Chapter Text
It had been a long day.
Working as a barista meant dealing with a lot of bullshit. Especially if the café you worked at was conveniently located on one of the busiest streets in town. And especially if there had been an onslaught of visitors crowding the place even more, waiting for the newly erected circus to open each evening, rain or shine.
Isa sighed loudly, the action muted as she turned into the espresso machine, steam wand hissing into warming milk. Remaking a drink for the third time seemed completely excessive, but her boss had given her that look that meant “You need to do it, this is a paying customer”. Despite the fact that she really just wanted to throw that second, “burnt” coffee (read: order for an extra hot americano which scalded when Isa actually followed instructions) right into the customer’s wrinkled, irate face.
But no, Isa was not about to receive any criminal charges today.
“Here you are, ma’am. I hope you enjoy it this time. Have a great day!”
The woman sneered, yanking the cup from Isa’s fingers and pivoting to the exit so fast that drops of caffeinated lava end up splattering the linoleum floor.
Great. Now it’s a slip hazard as well as a bitch hazard in here.
Isabella wasn’t meant to be a barista. At least, at 18 years old, she didn’t envision that her bachelor’s in vocal performance with a focus on opera would result in a gruelling full-time hospitality gig. Especially one that had kept her in its clutches for, what, going on 4 years, now?
Isa was well and truly trapped in the rat race of work to live, live to work. Earn money to afford to live somewhere that isn’t your parents’ box room, and spend that money on rent, wiping out any dreams of owning property or having fun money. Have a partner for financial and emotional stability, and feel stifled by said partner wanting to take that stability to the next level - especially when you couldn’t even afford to splash out on takeout more than once a month. Who could afford marriage and kids in this economy?
Yeah, trapped. Isa was well and truly trapped.
Despite her grand dreams of taking the Metropolitan Opera House by storm, she had wound up working here. In a town she wasn’t all too sure she even liked, but now couldn’t escape.
No money, no prospects.
“Hey, can I get a uh… an oat latte with an extra shot? Thanks, doll.”
Isa assented, pivoting again to the comforting whir of the machine, which was essentially an extension of her body at this point. As the espresso dripped languidly into the rounded ceramic cup, she began to hum under her breath,
Vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore,
non feci mai male ad anima vi-
Shot pulled and milk sufficiently frothed, she interrupted her soliloquy with a couple of steady bangs of the milk jug onto the solid wood counter, then poured its contents expertly into the cup.
A lovely little swan. At least Isa could still impart tiny fractions of creativity into her day job.
The customer thanked her and perched on a stool, tugging out an industrial-sized iPad and keyboard. Ah, one of those customers, then.
Minutes passed, and there was eventually no one left to serve. Isa watched shadows form and fade as the sun peeked increasingly tentatively through hazy windows.
Fishing out two slightly battered white earbuds from an obscenely stickered case, Isa surreptitiously slid one into her ear and tapped play, hoping that whatever her phone kicked on would be entertaining enough for the last few minutes before closing time.
The din of loud conversations, bicycle bells, and spoons tapping on teacups receded; it’s just her and her art, now.
A melancholic, yearning soft string motif repeated, and then followed the soprano’s voice with expert ensemble. It’s Charpentier - and those floated high notes filled Isa’s being with indescribable goosebumps. The music swelled, and she found herself lightly humming along, spinning her voice in the most pianississississimo manner possible to her instrument.
Isa tried to imbue art into every corner of her life she could manage. Her clothes, whilst sometimes worn and scuffed, were always beautifully tailored to her proportions as she spent hours hand sewing the cuffs and hems and everything in between. Her hair, though severely lacking in a professional cut and blow-dry for several years now, still shone healthily and was always styled carefully.
Isa saw art in her customers, saw art in the manner she interacted with them. In the way she smiled sweetly at disagreeable faces, and smiled even more genuinely for regulars who recognised her craftsmanship… albeit being the wrong craft she yearned for recognition of.
And now, more than anything, she found art in the stories that people would spin about the miraculous, mysterious circus on the massive expanse of open, untouched farmland close by. Tales of gruesome fake deaths, extremely realistic blood spatters, and unhappy endings played out before enthralled audiences, all conducted by almost inhuman performers - Isa would hear conversations flow with bubbling excitement about the town’s newfound evening entertainment.
Isa loved it. She was desperate to step beyond those gates into a world of tantalising darkness. She was always drawn to the macabre - opera was inevitably full of heartbreak, death, murder, rape… all the crimes a maiden could wish for to fulfil their sordid fantasies. Of which crimes included Isa’s favourite: serving up your crush’s head on a platter, then making out with it (real opera plot, by the way).
But, as always, her dreams seemed to be impossibly out of reach. Despite the obvious fact that she could barely afford rent and 3 square meals a day, negating the price of admission, Isa was equally impaired by her insanely hectic juggling of work and life. Long hours at work, then inevitably long hours at home, which, yes, you’d think would be nice, but typically included cleaning, cooking, admin, placating her partner, and yet more cleaning. No time to breathe, let alone time for Isa to do what she actually wanted to do.
Isa sighed again, and this time, she didn’t mask it under the whistling of steam. But there was no use mulling over something that can’t be changed, she thought. Think about what you can control.
The sun hung like a marionette over the edge of neighbouring buildings: almost home time. Wonder what Leon’s cooked up for dinner tonight? Probably the same old mushy canned vegetables and watery potatoes, she mused. Cooking was certainly not his strong suit - not that their meagre pantry was helping.
The café was now almost empty, save for a couple of stragglers who sat with their empty dregs cradled in their hands, as if reluctant to relinquish that tiny moment of calm before the storm of rush hour would meet them outside. She could understand that.
Inevitably, time passed slowly again once Isa was counting down the minutes. It couldn’t hurt to daydream for a little while, surely.
She found herself easily slipping into a wonderfully fictitious scenario where she played Violetta at Covent Garden - golden curled wig tumbling down her low-cut gown, twirling around and around and around as she sang of the endless joys of pleasure.
In real life, Isa stood staring, enraptured in polishing the same spot on the counter over and over and over.
As quickly as her daydream began, a discordant noise from outside the shop dragged her from it. Isa tentatively paused her internal opera to pick out why such a ruckus seems to have picked up - and close by, at that.
There were voices, shouting. A lot of voices. Mostly low, masculine voices. Isa could barely pick out intelligible words in that onslaught of grating tones mingling together into one horrible symphony.
Bewildered and slightly nervous, she stalked closer to the smeary windows, trying to make out what - or who - was making such a fuss.
And suddenly, glass shattered. The distinct sound of bones crumpling against pavement roused Isa’s heart, and she was out the door before she even realised what she was doing. Adrenaline began to pour through her veins like syrup into espresso, causing a frightening concoction of hyper awareness to ripple through her muscles.
On the corner where the cafe met another road gathered a motley gang of middle-aged pot-bellied men in dishevelled officewear. A few of them were swaying on the spot, and several clung to brown glass bottles as if they were a lifeline. Isa flinched when she saw a deep carmine stain on the cobbled pavement, but she quickly realised it was the remains of an alcoholic beverage seeping coolly between the cracks. Not blood.
The stench of cheaply fermented beer stung her nose as she ignored all survival instincts and drew nearer to the middle of the throng…
“What’s wrong with you freaks anyway, huh? Out here to steal our booze as well as our money and our wives? Bastard.”
A particularly slurred bass hurled baseless accusations at a tall, red figure, which Isa was surprised to see standing frozen in the bullseye of this angry circle. The man was clearly adorned in a circus costume and, as she peered further, a wonderfully grotesquely painted mask.
“Yeah, mate, why did you go throwin’ my liquor away? Could get you on assault charges, probably. Accosting me like that.”
The ghostly jester still said nothing.
Oh, Isa didn’t like this one bit.
Not only was the tall man silent and still, with an expression of pure apathy - signalling that this was certainly not the first time he had been accosted on the street by tipsy rascals looking for a fight and a scapegoat - she simply couldn’t stand this behaviour because he was doing nothing wrong. He was simply working. And he was clearly damn good at his job if it was inciting such a reaction.
The high-pitched shattering of another glass against stone shook Isa into action. A burly man had downed his own drink, smashing it against the brickwork of the café. He brandished its jagged edges at the poor performer, making a clumsy swing.
“You get the fuck away from him!”
Isa didn’t even realise it was her voice, loud and strong, until a dozen eyes came to bear into her. She also didn’t realise she had moved to block this wiry, defenceless victim with her own small, stocky frame, propped up by burning instincts, until she was faced with that makeshift mace. It almost nicked her face, but the man wielding it faltered just in time to prevent any real, serious damage from occurring. Isa’s face still recoiled as if he had slashed her. Arms outstretched and hands splayed, her body trembled with a sort of forcefield - daring any to enter this protected area which encompassed her and the clown man.
Isa seethed.
“What the fuck are you guys doing!? He’s done nothing to you. Fuck. Off.” She didn’t care that the armed man before her flinched at the volume of her projected voice. In fact, she enjoyed it. He scoffed, gathering saliva and spitting it straight into Isa’s face. His own face was mottled and reddened past any thought of sunburn.
Recoiling more drastically, the tiger-cat stepped on something solid behind her. The shadow of a much taller figure darkened the edges of her vision.
The rest of the men began to follow suit from the first guy - spitting their grievances into the ground and leaving sour puddles and glass shards in a mosaic outside the café. But they were leaving, and Isa felt a part of her sag in relief.
She practically jumped out of her skin when she felt a shift behind her. Long fingers caressed her biceps firmly, and Isa immediately jumped, her hands immediately clenching. At this startled movement, however, the grip softened.
It was him. The victim. Holding her steady whilst she swayed slightly as adrenaline drained out through the soles of her feet and into those ugly, brown puddles.
“Oh! Sorry, I thought it was another one of them.”
Isa rubbed her face with the final dregs of frustration and shock, turning to address the man. Up close, she could appreciate how tall and particularly well built this man really was. It was hidden rather effectively under headwear, costume, and mask, but Isa could see that he could easily have held his own in a fight - no matter how helpless he originally appeared to her.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
The man nodded with vigour, wisps of white hair loosening from beneath his hat. Isa narrowed her eyes, standing on tiptoes to analyse the potential damage further. A thin trickle of blood had started to trail down from his left temple, not that he seemed to care. But Isa did.
“No, you’re bleeding! Please, let me at least get a look at it and clean it up. I work at this café, and I’m sure I can find the first aid kit somewhere.”
The man stared at her, as amused as a cat at a scurrying mouse near its readied paws, but didn’t make any move to follow. He didn’t speak, either, which struck Isa as a little odd, but hey, he could be a mime for all she knew! No judgment between artists.
“No, I really do insist! Please come in. I’ll feel awful otherwise, worrying whether you’ve got brain damage or something.”
She strode towards the café door, practically willing the man with sheer force of determination through the threshold. The store was well and truly empty - good. She could begin to properly shut down for the day, then.
Isa’s eyelids shut slowly - for just a nanosecond too long to be classified as a blink. Opening them again, she fished out the silver key in her jeans before sliding it into the lock. Her breathing finally steadied. The shop door was truly safe from unwanted visits from entitled customers or bigoted wankers.
Phew.
“Now, sit. Please. Can I get you anything else? Coffee, tea, water? No?”
The man shook his head with a bemused grin inching up those stiffened features. Eventually, he humoured Isa, pulling out a chair which was much too short for him and ceremoniously plopping himself down into it. His long legs had no choice but to jut out far beyond the narrow chair, widely set and only marginally ridiculous.
In the meantime, Isa had pulled out the first aid kit, sauntering over to her patient with marked weariness. She hesitated for a moment when she realised that, in order to clean up his face wound, she would have to stand directly between those outstretched legs. The thought flustered her, but eventually she committed to the action. Placing the box on the table next to the man, Isa cleared her throat and lifted off its lid. Wipes and gauze would do. And a drop of that sterile solution, perhaps. Would she need tape?
Returning to the man, his expectant face felt immediate. Pink dusted her cheeks as she averted his open gaze - one that surely, surely was part of his act. The innocent, wistful clown? An alien mime with a profound fondness for humans? Whatever it was, it was effective.
Sliding out a sterilised wipe from its packet, Isa gently lifted up silken silver locks to dab at what she guessed was the source of the blood. With an excuse for being in such close quarters, she could conduct a real survey of this man’s fascinating visage - the opaque white stage makeup which blended so seamlessly with his mask. She couldn’t tell where his skin ended, and the papier-mache of the mask began.
An oddly companionable silence fell upon the café; Isa, treating the wound to the best of her ability, and the man, silently observing her do so. She placed another strip of gauze onto his forehead, tearing off a short length of tape.
“Thank you.”
Isa fumbled, hearing that small, soft voice emerge from beneath her. Resuming, she only spared a momentary glance at the owner of the voice, corners of her mouth upturning.
“Of course. There’s no way I wouldn’t intervene when disgusting people like that try to harass a performer. You’re just doing your job, for God’s sake.”
“What’s your name?” He blurted, seemingly relaxing into his own voice, a smile blossoming between the apples of reddened cheeks,
“Isabella. People call me Isa. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance…?”
“Pierrot.”
Now, Isa raised an eyebrow at that - not only for the response being his character name, but for the fact that he looked nothing like the Pierrot of the commedia dell’arte she studied in that dusty module in undergrad. He exhaled softly - almost a chuckle - and clarified, still in that docile tone which Isa couldn’t help but feel was just so… puppy-like, in a way - like those little whisper barks of a puppy that she’d seen on TikTok.
“We were required to… adapt to the modern market. Clowns, jesters, they sell better. But my role remains the same.”
“So, you’re the sad, lovesick clown?”
He shot her a toothy grin, his cheeks becoming even more wonderfully rosy pink.
“Something like that.”
Isa finished up bandaging the wound on his head and stepped back to view her handiwork. Though as she did so, it almost felt as if this man - Pierrot - was leaning towards her, closing that distance once more. The smile grew wider on the man’s painted, exaggerated face as he surveyed her.
“You’re a performer.” He stated, as if he had just revealed a huge secret. Eyes wide, Isa gaped like a fish out of water for one hot second before giving herself the ol’ factory reset.
“H-how did you know!? Though I’m not really a performer, I just like to… wear others’ skins, sometimes. Escape the duldrum of everyday life…” She realised she would easily slip into an anxious ramble; she shut her mouth with a snap. He looked up to her, expression slightly unreadable, then… darker?
An ebony-gloved finger lightly grazed her larynx. Isa’s breath faltered. Her eyes grew wide, and her throat squeezed.
“This.” He then made a small, fluid gesture to delineate her whole body, which was straight and taut. Shoulders and hips aligned, weight still consciously balanced between the balls and heels of her feet despite the 8-hour work day and ill-fitting work trainers, which dug into her pinky toes. She glanced down at herself, completely nonplussed, and shook her head.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He imparted another one of those small, breathy laughs - as if using his voice was foreign to him. He continued,
“You are the definition of the perfect performer, my dear. Bold presence, impeccable posture… and when you shouted, you did so from here-” He pointed to her abdomen, where all those muscles did indeed ground her voice when she needed to be heard atop the hubbub of a crowded street… or at the back of a concert hall. He was extremely perceptive for a stranger with a potential concussion. Isa’s cheeks were warm as she stared, doe-eyed, at this unbelievable man.
She didn’t know that others might be able to see the marks of a performer on her, if they so wanted to find them. It was less surprising but all the more flattering from a performer - a professional performer, Isa distinguished. Mouth agape and utterly speechless, she felt herself retreating into her mind - that sort of experience when you realise you’re watching yourself from the outside. She still noted when Pierrot’s smile grew even wider - the man was gaining the appearance of a very fluffy, snowy wolf baring teeth to its prey.
“An impressive voice.” He concluded, tilting his head to the side and closing one eye in a mock wink.
Isa had no idea what to think about this man, this performer, this Pierrot. She was already extremely impressed - all those tiny clues on her person adding up to the bigger picture in his quick, cunning mind.
She bit her lip and forced herself to send in an activating breath, exhaling slowly through her nose. Her mouth twitched - titillating between a grimace and a grin, unsure of where to land. Her head dissented in sheer astonishment,
“I’m very impressed. Nobody has ever met me and thought I was a performer. At least… they’ve never said it to my face.” Her smile became small and quietly ecstatic, the fluttering of her heart and shortness of breath spurring her to place one theatrical hand to her chest. Her eyes flickered from side to side for a few seconds, committing this interaction to memory, then landed back onto the expectant face of Pierrot. Unused to such rapt attention, she aimed to steer the conversation into safer waters,
“And, I mean, so… it’s kinda clear that you’re from the circus that has pitched up near town, right? I’ve been meaning to go, but both money and time are tight right now…”
The tall man ignored her attempt to change the topic. His yellow contacts (or were they natural?) glowed within dark sclera, contracting as he tilted his head further.
“What kind of performer are you?”
Isa felt entirely thrown for a loop. No one ever talked to her about performing. About her passion. Her dream. No matter how impossible that dream may be… Well, perhaps she simply felt she couldn’t share that deep, small, yearning part of her soul to anyone, for fear that that minuscule, precious hope would be stomped on. But, somehow, Pierrot’s insistence reassured Isa - perhaps she could trust this man with this piece of her, perhaps he would handle her heart with care.
“I’m… an opera singer.” She looked down, suddenly incredibly self-conscious. She held her elbows to her chest, “Dramatic coloratura soprano… maybe a spinto-”
“-So you have power and agility?” He interrupted, dark molasses seeping into each vowel,
“…I suppose you could say that.” She bit the inside of her cheek, afraid to meet his gaze at full force. There was a short pause before she heard the shift of organza on satin,
“Fascinating.”
Finally looking up, Isa saw Pierrot had leaned back, his long legs now further outstretched and narrowly grazing her soft hips. Despite the laid-back posture, his face appeared full of something akin to adoration, though she had a hard time placing it. After all, he didn’t even know how good she might be at singing, what her voice sounded like, what her training was, and what her (empty) performance diary looked like - but he stared at her as if she were Callas incarnate.
Isa furrowed her brow, completely engrossed in the man with Pierrot’s black tears chalked carefully to that shining, pale mask and rounded, smiling eyes. It almost felt like she could fall into the cat-like amber sheen of his irises…
A bang emitted from the kitchen.
“Isa…?”
She jumped, whipping her neck to the source of the noise. Her heart picked up, then settled once more to see that it was only Leon. She whined his name in pouting annoyance - a voice which she knew he despised.
“Leooooooon. You scared me! What are you doing here?”
The short brunet slung a heavy backpack off his shoulders and greeted Isa with a soft embrace.
“It’s late. You’re usually home by now, so I figured something might have come up at work.” He glanced over her shoulder,
“…Which it seems it has.”
Pierrot, now standing, towered over this new intrusion as if he were a stallion observing a small, squat fly buzz around his ears. His brow darkened, along with the light in his eyes. Leon caught that glare with smaller, greener eyes, but quickly realised its futility. He blinked, giving Isa one more squeeze before relinquishing her supple form. An awkward silence almost ensued wherein Leon and Pierrot clearly were undertaking some unspoken battle, but Isa gracefully filled it, smiling politely at both men,
“Leon, this is Pierrot. He’s from the circus. You know, the new one on the green near the river…?”
His freckled nose crinkled slightly at the mention,
“Yes. I can see that. C’mon, Isa, I’ve got dinner almost ready at home. Can I help you close up?”
Isa glanced up at the clock and gawked at the time. It was almost 8 pm. Her shift finished, what, almost two hours ago? Where had that time gone?
Immediately, she was alert. She attempted to placate her partner for a moment, suggesting he wait in the break room and promising she would be right out, but he simply slunk back to the door, picking up his rucksack on the way, and leaned faux-casually on the frame of the “STAFF ONLY” door, arms crossed in that classic “high school bully” trademark.
Eyelids fluttering, Isa let out a small sigh and turned back to Pierrot. How awkward for him, a stranger, to see that stilted little interaction, which offered what Isa would consider too intimate a glimpse into the complicated state of her relationship. Leon was kind, considerate, and hardworking, but she always felt a dreary sense of impending boredom whenever she was around him. Not personal… She thought. Just her silly, adventurous heart dreaming above her station.
“Sorry about that.” She muttered so inaudibly that Pierrot cocked his head to one side again in inquisitiveness. She shook her head, speaking louder,
“I don’t know how it got so late. I hope I haven’t kept you. Oh, god, don’t you guys open in the evening?? Shit, sorry….”
The sensation of velvet skimming over her soft lips put a sudden end to the spiral, and Isa looked up from behind her lashes to see that willowy enigma smiling down at her. The bells on the end of his cockscomb jingled merrily as he shook his head in small, contained movements. He again said nothing, but retracted his gloved hand from her mouth to rummage in a hidden pocket of his dark breeches. He revealed a deep red ticket, offering it with a flourish to Isa.
“This is for me!?” She stared at the ticket in surprise… and more than a little excitement. “For the circus!?”
Pierrot nodded enthusiastically, leaning down in a theatrical bow to place the slip of paper directly into Isa’s hand. He was clearly at least a foot taller than Isa, so when he bent in half, their faces were in perfect alignment to each other - i.e., she could see the texture of his porcelain skin, which meant it was rather close for comfort, especially when your partner stood glaring from the doorway. Nevertheless, Pierrot brought his mouth around to the shell of Isa’s ear, lips parting,
“To show my gratitude,” he whispered, “You said you wanted to go to the circus… Come and see me perform tomorrow. I promise it’ll be worth your time.”
Her face lit up in a multicoloured patchwork of delight and embarrassment, taking the ticket eagerly but retreating a few steps. Pierrot returned to his full height once more, searching for something inconceivable in Isa’s expression.
“Thank you! This is so kind. You really didn’t have to…”
He looked slightly disappointed for a moment, but that emotion quickly washed over with a placid, warm smile. He shook his head once more, clearly communicating his desire to thank his rescuer and nurse in the only way he could in that moment.
“Ah, the front door’s locked… Here, come with us through here. Leon, can you get the lights? Thanks, babe.”
Stuffing the beautiful crimson card stamped with gold into her battered dark-wash jeans, Isa grabbed the discarded earbuds and phone on the counter, hanging up her logo-emblazoned apron on a hook and making her way through to the back alley behind the shop. Home time!
Back at their ‘cosy’ rented apartment, Isa reclined at her ancient IKEA dining set, deep grooves and scuff from years of daily use clinging to every inch of its surface. On the marked wooden tabletop, she placed the ticket. To the circus. Gifted to her by one of its actors. What if she went? There would surely be so much to learn! Impossible feats made possible, actors bringing themselves to the very edges of human flexibility, strength, and precision… Should she go? Could she go? Being handed a free ticket was all well and good, but carving out space in her packed, gruelling life seemed impossible.
No, not impossible. Difficult, yes, but not impossible.
…She could make it work. This small slip of paper. A symbol of art, of theatre, of passion, of… the version of herself she desperately wanted to be, more than anything else in the world.
Of freedom.
“Babe, dinner’s ready! Do you want more salt on the potatoes like you usually do, or-?”
Broken from her spellbound stupor, Isa quickly slid the ticket underneath a pile of junk mail.
Yes, she would go to the circus tomorrow, even if it meant she had to work extra hard the next day or lose hours of sleep (I mean, the perk of working as a barista meant free and unlimited access to caffeine, all day, every day, so how hard could it be?).
Isa could do it. Isa would do it.
She flicked her gaze up to Leon’s tired, round face as he placed a steaming plate of bland boiled vegetables and instant mash before her. Taking a deep breath, she dug in.
“Thanks, babe.”