, waving with the torch-holding hand.
“Arthur, Eames,” Dom replies. “Just showing a new girl around. She joined today. Possibly going to be a performer.”
“Aww, Dom,” Eames calls down. “I’m never going to get that Jacuzzi I want if you keep hiring every bleeding heart that walks through our door.” He waves some kind of hand signal to Arthur who grumbles at him and sets the paraffin and torch down on the ground before jogging back across the room, pulling at some of the ropes until Eames’ trapeze swing begins to lower. When it’s about five feet about the ground he back-flips off. Ariadne blinks. Arthur crosses his arms irritably.
“My shoulder wasn’t even involved in that,” Eames says, defensive under Arthur’s glare.
Dom crosses to the middle of the tent, and Ariadne follows. “Ariadne, Eames and Arthur,” he says, “Arthur and Eames, Ariadne.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Arthur says, politely, shaking Ariadne’s hand.
“Charmed,” Eames says for his turn, and brushes his lips across her knuckles instead of shaking. Ariadne flushes and Dom feels his headache start to return.
“So, what’s your act?” Eames says, smiling. As usual, he’s managed to look so genuine he’s come through the other side into slyness again. Dom doesn’t know how he does that, but it’s absolutely ridiculous.
“Voltige,” Ariadne says.
“You have a horse?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, I brought him with. But I’m only working in rides for now.”
“Ah,” Arthur says. He and Eames exchange a cryptic look that Dom knows from experience means he’ll be grilled on the circus budget by one of them later.
“How’s the practising?” Dom asks, leadingly. He’ll have to figure out something drastic if Eames can’t work on Tuesday, but he won’t have Eames tearing any ligaments beyond repair either.
Eames takes a step back from them and reaches out, slinging one arm around Arthur’s waist with smooth familiarity. Before Dom can blink, and he always does try to see how they do it, Eames has tugged Arthur’s feet off the ground like he weighs nothing. Arthur melts into the motion easily. Dom doesn’t know if he predicts Eames tricks or they’re all meticulously planned, but Eames rolls Arthur over his back like they’re liquid together and sets him lightly on the other side of Dom. Arthur turns his face down, looking away, which Dom knows means he’s probably smiling enough to show dimples.
“Wow,” Ariadne breaths from beside him, so soft he might have imagined it.
“Well, just be careful. You’re looking better anyway. You’re still okay for Tuseday?”
“Don’t look at me,” Eames says, holding up one hand, in mock defence. “It’s ‘Doctor’ Arthur over here who’s holding us all back.”
Arthur’s lips thin. “It was a bad twist, Eames,” he says, tightly.
Eames stance softens momentarily and he shifts his hips to bump gently with Arthur’s. “No real harm done. It’s nothing in comparison to those wicked burns you got last year, eh?”
“He’ll be good for Tuesday,” Arthur sighs. “If we manage to get enough practice in.”
“Right, right,” Dom says, catching the hint. “We’ll just get out of your way.”
“Nice meeting you,” Ariadne says, waving.
“Same to you,” Arthur and Eames chorus together.
Dom leaves Ariadne to wander on her own, promising to introduce her to more people that evening. She thanks him again. He watches her as she ambles off. She seems lighter on her feet than she had when he’d first seen her, looking dejected on his front step. He thinks maybe he’s done a good deed today.
---
Phillipa is smart for a seven-year old, so she understands that not everyone lives the way she lives - the only way she can remember ever living. She wouldn’t want it any different, though. She likes the feel of picking up and moving off again, like everything most important can come with her on the road.
New people join up with the circus every year, and most of the time they leave again. Phillipa is smart for a seven-year old, so she also, understands that moving and moving and moving isn’t easy for everyone. There was an acrobat who was with them a little while before she decided to stay on in a Vegas show that used to braid Phillipa’s hair and help her make daisy chains. She sang Phillipa the kind of lullabies that she thinks her mom might have sung - songs in another half-familiar language.
The lady told Phillipa she wasn’t going on with the circus anymore and to visit whenever she was in town, and Phillipa didn’t even have to ask why. Some people need roots to live right, and some people need wind. Phillipa has always been a wind kind of girl.
On Monday, Ari lets Phillipa help with the horse ride. She hopes that Ari is a wind kind of girl too, because she’s really nice, and Phillipa doesn’t want her to leave. They weave ribbons and flowers through Dandelion’s bridle. Ari shows Phillipa how to bend her knees and sit up straight on Dandelion’s back early in the morning so that Phillipa can do the safety demonstrations for the townie kids who come for rides. Dandelion has big brown eyes and his nose is soft like the velvet ribbons Yusuf gave her for her birthday last year.
At noon, her dad comes over and talks to Ari for a little bit. Phillipa feeds Dandelion pieces of carrots and some mints she found in her pocket.
Phillipa’s dad says, “You getting many customers?”
“Sure,” Ari says back, “Here’s the ticket list. I’ll do a better sign when I’ve got some time and we’ll probably get more.”
“This is really good intake anyway, Ariadne. I’m…impressed. I hope Phillipa isn’t bothering you. She has the run of the place usually, but I can understand if you’ve got enough on your plate.”
“I’m not bothering Ari,” Phillipa announces, crossly.
“Ariadne is still getting used to things round here, maybe she doesn’t need you under her feet,” he says in his ‘use your manners, Pippa’ voice.
“She really isn’t.” Ari smiles. “She’s actually a big help. I don’t quite know my way around things yet.”
“Okay,” Dad says, shrugging. He ruffles Phillipa’s hair and she glares up at him. “Will you take Ariadne along to lunch at one thirty?” he asks. “Arthur is helping me with taxes in the ticket office, but he’ll be done then. You two can sit with him so Ariadne can have some adult conversation.”
“I can have good adult conversations,” Phillipa sulks, but she agrees anyway.
Arthur’s saved them spaces at one of the tables in the Food Hall, which is really just a big trailer with a kitchen at the back. May, the head caterer, and her helpers set out the meals. Dad and Arthur and Eames and some of the other people with the most important jobs don’t have to eat in the Food Hall unless they feel like it, ‘cause they’ve got kitchens in their wagons, but everyone else always does.
“Hello there,” Arthur says, as they come over, “Pippa, do you mind introducing Ariadne to May? I’ve already got something to eat.”
“No problem,” Phillipa says, confidently, taking Ari’s hand and leading her across the room. People at other tables say hello to Phillipa as they head over to the kitchen counters.
“Do you know everyone, Pippa?” Ari asks.
“Pretty much,” she replies, proud.
“Do you like living with the circus?” Ari asks. She sounds different than before, like she’s asking because she really needs the answer.
“Yeah, it’s really good,” Phillipa says, seriously, squeezing Ari’s hand tightly. “Are you worried you won’t like it?”
“No,” Ari answers quickly. She looks down at her feet. “Maybe. I’ve never been away from home except for on trips with my family. And they weren’t very fun. But I liked seeing the different places.”
“The cool thing about being in the circus is you can go to all different places but you don’t even have to leave your home behind, it just comes with.”
Ari smiles and bends down enough that she can wrap one arm around Phillipa in a half-hug. “You’re a pretty good kid, Pippa,” she says. Phillipa beams back up at her.
While they’re eating, Ari and Arthur talk about some boring stuff Phillipa doesn’t pay attention to like the touring dates for the next month and where they’re headed too next, but Ari does tell Arthur about Dandelion and the tricks she can do which is more exciting. Phillipa asks loads of questions about that.
Afterwards, Phillipa goes to hang out with Arthur, so Ari can have her hour of performance practice with Dandelion. They talk to Yusuf for a little and then they drive to town to pick up Eames from a doctor’s appointment. In the car on the way back, Arthur doesn’t talk much to Eames, and Eames looks confused because Arthur keeps giving him a short, sharp answers.
“Have I done something?” Eames asks finally, looking out the window and playing with the automatic lock. Arthur hates it when people play with the automatic lock in the car. He even yells at Phillipa if she does it too much. She looks down at the fabric of her dress. It’s weird when Arthur and Eames fight. It was a long time ago now, but she can remember her mom and dad fighting, before mom fell - it feels the same way, and she hates it.
Arthur runs his hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you.”
“Well, you’re mad about something,” Eames says, pointedly.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“You could tell me, and then I can help.”
“Just drop it,” Arthur snaps. Eames stiffens and hunches down in his seat. Arthur sighs, and lets go of the steering wheel with one hand to touch Eames’ wrist. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m dealing with it. I’ll tell you later.”
When they get back to the fairground, they go to the practice tent so Arthur and Eames can run through their performance for tomorrow night. Phillipa’s glad because working usually puts them in a good mood. She guesses it’s because they have to pay really close, careful attention to each other to get it right.
Phillipa doesn’t really like the idea of being a fire-breather or a trapeze artist herself. She swings on the trapeze sometimes, as long as Eames is there to watch and the safety net is up. It’s a lot more fun to tightrope walk. But watching Arthur and Eames is still really amazing.
Phillipa likes the way they stand together after they’ve finished a really scary trick, leaning into each other as if doing something so spectacular has broken up the lines between them that make them separate people.
They walk her back to her wagon for dinner. Eames picks Phillipa up and puts her on his shoulders. He smells like smoke from holding so tightly to Arthur during their practice. Arthur puts his arm around Eames’ waist while they walk, and they speak to each other soft and close, almost into each other’s ears, so even Phillipa can barely hear them.
After dinner it’s time for tonight’s performance, but Phillipa is tired enough that she doesn’t insist on staying up until after her dad has come back in. She falls asleep slowly, to the sound of the opening music and the audience’s applause.
---
On Tuseday, Eames invites Ariadne to the wagon he shares with Arthur for a pre-show dinner. She’s settling Dandelion into the horsebox after a long day of carrying kids in a slow circle.
“Are you dead bored?” she asks him apologetically.
“By what?” says a voice behind her, confused. She recognises the accent easily. When she first heard it, it reminded her of the kind of people her mother invited to garden parties, elitist and refined, but she can tell the difference now. His is so much more authentic.
“Sorry, Eames,” Ariadne says, patting Dandelion’s cheek. “I was talking to the horse, not you.”
“Ah,” Eames says. “And is he bored?”
“I expect so,” Ariadne says. “But bored is better than at my father’s mercy.”
“Ooh, you’re a runaway, are you?”
“It’s not quite that dramatic,” Ariadne hedges. Eames gives her a dubious look.
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says, magnanimously. “I’ve come to invite you over for dinner, anyway, so perhaps I’ll manage to get the full story from you then.”
Ariadne’s stomach clenches. Eames is fantastically attractive, but he must be at least ten years older than her and she’s only just arrived and she just wants people to love her here for being Ariadne, and nothing else, nothing more. “Look, Eames, don’t take this the wrong way, but…”
Eames raises an eyebrow, perplexed, as she trails away, words stuck in a nervous mouth. “It’s not that you don’t seem nice,” she begins again, “but I’ve only just met you, and-”
A look of realisation comes over Eames face. “I wasn’t propositioning you, dear.” Eames says, kindly. His mouth twists up. He looks kind of like he’s trying very hard to suppress a laugh. “I wouldn’t. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl…but…you are definitely safe from me, I’m quite surprised….” He looses the battle against the laughter, clutching at his chest as he breaks down in a fit of it. “Arthur would…he would…if he heard…oh no….” Eames mutters between fits of hysteria.
Ariadne turns up her chin in mock defensiveness. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t realise the idea of dating me was quite so hilarious.”
“Sorry,” Eames wheezes. “Sorry. You’re great, kid. What I meant was, will you come over for dinner with Arthur and I.”
Later, Ariadne can’t believe it didn’t click right then. “Arthur and I”…“Arthur and I”…. How could she have missed it? But she does. Instead she nods, pleased to be included in with the top performers and hopeful that it might mean she’ll be one of them soon. “Thanks for the invitation. It’s really nice of you. Everyone here is so nice all the time.”
Eames rolls his eyes. “Oh, just wait until everyone knows you well enough to start gossiping. Then you’ll see the true face of a circus crowd. It’s just because you’re new, and still under our wing.”
Ariadne must look nervous at that because Eames ruffles her hair. “No one’s going to put glass in your pancakes, Jesus. I just meant that circus people are a little wary. You’ve been treating people with respect, so they’ll return the favour. When they know you better, they’ll be themselves.”
“Right,” Ariadne replies, letting out a breath. “Well, what time should I be over?”
---
Ariadne gets to Arthur and Eames’ wagon a little early. Arthur calls “Come in, it’s not locked,” when she knocks. She kicks her shoes of into the grass just outside and climbs the steps to enter.
The wagon is a little smaller than Dom’s and a little bigger than the one Ariadne is sharing with Lucy. There is a real, functioning kitchen. A pot on the tiny stove is bubbling away merrily. It smells amazing. Ariadne sticks her nose into the steam and breaths deep. It looks like Bolognese. A bag of dried pasta is sitting on the counter in the corner, so it seems like a safe guess.
There is a sort of half-bench, half-sofa against one wall. Ariadne sits on it, looking around curiously. “Is that you, Ariadne?” Arthur asks, still muffled. Ariadne’s wagon doesn’t have a separate sleeping cabin - everything’s jumbled up together in one big compartment, but this wagon is a little more house shaped. They have an actual door separating the beds from the living area. It’s weird to Ariadne that she’s only been in this new world for a few days, and yet she’s looking at things differently. This wagon looks luxurious to her, where three days ago she would have only been able to think that her old bedroom alone is probably larger.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Ariadne says. “Eames told you he invited me for dinner, right?”
“Yep,” Arthur says. “He’ll be back in a minute, he’s just doing his equipment check.”
Arthur pushes the door open, stepping out of the bathroom. His hair is slicked back stiffly, looking sleek and wet. He is wearing heavy eyeliner and when he turns something glittery around his eyes and along his collarbones catches the light. She imagines that the effect would be particularly pronounced in firelight.
“Ooh la la,” Ariadne says. She hasn’t actually had a chance to watch the evening show again since joining, but she intends to see Arthur and Eames perform together tonight. Even amongst the other circus workers, there is a sort of hushed reverence when people mention their performances. She’s beginning to worry that anything will be a letdown, the way it’s been built up.
“Do you like garlic?” Arthur asks, slicing a baguette and laying it out on a baking tray.
“Definitely,” she says. One thing her childhood had done for her was to instill a love of excellent food.
“Good. Eames throws a fit if I don’t do garlic bread. We’re only having spaghetti with red sauce. Didn’t have the time for anything fancier.”
“Well it smells amazing.”
She watches Arthur finish cooking. They talk about the next city they’re moving to and Arthur explains the process the whole circus uses to break down and pack up the camp. Eames appears at the door, bursting through and ruffling Ariadne’s hair and stealing the heels of bread and then disappearing into the bathroom in a storm of energy. As the sound of the shower starts up again, Arthur leans forward conspiratorial.
“He’s so excited, it’s ridiculous. He’s been going totally stir crazy, he hates not performing.”
“What about you? Are you excited to be in a double again?”
“Well, I’m still worried about that stupid shoulder pull,” he says, but his expression is telling. If she didn’t know better she’d call it longing, or something brighter and hotter than that. Want. Maybe desire.
Eames comes out of the bathroom similarly shimmering, sits down next to Ariadne and steals her glass of juice. He grimaces, as he tastes it. “I was hoping that was going to have vodka in it,” he confesses. Arthur shakes his head disapproving, yet fond.
“No drinking before a show,” he says, in a way that means he’s clearly said it many times before.
“It was only the once, darling. The drop was barely four feet.”
“Four feet into a pit of fire,” Arthur mutters to Ariadne. “A pit of fire.”
Ariadne tries to think of something to say, but Eames has already begun his reply, slinging an arm around Ariadne’s shoulder and laughing.
“He loves it in there. He was in the safety leathers, anyway. It was only five seconds before I pulled him out. He was all ashy and happy as a clam.”
“I’m not going to argue with him about it,” Arthur proclaims, setting the pasta on the table and pulling a green salad from the fridge. “Eames, set the table.”
Eames smiles and turns to Ariadne again, who feels like she’s accidentally walked into the middle of a tennis match, looking back and forth and then back and forth again. “I wasn’t really drunk,” he reassures her. “I’d never let him fall by accident. Only on purpose. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea.”
“On purpose!” Arthur says, getting the plates out and handing them to Eames, who barely seemed to be paying attention, hands already out to take the plates even though he hadn’t even been looking at Arthur, hadn’t glanced at him. “As though that makes it so much better.” But Ariadne can tell it does make it better. It makes a world of difference.
Arthur and Eames are not like anyone else she’s ever met in all her life, but it is not their individual quirks that make them so strikingly unique. It’s in the way they share the space in the room, and the space in their conversations as though each step or word has already been long ago predicted by the other. Ariadne has the strange feeling that if the world were laid out on graph paper a mathematician could probably come up with a simple equation that would show they always formed the base points of an isosceles triangle with whatever they were mutually focused on at the top. Together, they were the crosshairs of a gun, or security effortlessly covering both the front and back exits of the building or dancers twirling in opposite directions at exactly the same pace.
They talk back and forth about the finer points of their routine while they eat, Ariadne content to watch them, though they made an effort not to leave her out, avoiding technical language and even asking her opinion on a few things she might have an idea of coming from a voltiage background.
“We’re running late, Arthur,” Eames says as they finish. “Let’s just leave the dishes. I’ll do them when we get back.”
Arthur looks unsure. “You’ll be too tired,” he says. “Or we’ll want to...” his voice trails lower and away, and he glances up at Ariadne briefly, as if trying to gauge her reaction. She has no idea what he is trying to say to Eames, and only looks blankly back at him.
“Uh, if you don’t mind me locking up your wagon for you, I’ll do them,” she says, into the bubble of silence that has formed. “As a thank you for dinner.”
“That’s great of you, cheers Ari,” Eames says. He looks amused by something.
They all stand up, Ariadne collecting the dishes and setting them in the sink and Arthur and Eames disappearing into the back bedrooms again muttering about costumes and what type of rope they were using. They leave a few minutes later, wearing coats over bare chests. Their thick, skin-tight leggings glitter and Ariadne laughs at them.
“Looking good boys,” she says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says. “Don’t take too long, or you won’t get a good seat.”
Ariadne finishes the dishes and wipes the excess glitter off the table. The bedroom door hasn’t closed properly behind Arthur, and she doesn’t know if he meant to leave it like that but she is curious all the sudden. Just about the layout of the wagon, she tells herself. She pushes it open all the way. There is only one bedroom, with only one bed. The bathroom is an annex to the side. Like her own cabin, the wooden ceiling is painted, but instead of stars, there is a lazy pattern of greens over greens. It looks like a canopy of leaves in a Monet painting. Here and there are careful smudges of colour that give the impression birds. The same hastily added white ‘E’ that adorns the corner of her own ceiling is here also and she realises abruptly that it is Eames’s signature on his work.
The cream coloured curtains are pulled shut, shelves lined with books, packs of playing cards and partially burnt out candles in glass holders. There is an ornate wooden chess set, the bow for a string instrument, and a pinboard with art postcards from museums around the country. Three pairs of shoes are pushed against the wall, two pairs of trainers in two different sizes and a pair of gorgeous black leather dress shoes. The bed is built into the wagon, painted cyan and made up with dark grey silky looking sheets pulled tight across the bed in precise, military lines. Two small chests of drawers on either side are being used as bedside tables. There is a cup of water on one and a pair of glasses, hand lotion and Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’ on the other.
Two single men who have to share a bed absolutely do not inhabit space this way. Only one conclusion can possibly be drawn.
Ariadne steps out and pulls the door almost closed again, heart pounding like she’s discovered a secret, but she is also absolutely sure in the knowledge that what she has discovered is not a secret at all.
---
The lights go out, plunging the tent into total darkness and he waits for the few gasps in the audience to die away until there is only silence and darkness and the ghost sensation of knowing exactly where Eames is, hovering in the gaping empty space above him.
Arthur lights the first torch and it feels like waking up.
There is nothing in the world as good as performing with Eames. Arthur has always liked performing alone, with other fire breathers, or even other circus acts, and he is good at it. He likes the adrenaline and the feeling that comes over him when the crowd and Arthur and the fire are all sharing the same breath. He likes to play the violin, to watch Eames paint, good food, sleeping when truly exhausted, the rough drag of Eames’ hands down his spine and settling on his hips when they fuck, mastery: the satisfaction he gets from being excellent at something, these are all the things that Arthur loves above all others, but none reach the euphoria of a show night.
He transfers the fire to the remaining torches with his cupped hand, leaving him trapped in a ring of fire. He lifts the fuel bottle to his mouth, and the familiar wet, slick bitterness of liquid paraffin wax coats his mouth. He breathes it across the smallest torch in front of him, controlled and exacting. The flames roars up, lion mane bright reaching the first of five hoops suspended above them. The fire catches the first hoop, and Eames appears, as if from nowhere, dropping down to flip through the hoop. The crowd, until now silent in apt attention, goes wild. Eames catches hold of the swing again, and grabs Arthur a second later, pulling him up, out of the ring of torches. They follow a wide arc. This swing has long ropes, and they are nearly above the audience before they start the controlled fall backwards.
“Hi,” Arthur murmurs, in the moment they are out of the audience’s sight, too far from the fire even to appear as shadows. Eames presses his lips to the back of Arthur’s neck in reply. The spotlight snaps on, Arthur takes another mouthful of liquid paraffin wax, catches the flame of the first hoop in his hand and blows it out to the second and third and forth and fifth as they swing by, Eames cradling Arthur. And just like that, in the second flip, in the fourth mouthful of flame, Arthur looses himself, stops being one man with one name, and instead he and Eames become something else together, something like art.
He doesn’t remember himself again until they’re backstage. Dom gives him a thumbs up as he disappears through the curtain to wrap up the show and send the audience out. There aren’t many people in the dressing room. People usually get out of costume quickly and circle back around to watch Arthur and Eames when they’ve finished their acts. The two clowns taking their makeup off finish up just as Arthur and Eames appear. “Heard it was a really good one,” the shorter of the two, a middle-aged man named Gary who’s been with the company three years says.
“Yeah, I caught a glimpse, looked sweet,” the other says. Arthur can’t remember his name but he knows James loves him, trails him around like a puppy on his days off.
“Thanks, guys,” Eames wheezes. He’s still almost completely breathless. Arthur manages a wave as they clear out. Everyone knows how Arthur and Eames get after their act. It’s best to give them space.
“Fucking hell,” Eames manages to whisper, before his tongue is in Arthur’s mouth, kissing him and kissing him until Arthur can’t even stand up anymore, but it doesn’t matter because Eames is pinning him against a makeup table. They perform bare-chested for practical reasons, but it’s a bonus that it’s less clothing to get out of the way now. Eames kisses at the small red burn marks across Arthur’s shoulders, presses his hips against Arthur tight enough to hold him still so that he can let go of Arthur’s hips and free his hands for touching the old and new scars on Arthur’s arms. Arthur cries out, head falling back, eyes closing, mouth open like he doesn’t even know where he is anymore.
“You were so beautiful,” Eames whispers. “You’re so beautiful.” He’s panting harshly, even as his mouth forms the words again and again, leaves them like bruises over Arthur’s collarbone and in the sooty smudges around his mouth. Arthur’s throat feels scraped raw. He must taste like butane and charcoal, but Eames moans when they kiss again.
“We shouldn’t...” Arthur starts to say. “Not here....”
“One more minute,” Eames gasps, and god, it’s so good. Eames’ stupid fucking shoulder has kept him from how good this can be this for weeks.
“I know everything you want,” Arthur says, pressing his fingers into the hollows of Eames’ hips in a way that makes him arch up like a cat, crying out as Arthur’s fingers drop lower. That’s what makes these moments feel dangerous and addictive and spellbinding. He and Eames are still so closely wrapped up in each other they can nearly read each other’s minds, like they’re sharing the same dream and every twitch of Eames’ body is a language only Arthur knows. He feels lit up from the inside, like he could breathe fire without fuel or flame and he wants to breathe the heat right down into Eames’ lungs. He bites at Eames mouth, hard and Eames surges against him pushing his legs farther apart making his hips burn with the stretch.
“Oh!” A small but distinct noise of surprise echoes from the doorway, jolting them both into the realisation that the world hasn’t fallen away around them.
Eames blinks dazedly, pulling away from Arthur slowly. Arthur feels his body follow Eames, like they are linked magnetically, even as his brain directs him to look around Eames and see who is at the door.
Ariadne stands on the threshold, eyes huge, mouth open in a small, round ‘o’. “I’m sorry,” she says after a full thirty seconds of all three of them staring at each other. “I should have...knocked?”
“No,” Eames says, voice coming out low and husky like butterscotch. He sounds totally drunk, slurring his speech and moving like all his joints are water. “I should have locked the door. Most people round here know to leave us alone after a show, but it’s not like there aren’t kids around and stuff. It’s my fault.”
“Right. Yeah. It’s cool. I just...wanted to tell you that you were truly unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says trying to sound gracious and instead coming across as only mildly distracted.
She shakes her head like a dog shaking off water, and meets their eyes with a sudden steely resolve. Arthur swallows. He hadn’t thought Ariadne would be the type to judge them, but then again, she clearly hadn’t come from a very accepting home. It would be terrible to ask her to leave when she really had nowhere to go. She takes a deep breath before saying, “I really am sorry for interrupting, but I just had to tell you, from one performer to another that you were both the most stunning thing I have ever seen and I think that what you do together is just exquisite and I wasn’t totally sure about this place before, but I know now that I’d have to be dragged away. They’d have to wrench me from this circus kicking and screaming because of how beautiful you and everyone else here is both on the stage and off, and I’m going now, so sorry again, I’ll see you later.”
She turns on her heal, shutting the door behind her firmly, and Eames sighs, dropping his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder, smiling against his skin. Arthur releases a little huffing breath of a laugh. “Dom sure can pick ‘em,” he says.
“Don’t I know it,” Eames replies.
“Shall we head back?”
“Yeah, I think the mood has been summarily ruined for a few minutes at least.”
They make it back to the wagon without having to stop and speak to anyone. Once home Arthur lays Eames out on the bed and massages his shoulder which is only a little warmer to the touch than it ought to be. They talk about how the show went which reignites the feeling of total synchronicity between them again as the conversation ends up following a pattern of, “Do you remember when-”, “Yes, and you-”, “Yes, and then-”, “You did it so well that I-”, “And then I-”, “Yes, exactly-”, until they’re kissing again like it’s another kind of conversation.
“Have you been angry at me about something?” Eames asks a little later. One of Arthur’s legs is thrown over his shoulder and all their fingers entwine and un-twine, restless as they move together.
A wave of sadness sweeps over Arthur suddenly making him rock up into Eames until they’re pressed impossibly close. “Not right now,” he says, feeling broken open.
“You aren’t angry at me right now, or you don’t want to talk about it right now?”
“Both,” Arthur says, the end of the word tilting up into a moan. Eames twists his hips and Arthur looses his whole train of thought. Eames sees the moment that Arthur forgets where he is, even who he is. All the energy in Arthur seems to fold down into pleasure, and Eames makes himself let go, too.
Link to part two: (HERE).
author: Fee (linckia-blue)
rating: PG-13/R (bad words and not very graphic sex)
word count: approx 17,500
disclaimer: I do not claim profit or ownership of any recognizable plots/characters.
warnings: general ridiculousness, bad parenting
summary: Circus Au. Yusuf is the magician, Ariadne is the equestrian vaulter, Arthur is the fire-dancer, Eames is the trapeze artist, Dom is the ringmaster, Robert is the horse-whisperer son of rival circus Fischer and Friends owner. Espionage and popcorn ensue.
(Originally written for a kink meme prompt: (HERE).
which I started months ago. Sorry it took so long. The fill I started posting there has been heavily edited, so don't rely on that version!)
PLEASE NOTE: Though this is not written as a crackfic, I would like to disclaim it by stating that I feel the general premises I have built this fic upon are ridiculous enough that it could warrant a place in the genre.
:)
---
leaving this old fairground behind
---
Ariadne goes to the circus on Saturday.
Whenever there is one in town, she goes if she can get away from home and watches them closely, very closely. She’s not looking for how well they perform; she’s looking for some hint that the people involved are good to each other. Ariadne wants to join. She isn’t looking for fame either; she’s hoping to run away from one home to gain a better one.
She’s just turned seventeen, raised with everything she could ever want and nothing she needed. In three months, Ariadne will either be sent to the awful boarding school her father has so kindly selected for her, or she will be far, far away, somewhere she ran to. She goes to see the Dream Circus knowing there’s not much time left until her necessary escape, but enough that she doesn’t need to make any panicked decisions.
The Dream Circus seems nice enough. She likes the feel of the wooden rides and the curving calligraphy on the hand painted game signs. It’s a small production, which Ariadne prefers. The magician, a man named Yusuf with a complexion like Assam tea and tight, dark curls, gives a performance that leaves her breathless. There is an elegant tightrope walker, and a slim, pale, polite looking man whom Ariadne thinks must be an announcer until he opens his mouth and breathes out fire like a dragon. Even Ariadne, who is no circus virgin, shrieks at that. It’s a good circus, but nothing truly extraordinary, nothing to make her think I would give up anything to make this world mine also.
What changes her mind isn’t a death-defying act, or a feat of wonder. Nothing incredible at all, really. It’s something that touches that part of her yearning for family.
It’s late; the circus is closing and Ariadne slips around the back of the tents, trying to avoid the masses of crowds pouring out through the main exit. It’s cold enough that she’s shivering in her thin cotton jacket. Her mother and step-father said they’d be out late but as she checks her borrowed pocket watch she quickens her pace. She’ll be in awful trouble if she doesn’t beat them home. The servants are willing to tell her parents that she hasn’t been out, but their loyalty only extends so far.
“Hey,” someone says behind her. She freezes in place, thinking they must be speaking to her, about to yell at her for sneaking around behind the scenes. It wouldn’t be the first time. She turns slowly, and sees that, in fact, it’s the fire-breathing man, knocking on the door of one of the wagons. “I know you’re in there, Dom. I’ve got to talk to you about tomorrow’s line-up.”
Ariadne takes a few steps back, into the shadow of another wagon. Light pours from the threshold as the door swings open. The Ringmaster steps out, jumping the two stairs down into the night-dampened grass. He’s taken off his dark coat and top hat and is dressed only in shirtsleeves and dark breeches, but she recognises him easily.
“Sorry, Arthur,” the Ringmaster says. “I was putting James to sleep. Have you seen Phillipa around anywhere?”
“Oh, yeah. She’s in our wagon. Eames is reading ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ to her. I’ll remind her she’s supposed to tell you where she is on show nights.”
“That’s fine. I’m not worried if she’s with you guys.” The Ringmaster sighs, sitting down on the first step of the wagon. Ariadne decides to think of him as Dom now.
“Look, I came to tell you that Eames’ shoulder is still fucked. He’s not going to be able to do tomorrow night either. I’m sorry.”
“Damn it.” Dom pinches the bridge of his nose, more tired than angry. “I gave him a week. Your show is our main attraction. We had to fill practically thirty minutes of time with the fucking clowns. They aren’t that funny. We’re going to loose revenue here.”
“Tossing yourself through rings of fire is just slightly dangerous, Dom. I’m not letting him work again until he doesn’t grimace every time he picks up anything heavier than a book.”
“A book?”
“Well, maybe that was slightly exaggerated.” Arthur offers.
“Can he lift you okay, yet?”
Arthur makes a noise that clearly means, not really. Ariadne finds herself getting caught up in this half-understood problem. She’s worried for them.
“Daddy!” A young voice calls. Ariadne watches as a little girl in a plain cotton dress comes running from a huddle of wagons farther into the gloom of the misty clearing.
“Pippa,” Dom says, smiling as she launches herself into his arms. “Oof.” He breathes out harshly as her weight hits his stomach. “Soon you’ll be so heavy I won’t be able to pick you up anymore,” he laughs.
“No,” she says. “I’m gonna be a tightrope walker like Mommy was so I’m have be light as a feather.”
“Hmm…maybe,” Dom offers dubiously. “Or maybe you can do magic like Yusuf!” Dom says, sounding more enthused.
“Just because you’re terrified of heights,” Arthur says, dryly.
“With good reason,” he replies, sounding sour. Arthur’s mouth drops for a second into a frown with more sadness than Ariadne would expect from the flippant comments they had exchanged. He turns back to Phillipa. “And how is Alice doing, Pippa?” he asks, tipping his head to her like a knight to a damsel.
“She’s stuck in a house and she keeps growing bigger and bigger and she can’t get out,” Phillipa says, gleeful. Ariadne thinks it sounds like a familiar kind of life.
“Well, these things tend to work out for people in books,” Arthur says.
“I don’t know,” Phillipa says nervously. “Eames says you have to be careful about eating weird mushrooms that guys smoking hookahs give you like Alice did. He says worse things can happen than growing bigger.”
Dom laughs and stands up from the steps, propping Phillipa on his hip.
“Oh, Jesus,” Arthur says, slamming a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Dom. I can’t believe he said that.”
“It’s fine. You can tell Eames he has till Monday off, but Tuesday is our last night in town. If you guys perform that night I can work out some sort of way to claim it’s a special grand finale performance. Maybe I’ll get some customers to come twice.”
“Thanks Dom.”
Dom slaps Arthur on the shoulder and his teeth flash white and cheerful in the dark, briefly. Ariadne looks at her pocket watch and realises nearly twenty minutes have passed. She is going to be so dead.
But then again…maybe it won’t matter. She watches the retreating back of Arthur; sharp, deceptively slim, running errands for his show partner, and the silhouette of Dom in the wagon tucking his daughter into bed. She feels like maybe she’ll be somewhere new, somewhere home before anything her father can do matters at all.
---
Dom is distractedly shuffling through the papers he’s just been to collect from the ticket office, so he nearly walks right into the horse blocking the entrance to his cabin.
“Jesus Christ!” he splutters as he drops the papers and they fly up, catching in the breeze.
The horse twitches one ear disinterestedly, leaning down to snuffle at some of the sheets settling in the grass.
“Crap,” a girl’s voice mutters. Dom peaks his head around the side of the horse. A young woman in jeans, a t-shirt and a scarf is sitting on his steps. Her feet are propped up on a suitcase and she’s holding one end of a long rope lead, presumably the horse’s.
She tucks the lead under the bar on the suitcase and scrambles to pick up the papers, saying “Sorry, sorry.” Her hair gets stuck in her mouth as she frantically picks up Dom’s bills. She looks about sixteen; maybe she could pass for eighteen at a push. Dom offers her a resigned smile.
“It’s fine,” Dom offers, taking the papers from her as she stands up, looping the horse lead back around her wrist, and pushing her hair out of her face with her other hand. The horse is now chewing on a particularly green patch of grass. Dom suspects she needn’t worry about it running off. “I should have been watching where I was going. In case of…horses.”
“It is a circus,” the girl points out.
“We’ve only got smaller animals, dogs and a few birds,” he replies.
“Fair enough.” She sets her hand on the horse’s neck, as if she’s grounding herself. The horse seems much too tall for such a small girl, but it tips its head down, butting against her shoulder gently. Its coat is a light, dusty tan, but his mane is ink dark. Dom thinks the colouring is called buckskin, but he’s not sure. The girl rubs his nose. “Good boy, Dandelion,” she mutters.
“Are you and your horse and your suitcase here for any particular reason?” Dom asks, already knowing the answer. He thinks he’d probably like the girl; it’s too bad he’ll have to turn her away.
“I want to join your circus,” she says, plaintive.
Dom offers her an apologetic smile, “Look, I’m very sorry Miss-”
“It’s Ariadne.”
Good circus name, very mysterious, he thinks. “I’m very sorry, Ariadne, but we don’t have the space for a-”
“It’s voltige, like equestrian vaulting.”
That’s something not every travelling circus has, he thinks. “Right, well, we don’t have space for a voltige act. You look pretty young, do you even have any show experience?”
She bites her lip, shifting foot to foot. “Well, not as such. But I’m good. And I need the job, really, really bad.”
“I’m sorry, kid. The fact of the matter is that we don’t have the money to pay you right now. I’m only just making ends meet as it is. All those papers you just picked up off the ground were my bills. I don’t have the budget for another main act, especially not one that requires maintenance for the horse.”
She looks a little desperate, finger tightening around the mane. “I’ll…fuck…I’ll work for room and board for Dandelion and I. You don’t have to pay me a cent, just take us with you.”
Dom scrubs his hand through his hair. He can feel another headache coming on already. “We just can’t…”
“Look, my father is sending me to school in the middle of nowhere and Dandelion will be killed when I go. He’s a gelding and he’s not fast enough to race. My dad won’t bother to sell him off; he figures he’s got enough money. I thought I had three more months to make arrangements, but last night he told me he wants me gone by the end of the week. If you don’t take me, that’s fine, but please take my horse.”
She’s standing as still and strong as can be, with her chin tilted just slightly in defiance. It makes her look proud like a soldier and Dom suspects that what she wants is to cry. Is Dom really supposed to say no to that?
He sighs. He just can’t catch a break.
“Fine,” he says. “You can join, but I don’t even know if you’re actually any good and I don’t have the money for a performer, or the time to watch you work. I’ll bring you on with the same pay as the guys who work the rides and you can lead kids around on the back of the horse. He’s gentle enough for that?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “He’s as sweet as can be. Thank you, sir. Thank you so much.” She looks like she’s about to add more, but she bites it back, keeping the words to herself, smiling now, at least.
“What?” he says.
“I just…I was jus wondering if there’s a chance I’ll be able to perform eventually. Because…because that’s all I really want to do. Ever.”
Dom feels that maybe there’s actually a chance he’s made the right choice here. No one lasts long on the circuit if they don’t love it. “Maybe,” he concedes. “There is a slim chance. I’ll show you the practise ring and your new wagon after I put this stuff inside. If you stick on with us for a while and the top performers and I agree you’re good, possibly you can do a few shows.”
She grins a full, brilliant smile. “Thanks. That’s really good of you. Just, really...really great.”
Dom opens the door of the wagon and drops off the papers. Phillipa and James are making a mess with watercolours all over the kitchen counters. “You guys okay to be left alone in here for another twenty minutes or so?” he asks. Phillipa is pretty sensible for a seven-year-old, and as long as it’s only circus folk around, he’s not too worried even if either of them does venture outside.
“Yeah,” they say, in unison.
“Okay,” he says, already imagining the amount of scrubbing he is going to have to do at bath-time later on to get all the paint off.
“Are those your kids?” Ariadne asks as Dom leads her across the grassy clearing to where the animal trailers are parked. The girl is lucky they have a horse-box from when they used to have donkey rides, because otherwise Dom really would have had to say no to her.
“Yes,” he says. He knows he’s got a stupidly proud smile on his face, he can’t help it.
“They seem great.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I worry it’s not good for them, being on the road. But then they’re always looking happy. We’ve got a tutor with us, as the tightrope walker and the ride mechanic both have kids too. They’re getting an education at least.”
“Sometimes being stuck in one place is no good life for a kid either,” Ariadne says, softly, so that Dom knows she’s speaking from experience.
“Am I going to need to worry about someone coming after you?” Dom asks after a moment of silence.
Ariadne shakes her head, no. The look on her face says she almost wishes she had a different answer.
He shows her the wagon she’ll be living in after they’ve settled Dandelion in. “You’re sharing with Lucy. She does the fortune telling. You’ll probably like her. She’s a bit of a pragmatist.”
“A pragmatist fortune teller?” Ariadne asks dubiously.
“She used to be a political spin doctor. I think she thought it would be funny to become a real illusionist after she was fed up with politics.”
“Right,” says Ariadne, dumping her suitcase on the empty bed. She sucks in a surprised breath when she looks up and sees the constellations painted painstakingly on the wooden ceiling of the wagon. “Wow,” she says, quietly.
“You like it?”
“Yes,” she says, even more softly. Her fingers brush the homemade quilt folded at the end of the bed, the bookshelf with it’s motley collection of old classics rescued from charity shops, the fat silk ribbons tying the curtains back from the window, which is slightly open, allowing a popcorn breeze into the room.
“Good.” Dom replies, suddenly swallowing against some strange emotion in back of his throat. “I’ll show you the practise tent now.” He says, gruffly. “There is a sign up sheet outside to reserve the space. You can have two single hour slots a week. If you become a performer, you get a lot more. The fire-breather and the trapeze artist are in right now, but you can still look around.”
“The trapeze artist wasn’t in last night’s show,” Ariadne states it like a question.
“You’ve seen us?”
“I wouldn’t have asked to join if I didn’t like the show.”
“Very sensible,” Dom says. “Eames, he’s the trapeze guy, caught himself wrong a few weeks ago. He’s been doing a few limited solo performances since then, but Arthur, he’s the fire-breather, informs me that if I want them back in their double act, I’ve got to let him have time off.”
“The fire-breather and the trapeze artist are a double-act? That seems unusual.”
“They’re fine on their own. But together they’re really spell-binding. It’s too bad you didn’t see them work together.”
“What do they do?”
“You’ll have to wait for a show to understand what makes it so good,” Dom says. “But it’s mainly about Eames swinging through various flaming obstacles. It looks a lot more dangerous than it really is. Arthur can do just enough acrobatics to work as a foil for Eames’ flips, but it’s mainly his job to deal with the fire.”
They’ve reached the largest tent now. It’s slightly smaller than the colourful big top that the main show is in, and made of plain, cream canvas, very functional looking. Dom sweeps a curtain back and gestures for Ariadne to enter. There are a few benches lining the wall. At first, Dom thinks he was wrong about this being Eames and Arthur’s practise time. Then he looks up.
Eames is sitting on the trapeze bar like a swing. He’s got chalk smudged up to his wrists and he’s wearing torn sweatpants and no shirt, but he looks good anyway, broad and tanned. He hopes poor Ariadne doesn’t get any ideas about Eames, or Arthur for that matter. Eames slips down confidently, holding on with one arm and then using the swing of his body to flip back up without letting go so that he’s standing on the trapeze.
“Arthur,” the man calls. “We have an audience.”
“Don’t start showing off, Eames,” a voice calls back. Arthur steps out from behind one of the stacks of equipment in the corner. He’s wearing tightly fitting dark clothing, possibly leather, and holding a bottle of paraffin in one hand and a metal torch in the other. “Hey, Dom,” he calls, waving with the torch-holding hand.
“Arthur, Eames,” Dom replies. “Just showing a new girl around. She joined today. Possibly going to be a performer.”
“Aww, Dom,” Eames calls down. “I’m never going to get that Jacuzzi I want if you keep hiring every bleeding heart that walks through our door.” He waves some kind of hand signal to Arthur who grumbles at him and sets the paraffin and torch down on the ground before jogging back across the room, pulling at some of the ropes until Eames’ trapeze swing begins to lower. When it’s about five feet about the ground he back-flips off. Ariadne blinks. Arthur crosses his arms irritably.
“My shoulder wasn’t even involved in that,” Eames says, defensive under Arthur’s glare.
Dom crosses to the middle of the tent, and Ariadne follows. “Ariadne, Eames and Arthur,” he says, “Arthur and Eames, Ariadne.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Arthur says, politely, shaking Ariadne’s hand.
“Charmed,” Eames says for his turn, and brushes his lips across her knuckles instead of shaking. Ariadne flushes and Dom feels his headache start to return.
“So, what’s your act?” Eames says, smiling. As usual, he’s managed to look so genuine he’s come through the other side into slyness again. Dom doesn’t know how he does that, but it’s absolutely ridiculous.
“Voltige,” Ariadne says.
“You have a horse?” Arthur asks.
“Yes, I brought him with. But I’m only working in rides for now.”
“Ah,” Arthur says. He and Eames exchange a cryptic look that Dom knows from experience means he’ll be grilled on the circus budget by one of them later.
“How’s the practising?” Dom asks, leadingly. He’ll have to figure out something drastic if Eames can’t work on Tuesday, but he won’t have Eames tearing any ligaments beyond repair either.
Eames takes a step back from them and reaches out, slinging one arm around Arthur’s waist with smooth familiarity. Before Dom can blink, and he always does try to see how they do it, Eames has tugged Arthur’s feet off the ground like he weighs nothing. Arthur melts into the motion easily. Dom doesn’t know if he predicts Eames tricks or they’re all meticulously planned, but Eames rolls Arthur over his back like they’re liquid together and sets him lightly on the other side of Dom. Arthur turns his face down, looking away, which Dom knows means he’s probably smiling enough to show dimples.
“Wow,” Ariadne breaths from beside him, so soft he might have imagined it.
“Well, just be careful. You’re looking better anyway. You’re still okay for Tuseday?”
“Don’t look at me,” Eames says, holding up one hand, in mock defence. “It’s ‘Doctor’ Arthur over here who’s holding us all back.”
Arthur’s lips thin. “It was a bad twist, Eames,” he says, tightly.
Eames stance softens momentarily and he shifts his hips to bump gently with Arthur’s. “No real harm done. It’s nothing in comparison to those wicked burns you got last year, eh?”
“He’ll be good for Tuesday,” Arthur sighs. “If we manage to get enough practice in.”
“Right, right,” Dom says, catching the hint. “We’ll just get out of your way.”
“Nice meeting you,” Ariadne says, waving.
“Same to you,” Arthur and Eames chorus together.
Dom leaves Ariadne to wander on her own, promising to introduce her to more people that evening. She thanks him again. He watches her as she ambles off. She seems lighter on her feet than she had when he’d first seen her, looking dejected on his front step. He thinks maybe he’s done a good deed today.
---
Phillipa is smart for a seven-year old, so she understands that not everyone lives the way she lives - the only way she can remember ever living. She wouldn’t want it any different, though. She likes the feel of picking up and moving off again, like everything most important can come with her on the road.
New people join up with the circus every year, and most of the time they leave again. Phillipa is smart for a seven-year old, so she also, understands that moving and moving and moving isn’t easy for everyone. There was an acrobat who was with them a little while before she decided to stay on in a Vegas show that used to braid Phillipa’s hair and help her make daisy chains. She sang Phillipa the kind of lullabies that she thinks her mom might have sung - songs in another half-familiar language.
The lady told Phillipa she wasn’t going on with the circus anymore and to visit whenever she was in town, and Phillipa didn’t even have to ask why. Some people need roots to live right, and some people need wind. Phillipa has always been a wind kind of girl.
On Monday, Ari lets Phillipa help with the horse ride. She hopes that Ari is a wind kind of girl too, because she’s really nice, and Phillipa doesn’t want her to leave. They weave ribbons and flowers through Dandelion’s bridle. Ari shows Phillipa how to bend her knees and sit up straight on Dandelion’s back early in the morning so that Phillipa can do the safety demonstrations for the townie kids who come for rides. Dandelion has big brown eyes and his nose is soft like the velvet ribbons Yusuf gave her for her birthday last year.
At noon, her dad comes over and talks to Ari for a little bit. Phillipa feeds Dandelion pieces of carrots and some mints she found in her pocket.
Phillipa’s dad says, “You getting many customers?”
“Sure,” Ari says back, “Here’s the ticket list. I’ll do a better sign when I’ve got some time and we’ll probably get more.”
“This is really good intake anyway, Ariadne. I’m…impressed. I hope Phillipa isn’t bothering you. She has the run of the place usually, but I can understand if you’ve got enough on your plate.”
“I’m not bothering Ari,” Phillipa announces, crossly.
“Ariadne is still getting used to things round here, maybe she doesn’t need you under her feet,” he says in his ‘use your manners, Pippa’ voice.
“She really isn’t.” Ari smiles. “She’s actually a big help. I don’t quite know my way around things yet.”
“Okay,” Dad says, shrugging. He ruffles Phillipa’s hair and she glares up at him. “Will you take Ariadne along to lunch at one thirty?” he asks. “Arthur is helping me with taxes in the ticket office, but he’ll be done then. You two can sit with him so Ariadne can have some adult conversation.”
“I can have good adult conversations,” Phillipa sulks, but she agrees anyway.
Arthur’s saved them spaces at one of the tables in the Food Hall, which is really just a big trailer with a kitchen at the back. May, the head caterer, and her helpers set out the meals. Dad and Arthur and Eames and some of the other people with the most important jobs don’t have to eat in the Food Hall unless they feel like it, ‘cause they’ve got kitchens in their wagons, but everyone else always does.
“Hello there,” Arthur says, as they come over, “Pippa, do you mind introducing Ariadne to May? I’ve already got something to eat.”
“No problem,” Phillipa says, confidently, taking Ari’s hand and leading her across the room. People at other tables say hello to Phillipa as they head over to the kitchen counters.
“Do you know everyone, Pippa?” Ari asks.
“Pretty much,” she replies, proud.
“Do you like living with the circus?” Ari asks. She sounds different than before, like she’s asking because she really needs the answer.
“Yeah, it’s really good,” Phillipa says, seriously, squeezing Ari’s hand tightly. “Are you worried you won’t like it?”
“No,” Ari answers quickly. She looks down at her feet. “Maybe. I’ve never been away from home except for on trips with my family. And they weren’t very fun. But I liked seeing the different places.”
“The cool thing about being in the circus is you can go to all different places but you don’t even have to leave your home behind, it just comes with.”
Ari smiles and bends down enough that she can wrap one arm around Phillipa in a half-hug. “You’re a pretty good kid, Pippa,” she says. Phillipa beams back up at her.
While they’re eating, Ari and Arthur talk about some boring stuff Phillipa doesn’t pay attention to like the touring dates for the next month and where they’re headed too next, but Ari does tell Arthur about Dandelion and the tricks she can do which is more exciting. Phillipa asks loads of questions about that.
Afterwards, Phillipa goes to hang out with Arthur, so Ari can have her hour of performance practice with Dandelion. They talk to Yusuf for a little and then they drive to town to pick up Eames from a doctor’s appointment. In the car on the way back, Arthur doesn’t talk much to Eames, and Eames looks confused because Arthur keeps giving him a short, sharp answers.
“Have I done something?” Eames asks finally, looking out the window and playing with the automatic lock. Arthur hates it when people play with the automatic lock in the car. He even yells at Phillipa if she does it too much. She looks down at the fabric of her dress. It’s weird when Arthur and Eames fight. It was a long time ago now, but she can remember her mom and dad fighting, before mom fell - it feels the same way, and she hates it.
Arthur runs his hand through his hair, looking frustrated. “No. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you.”
“Well, you’re mad about something,” Eames says, pointedly.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“You could tell me, and then I can help.”
“Just drop it,” Arthur snaps. Eames stiffens and hunches down in his seat. Arthur sighs, and lets go of the steering wheel with one hand to touch Eames’ wrist. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m dealing with it. I’ll tell you later.”
When they get back to the fairground, they go to the practice tent so Arthur and Eames can run through their performance for tomorrow night. Phillipa’s glad because working usually puts them in a good mood. She guesses it’s because they have to pay really close, careful attention to each other to get it right.
Phillipa doesn’t really like the idea of being a fire-breather or a trapeze artist herself. She swings on the trapeze sometimes, as long as Eames is there to watch and the safety net is up. It’s a lot more fun to tightrope walk. But watching Arthur and Eames is still really amazing.
Phillipa likes the way they stand together after they’ve finished a really scary trick, leaning into each other as if doing something so spectacular has broken up the lines between them that make them separate people.
They walk her back to her wagon for dinner. Eames picks Phillipa up and puts her on his shoulders. He smells like smoke from holding so tightly to Arthur during their practice. Arthur puts his arm around Eames’ waist while they walk, and they speak to each other soft and close, almost into each other’s ears, so even Phillipa can barely hear them.
After dinner it’s time for tonight’s performance, but Phillipa is tired enough that she doesn’t insist on staying up until after her dad has come back in. She falls asleep slowly, to the sound of the opening music and the audience’s applause.
---
On Tuseday, Eames invites Ariadne to the wagon he shares with Arthur for a pre-show dinner. She’s settling Dandelion into the horsebox after a long day of carrying kids in a slow circle.
“Are you dead bored?” she asks him apologetically.
“By what?” says a voice behind her, confused. She recognises the accent easily. When she first heard it, it reminded her of the kind of people her mother invited to garden parties, elitist and refined, but she can tell the difference now. His is so much more authentic.
“Sorry, Eames,” Ariadne says, patting Dandelion’s cheek. “I was talking to the horse, not you.”
“Ah,” Eames says. “And is he bored?”
“I expect so,” Ariadne says. “But bored is better than at my father’s mercy.”
“Ooh, you’re a runaway, are you?”
“It’s not quite that dramatic,” Ariadne hedges. Eames gives her a dubious look.
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” he says, magnanimously. “I’ve come to invite you over for dinner, anyway, so perhaps I’ll manage to get the full story from you then.”
Ariadne’s stomach clenches. Eames is fantastically attractive, but he must be at least ten years older than her and she’s only just arrived and she just wants people to love her here for being Ariadne, and nothing else, nothing more. “Look, Eames, don’t take this the wrong way, but…”
Eames raises an eyebrow, perplexed, as she trails away, words stuck in a nervous mouth. “It’s not that you don’t seem nice,” she begins again, “but I’ve only just met you, and-”
A look of realisation comes over Eames face. “I wasn’t propositioning you, dear.” Eames says, kindly. His mouth twists up. He looks kind of like he’s trying very hard to suppress a laugh. “I wouldn’t. I’m sure you’re a lovely girl…but…you are definitely safe from me, I’m quite surprised….” He looses the battle against the laughter, clutching at his chest as he breaks down in a fit of it. “Arthur would…he would…if he heard…oh no….” Eames mutters between fits of hysteria.
Ariadne turns up her chin in mock defensiveness. “Well, excuse me. I didn’t realise the idea of dating me was quite so hilarious.”
“Sorry,” Eames wheezes. “Sorry. You’re great, kid. What I meant was, will you come over for dinner with Arthur and I.”
Later, Ariadne can’t believe it didn’t click right then. “Arthur and I”…“Arthur and I”…. How could she have missed it? But she does. Instead she nods, pleased to be included in with the top performers and hopeful that it might mean she’ll be one of them soon. “Thanks for the invitation. It’s really nice of you. Everyone here is so nice all the time.”
Eames rolls his eyes. “Oh, just wait until everyone knows you well enough to start gossiping. Then you’ll see the true face of a circus crowd. It’s just because you’re new, and still under our wing.”
Ariadne must look nervous at that because Eames ruffles her hair. “No one’s going to put glass in your pancakes, Jesus. I just meant that circus people are a little wary. You’ve been treating people with respect, so they’ll return the favour. When they know you better, they’ll be themselves.”
“Right,” Ariadne replies, letting out a breath. “Well, what time should I be over?”
---
Ariadne gets to Arthur and Eames’ wagon a little early. Arthur calls “Come in, it’s not locked,” when she knocks. She kicks her shoes of into the grass just outside and climbs the steps to enter.
The wagon is a little smaller than Dom’s and a little bigger than the one Ariadne is sharing with Lucy. There is a real, functioning kitchen. A pot on the tiny stove is bubbling away merrily. It smells amazing. Ariadne sticks her nose into the steam and breaths deep. It looks like Bolognese. A bag of dried pasta is sitting on the counter in the corner, so it seems like a safe guess.
There is a sort of half-bench, half-sofa against one wall. Ariadne sits on it, looking around curiously. “Is that you, Ariadne?” Arthur asks, still muffled. Ariadne’s wagon doesn’t have a separate sleeping cabin - everything’s jumbled up together in one big compartment, but this wagon is a little more house shaped. They have an actual door separating the beds from the living area. It’s weird to Ariadne that she’s only been in this new world for a few days, and yet she’s looking at things differently. This wagon looks luxurious to her, where three days ago she would have only been able to think that her old bedroom alone is probably larger.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Ariadne says. “Eames told you he invited me for dinner, right?”
“Yep,” Arthur says. “He’ll be back in a minute, he’s just doing his equipment check.”
Arthur pushes the door open, stepping out of the bathroom. His hair is slicked back stiffly, looking sleek and wet. He is wearing heavy eyeliner and when he turns something glittery around his eyes and along his collarbones catches the light. She imagines that the effect would be particularly pronounced in firelight.
“Ooh la la,” Ariadne says. She hasn’t actually had a chance to watch the evening show again since joining, but she intends to see Arthur and Eames perform together tonight. Even amongst the other circus workers, there is a sort of hushed reverence when people mention their performances. She’s beginning to worry that anything will be a letdown, the way it’s been built up.
“Do you like garlic?” Arthur asks, slicing a baguette and laying it out on a baking tray.
“Definitely,” she says. One thing her childhood had done for her was to instill a love of excellent food.
“Good. Eames throws a fit if I don’t do garlic bread. We’re only having spaghetti with red sauce. Didn’t have the time for anything fancier.”
“Well it smells amazing.”
She watches Arthur finish cooking. They talk about the next city they’re moving to and Arthur explains the process the whole circus uses to break down and pack up the camp. Eames appears at the door, bursting through and ruffling Ariadne’s hair and stealing the heels of bread and then disappearing into the bathroom in a storm of energy. As the sound of the shower starts up again, Arthur leans forward conspiratorial.
“He’s so excited, it’s ridiculous. He’s been going totally stir crazy, he hates not performing.”
“What about you? Are you excited to be in a double again?”
“Well, I’m still worried about that stupid shoulder pull,” he says, but his expression is telling. If she didn’t know better she’d call it longing, or something brighter and hotter than that. Want. Maybe desire.
Eames comes out of the bathroom similarly shimmering, sits down next to Ariadne and steals her glass of juice. He grimaces, as he tastes it. “I was hoping that was going to have vodka in it,” he confesses. Arthur shakes his head disapproving, yet fond.
“No drinking before a show,” he says, in a way that means he’s clearly said it many times before.
“It was only the once, darling. The drop was barely four feet.”
“Four feet into a pit of fire,” Arthur mutters to Ariadne. “A pit of fire.”
Ariadne tries to think of something to say, but Eames has already begun his reply, slinging an arm around Ariadne’s shoulder and laughing.
“He loves it in there. He was in the safety leathers, anyway. It was only five seconds before I pulled him out. He was all ashy and happy as a clam.”
“I’m not going to argue with him about it,” Arthur proclaims, setting the pasta on the table and pulling a green salad from the fridge. “Eames, set the table.”
Eames smiles and turns to Ariadne again, who feels like she’s accidentally walked into the middle of a tennis match, looking back and forth and then back and forth again. “I wasn’t really drunk,” he reassures her. “I’d never let him fall by accident. Only on purpose. Just so you don’t get the wrong idea.”
“On purpose!” Arthur says, getting the plates out and handing them to Eames, who barely seemed to be paying attention, hands already out to take the plates even though he hadn’t even been looking at Arthur, hadn’t glanced at him. “As though that makes it so much better.” But Ariadne can tell it does make it better. It makes a world of difference.
Arthur and Eames are not like anyone else she’s ever met in all her life, but it is not their individual quirks that make them so strikingly unique. It’s in the way they share the space in the room, and the space in their conversations as though each step or word has already been long ago predicted by the other. Ariadne has the strange feeling that if the world were laid out on graph paper a mathematician could probably come up with a simple equation that would show they always formed the base points of an isosceles triangle with whatever they were mutually focused on at the top. Together, they were the crosshairs of a gun, or security effortlessly covering both the front and back exits of the building or dancers twirling in opposite directions at exactly the same pace.
They talk back and forth about the finer points of their routine while they eat, Ariadne content to watch them, though they made an effort not to leave her out, avoiding technical language and even asking her opinion on a few things she might have an idea of coming from a voltiage background.
“We’re running late, Arthur,” Eames says as they finish. “Let’s just leave the dishes. I’ll do them when we get back.”
Arthur looks unsure. “You’ll be too tired,” he says. “Or we’ll want to...” his voice trails lower and away, and he glances up at Ariadne briefly, as if trying to gauge her reaction. She has no idea what he is trying to say to Eames, and only looks blankly back at him.
“Uh, if you don’t mind me locking up your wagon for you, I’ll do them,” she says, into the bubble of silence that has formed. “As a thank you for dinner.”
“That’s great of you, cheers Ari,” Eames says. He looks amused by something.
They all stand up, Ariadne collecting the dishes and setting them in the sink and Arthur and Eames disappearing into the back bedrooms again muttering about costumes and what type of rope they were using. They leave a few minutes later, wearing coats over bare chests. Their thick, skin-tight leggings glitter and Ariadne laughs at them.
“Looking good boys,” she says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur says. “Don’t take too long, or you won’t get a good seat.”
Ariadne finishes the dishes and wipes the excess glitter off the table. The bedroom door hasn’t closed properly behind Arthur, and she doesn’t know if he meant to leave it like that but she is curious all the sudden. Just about the layout of the wagon, she tells herself. She pushes it open all the way. There is only one bedroom, with only one bed. The bathroom is an annex to the side. Like her own cabin, the wooden ceiling is painted, but instead of stars, there is a lazy pattern of greens over greens. It looks like a canopy of leaves in a Monet painting. Here and there are careful smudges of colour that give the impression birds. The same hastily added white ‘E’ that adorns the corner of her own ceiling is here also and she realises abruptly that it is Eames’s signature on his work.
The cream coloured curtains are pulled shut, shelves lined with books, packs of playing cards and partially burnt out candles in glass holders. There is an ornate wooden chess set, the bow for a string instrument, and a pinboard with art postcards from museums around the country. Three pairs of shoes are pushed against the wall, two pairs of trainers in two different sizes and a pair of gorgeous black leather dress shoes. The bed is built into the wagon, painted cyan and made up with dark grey silky looking sheets pulled tight across the bed in precise, military lines. Two small chests of drawers on either side are being used as bedside tables. There is a cup of water on one and a pair of glasses, hand lotion and Forster’s ‘A Passage to India’ on the other.
Two single men who have to share a bed absolutely do not inhabit space this way. Only one conclusion can possibly be drawn.
Ariadne steps out and pulls the door almost closed again, heart pounding like she’s discovered a secret, but she is also absolutely sure in the knowledge that what she has discovered is not a secret at all.
---
The lights go out, plunging the tent into total darkness and he waits for the few gasps in the audience to die away until there is only silence and darkness and the ghost sensation of knowing exactly where Eames is, hovering in the gaping empty space above him.
Arthur lights the first torch and it feels like waking up.
There is nothing in the world as good as performing with Eames. Arthur has always liked performing alone, with other fire breathers, or even other circus acts, and he is good at it. He likes the adrenaline and the feeling that comes over him when the crowd and Arthur and the fire are all sharing the same breath. He likes to play the violin, to watch Eames paint, good food, sleeping when truly exhausted, the rough drag of Eames’ hands down his spine and settling on his hips when they fuck, mastery: the satisfaction he gets from being excellent at something, these are all the things that Arthur loves above all others, but none reach the euphoria of a show night.
He transfers the fire to the remaining torches with his cupped hand, leaving him trapped in a ring of fire. He lifts the fuel bottle to his mouth, and the familiar wet, slick bitterness of liquid paraffin wax coats his mouth. He breathes it across the smallest torch in front of him, controlled and exacting. The flames roars up, lion mane bright reaching the first of five hoops suspended above them. The fire catches the first hoop, and Eames appears, as if from nowhere, dropping down to flip through the hoop. The crowd, until now silent in apt attention, goes wild. Eames catches hold of the swing again, and grabs Arthur a second later, pulling him up, out of the ring of torches. They follow a wide arc. This swing has long ropes, and they are nearly above the audience before they start the controlled fall backwards.
“Hi,” Arthur murmurs, in the moment they are out of the audience’s sight, too far from the fire even to appear as shadows. Eames presses his lips to the back of Arthur’s neck in reply. The spotlight snaps on, Arthur takes another mouthful of liquid paraffin wax, catches the flame of the first hoop in his hand and blows it out to the second and third and forth and fifth as they swing by, Eames cradling Arthur. And just like that, in the second flip, in the fourth mouthful of flame, Arthur looses himself, stops being one man with one name, and instead he and Eames become something else together, something like art.
He doesn’t remember himself again until they’re backstage. Dom gives him a thumbs up as he disappears through the curtain to wrap up the show and send the audience out. There aren’t many people in the dressing room. People usually get out of costume quickly and circle back around to watch Arthur and Eames when they’ve finished their acts. The two clowns taking their makeup off finish up just as Arthur and Eames appear. “Heard it was a really good one,” the shorter of the two, a middle-aged man named Gary who’s been with the company three years says.
“Yeah, I caught a glimpse, looked sweet,” the other says. Arthur can’t remember his name but he knows James loves him, trails him around like a puppy on his days off.
“Thanks, guys,” Eames wheezes. He’s still almost completely breathless. Arthur manages a wave as they clear out. Everyone knows how Arthur and Eames get after their act. It’s best to give them space.
“Fucking hell,” Eames manages to whisper, before his tongue is in Arthur’s mouth, kissing him and kissing him until Arthur can’t even stand up anymore, but it doesn’t matter because Eames is pinning him against a makeup table. They perform bare-chested for practical reasons, but it’s a bonus that it’s less clothing to get out of the way now. Eames kisses at the small red burn marks across Arthur’s shoulders, presses his hips against Arthur tight enough to hold him still so that he can let go of Arthur’s hips and free his hands for touching the old and new scars on Arthur’s arms. Arthur cries out, head falling back, eyes closing, mouth open like he doesn’t even know where he is anymore.
“You were so beautiful,” Eames whispers. “You’re so beautiful.” He’s panting harshly, even as his mouth forms the words again and again, leaves them like bruises over Arthur’s collarbone and in the sooty smudges around his mouth. Arthur’s throat feels scraped raw. He must taste like butane and charcoal, but Eames moans when they kiss again.
“We shouldn’t...” Arthur starts to say. “Not here....”
“One more minute,” Eames gasps, and god, it’s so good. Eames’ stupid fucking shoulder has kept him from how good this can be this for weeks.
“I know everything you want,” Arthur says, pressing his fingers into the hollows of Eames’ hips in a way that makes him arch up like a cat, crying out as Arthur’s fingers drop lower. That’s what makes these moments feel dangerous and addictive and spellbinding. He and Eames are still so closely wrapped up in each other they can nearly read each other’s minds, like they’re sharing the same dream and every twitch of Eames’ body is a language only Arthur knows. He feels lit up from the inside, like he could breathe fire without fuel or flame and he wants to breathe the heat right down into Eames’ lungs. He bites at Eames mouth, hard and Eames surges against him pushing his legs farther apart making his hips burn with the stretch.
“Oh!” A small but distinct noise of surprise echoes from the doorway, jolting them both into the realisation that the world hasn’t fallen away around them.
Eames blinks dazedly, pulling away from Arthur slowly. Arthur feels his body follow Eames, like they are linked magnetically, even as his brain directs him to look around Eames and see who is at the door.
Ariadne stands on the threshold, eyes huge, mouth open in a small, round ‘o’. “I’m sorry,” she says after a full thirty seconds of all three of them staring at each other. “I should have...knocked?”
“No,” Eames says, voice coming out low and husky like butterscotch. He sounds totally drunk, slurring his speech and moving like all his joints are water. “I should have locked the door. Most people round here know to leave us alone after a show, but it’s not like there aren’t kids around and stuff. It’s my fault.”
“Right. Yeah. It’s cool. I just...wanted to tell you that you were truly unbelievable.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says trying to sound gracious and instead coming across as only mildly distracted.
She shakes her head like a dog shaking off water, and meets their eyes with a sudden steely resolve. Arthur swallows. He hadn’t thought Ariadne would be the type to judge them, but then again, she clearly hadn’t come from a very accepting home. It would be terrible to ask her to leave when she really had nowhere to go. She takes a deep breath before saying, “I really am sorry for interrupting, but I just had to tell you, from one performer to another that you were both the most stunning thing I have ever seen and I think that what you do together is just exquisite and I wasn’t totally sure about this place before, but I know now that I’d have to be dragged away. They’d have to wrench me from this circus kicking and screaming because of how beautiful you and everyone else here is both on the stage and off, and I’m going now, so sorry again, I’ll see you later.”
She turns on her heal, shutting the door behind her firmly, and Eames sighs, dropping his forehead against Arthur’s shoulder, smiling against his skin. Arthur releases a little huffing breath of a laugh. “Dom sure can pick ‘em,” he says.
“Don’t I know it,” Eames replies.
“Shall we head back?”
“Yeah, I think the mood has been summarily ruined for a few minutes at least.”
They make it back to the wagon without having to stop and speak to anyone. Once home Arthur lays Eames out on the bed and massages his shoulder which is only a little warmer to the touch than it ought to be. They talk about how the show went which reignites the feeling of total synchronicity between them again as the conversation ends up following a pattern of, “Do you remember when-”, “Yes, and you-”, “Yes, and then-”, “You did it so well that I-”, “And then I-”, “Yes, exactly-”, until they’re kissing again like it’s another kind of conversation.
“Have you been angry at me about something?” Eames asks a little later. One of Arthur’s legs is thrown over his shoulder and all their fingers entwine and un-twine, restless as they move together.
A wave of sadness sweeps over Arthur suddenly making him rock up into Eames until they’re pressed impossibly close. “Not right now,” he says, feeling broken open.
“You aren’t angry at me right now, or you don’t want to talk about it right now?”
“Both,” Arthur says, the end of the word tilting up into a moan. Eames twists his hips and Arthur looses his whole train of thought. Eames sees the moment that Arthur forgets where he is, even who he is. All the energy in Arthur seems to fold down into pleasure, and Eames makes himself let go, too.
Link to part two: (HERE).