At first, he was relieved. The voices he'd originally heard were a ways off, and slowly, he'd begun to think that he might actually survive this experience. Like, intact. Which was a nice thought, really. He'd really like to get out of this intact.
At some point, the rain had gotten progressively worse, which made him feel a little less ridiculous about skulking under some circus performers bed, surrounded by a legion of dust bunnies and forgotten knick knacks. Just a little.
Hey, maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. Maybe the performers would do whatever the fuck performers do after the circus, and by the time they got back to their trailers, he'd be long gone.
Of course, this train of thought was rudely interrupted by the sound of all Greyson's recent hopes and dreams falling apart into minuscule particles, and silently stumbling out of the now open trailer door. His mind went blank for a moment, before taking up a simple, terrifying montage of 'fuckfuckfuckohfuckingshitgoddamnitfuck'. The chant of cuss words continued to play in his head, accompanied by the unfortunate side effect of forgetting how to breath. He knew it involved inhaling, but he was still having trouble with the second part of the equation.
Something about breathing out.
From where he was, he couldn't see the performers face, but the chill of the open door was almost enough to make him squeak. God damn he was cold. He was wearing a jacket, but it was ragged and covered with more holes than a sponge and like two sizes two small so yeah, not helping. At least he wasn't totally soaked.
Like the performer. Who was very wet, very muddy, and had very nice legs. Yeah, wow, okay. Not the time to stop and stare. Especially since he was supposed to be focusing on not breathing, which was getting progressively harder.
Greyson was slightly less likely to have a heart attack now that the door was closed, the performer hadn't noticed any of the things he may or may not have knocked over in his scramble to hide, and his heart beat wasn't doing triple time. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't being creepy, it wasn't like this was a thing he did, hiding under teenage girls beds while they undressed, he just didn't exactly have somewhere else to go. He'd just have to wait it out.
Which, as it happens, wasn't an especially long or grueling process. This was good, as between trying to hold his breath, and than struggling not to gasp in air, he was feeling kinda light headed, and he really didn't want to pass out here cuz' wow, that would be bad.
Like, even more bad than hiding under a teenage girls bed awake.
He waited to move until the performer had disappeared out the door, and he didn't relax until ten or so minutes had passed without her returning.
He knew he should leave. That was a close one. That was a really close one. That was so close, he wasn't sure he'd be able to differentiate with a compound microscope between the two. That was fucking terrifying.
But Greyson was not hiding beneath a teenage girls bed, 700 or so miles from his family and house, because he was a conventional, or rational person. So when he saw his chance to leave, he didn't take it and run like hell. The rain was coming down in cats and dogs, and the roof above his head pounded like a drum, but when he slipped from where he crouched upon the floor, the air was quiet, the storm raging on around him forgotten in the midst of intrigue.
He always knew that curiosity would be the end of him.
So he stayed.