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Cirque Regalis is a part of 
Cirque Regalis.
20 Characters Here
Dmitri Petrov [28] "There are those whose primary ability is to spin wheels of manipulation."
Evelyn [25] "I don't have a last name anymore.."
Svetlana Kolmykova [21] "...."
Clayton Sullivan [17] "There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."
Robert Mason [16] "You only live once, but if you do it right, once is enough."
Belle [13] "You will never meet another soul like me."
Jack Connolly [9] "A strong man speaks through his actions, not through unnecessary words."
Evee Howell [9] "The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing." [ Adopted | Not my writing ]
Sebastian Kolmykov [6] "Come and be amazed by the music that will move you!"
Sugar [5] "I wish I was a bird."
Start Character Here »
- 62 posts here • Page 1 of 3 • 1, 2, 3
Even in the forties, the lights of New York flooded the sky and muffled the light of stars overhead. Fighting for supremacy over the combined power of neon lights and spotlights seemed pointless, yet the large floodlights of Cirque Regalis put up a fair fight. They shone directly upon the fabric of the tents-- dark violet striped on a white field. While the purple stripes absorbed the light, the white shone brighter than ever, reflecting the light cast upon it. Red flags flying overhead wavered in the lazy breeze of the night.
Almost five decades of circus-related work taught Dmitri that tonight, a Saturday in the summer of '48, would be an extremely large show. He was right, of course, for the applause at the end of the show seemed deafening. Then again, Dmitri would tell you that he was never wrong. As the performers took their last spins, flips, and bows, Dmitri too took his final bow. Perched on top of a risen platform, he stood taller than every performer, save the acrobats and those standing atop the elephants. Once, he too had been atop the large, gray beasts, but he'd been thrown one too many times in practices. The last thing he needed was the embarrassment of being thrown during a performance. To be honest, there were far more important matters that would qualify as "the last thing", but public embarrassment ranked high up for Dmitri. He had a reputation to uphold.
After a performer or two bumped into him, Dmitri irately started for his personal train car. His scarlet jacket, tailored to fit like a glove, stuck out in the crowd of workers and performers all going their separate ways: some to bars or clubs or their cars or wherever. Dmitri hardly cared. His private car joined on to an office car. This, of course, upset many, for most performers (if not all) shared a car with at least one other being. Again, it was of little concern to Dmitri. With a final glance back at the tent, he walked up the metal stairs into his car. Compared to the common box cars, Dmitri's car was extravagant. The walls were painted a dark burgundy, but it was difficult to tell because places not covered by windows with heavy, black curtains were blocked by tall bookcases. He stripped off his crimson coat and pulled off his tall, ebony boots in a fluid, practiced movement. Two decades of ring leading had resulted in an unshakable pattern. Next, he would subconsciously turn on his phonograph and unbutton his shirt and vest while something classical filled the spacious car. In this case, it was Hungarian Dance No. 5. The glass of wine was next or some vodka. This night, a good night, it was a rich red wine. Oh yes, his performers might have been living in cramped, disorganized conditions, but why should Dmitri Petrov have to give up the finer things in life? He sipped the wine thoughtfully. After all, didn't he deserve it?
Almost five decades of circus-related work taught Dmitri that tonight, a Saturday in the summer of '48, would be an extremely large show. He was right, of course, for the applause at the end of the show seemed deafening. Then again, Dmitri would tell you that he was never wrong. As the performers took their last spins, flips, and bows, Dmitri too took his final bow. Perched on top of a risen platform, he stood taller than every performer, save the acrobats and those standing atop the elephants. Once, he too had been atop the large, gray beasts, but he'd been thrown one too many times in practices. The last thing he needed was the embarrassment of being thrown during a performance. To be honest, there were far more important matters that would qualify as "the last thing", but public embarrassment ranked high up for Dmitri. He had a reputation to uphold.
After a performer or two bumped into him, Dmitri irately started for his personal train car. His scarlet jacket, tailored to fit like a glove, stuck out in the crowd of workers and performers all going their separate ways: some to bars or clubs or their cars or wherever. Dmitri hardly cared. His private car joined on to an office car. This, of course, upset many, for most performers (if not all) shared a car with at least one other being. Again, it was of little concern to Dmitri. With a final glance back at the tent, he walked up the metal stairs into his car. Compared to the common box cars, Dmitri's car was extravagant. The walls were painted a dark burgundy, but it was difficult to tell because places not covered by windows with heavy, black curtains were blocked by tall bookcases. He stripped off his crimson coat and pulled off his tall, ebony boots in a fluid, practiced movement. Two decades of ring leading had resulted in an unshakable pattern. Next, he would subconsciously turn on his phonograph and unbutton his shirt and vest while something classical filled the spacious car. In this case, it was Hungarian Dance No. 5. The glass of wine was next or some vodka. This night, a good night, it was a rich red wine. Oh yes, his performers might have been living in cramped, disorganized conditions, but why should Dmitri Petrov have to give up the finer things in life? He sipped the wine thoughtfully. After all, didn't he deserve it?
Nothing spurns his adrenaline rush like the roar of the crowd. As Robert holds his fist up in the air the scent of sweat, excitement, and suspense all hits him full force. Performers bow at his side, Dmitri doing the same on a platform above his head. The way they're lined up is an unspoken testament to the hierarchy here at Cirque Regalis. Their ring leader stands as high as he can, commanding the attention of the crowd away from the trapeze acts with just his debonair façade alone whilst Robert remains on ground level with the performers. He is no way a man of business but a man of the people—and it shows as he stands with his mouth agape, the sound of his enthusiastic yell getting lost in the heavy drone of their spectators’ cheers. It's hardly professional, in fact he'll probably be scolded for it later. As of right now though, he cannot bring himself to care. He keeps them enthused until the very end, picking up his vest that had been discarded at the start of the curtain call. He fits the tailored piece of fabric to his bare chest, the polyester inner lining sticking to the veil of sweat adorning his skin. Inside the tent this attire is his saving grace, allowing the freedom to move about the performance floor without the threat of heat stroke. Stepping out into the crisp nighttime air, Robert exhales a sigh of relief as he’s encompassed by a cool breeze and the sights and smells of New York City.
As he lets his gaze fall on the brightly lit skyscrapers blanketing the horizon, the young man empathizes with the city that never sleeps.
Though the show is over, his job is far from finished. He makes his usual rounds, milling about the performers to ensure that everyone is well before checking in with the animal manager just to be certain that all the beasts are tended to and put away. If anyone needs anything from the outside, they know to come to him at his car. So that’s where he goes, slipping through the hustle and bustle of backstage to get to his home away from home. Like Dmitri, he doesn’t have to share with anyone, but his car is hardly as extravagant. In retrospect, it reminds him of his apartment back in Louisiana. The dark hardwood flooring is coated with a varnish that is chipping away and one could hardly see the grey paint on the walls behind all of the circus posters, photographs, and post cards. Anything of sentimental value is hung on the walls in a haphazard display, fully personifying the term ‘organized chaos’. His fancy clothes are hung in his closet as other garments such as underwear, socks, and denim pants are tucked away in several suitcases. His bed is the only other thing in the car—queen sized with a downy comforter of black cotton, sheets of a matching shade and fabric, and a crimson duvet he brought from home. It’s where he lays his head as soon as he walks through the threshold, missing the pillows entirely. He knows he won’t find sleep, much like every night prior, so he sits and waits for someone to be taken care of.
This. This is what she lived. This is what she was born to do. The roar of the crowds enveloped Hazel and her attuned ears could hear some people screaming for her alone. She loved it. It enthralled her, sending rushes of adrenaline and joy through her. She raised the torch to her face one last time and blew out the alcohol. If anyone but a professional had done it, it would've looked sloppy, but she made the fire look like it had been tamed by one person alone. Hazel twirled the torch, laughing joyfully as she threw it into a bucket of water and bowed with the other performers. Then, it was over.
She sighed softly as the last of the crowd trickled out. She was one of the last people remaining in the tents aside from the trainers, who were coaxing their animals into their cages. Hazel finally regained her senses as the adrenaline wore away. She didn't want to go back to the car she shared. No, she wanted to perform for the rest of her life, until the moment she dropped dead. Unfortunately, not all dreams can come true.
The fire-eating girl was still a little dizzy from the heat of the tent. For her, it was always three times as worse. She couldn't actually control fire, no one in the world could possess such an ability. Hazel merely guided the fire, like a shepherd guides his sheep. Outside of performing, the most she ever did with fire was light a few candles. She never went as far as starting a bonfire. As unusual as it was, Hazel was extremely cautious of even the smallest flame, even if she possessed a little bit of fire within her.
She finally exited the tent, craving a nice dinner. She had saved enough money to do many things, because she was not one to buy things on a whim. All of her costumes were handmade and most of the fabric was left over from one-time acts. It made her quite proud of herself, and she knew that her mother would be proud of her too.
At the thought of her mother, Hazel's dazzling smile faded slightly.
She walked past the other performers, forcing another smile onto her face. The cool New York air was refreshing for her singed skin and she simply reveled in it's feel as she walked along. New York vaguely reminded her of New Orleans, the only real difference being that New York's humidity was not nearly as bad. She was on her way to her car when she suddenly stopped in front of "Mr.Petrov's" personal car. A thought suddenly popped in her head.
Tonight, she deserved a night on the town. She wouldn't let anyone take it from her, not even the owner himself. And she knew just the person to bring along.
“How do you do that?” A small crowd huddled together with various expressions and comments coming from them. There were a few children, one or two women, but most of them were men. In the center was a woman on a soapbox. She had her chest pressed against the wood with her arms placed in front of her, her chin rested against her forearms where intricate henna further drew attention. But what made the people stare - besides her lack of modest apparel - was the fact that her legs were impossibly bent towards her back, her delicate feet resting curved against the top of her head.
“The human body has few limitations. You will never know what you can do until you try. But you must practice,” she said in a thick Arabian accent that caressed the ears and drew more compliments. As her legs moved back so that she was fully horizontal, she moved her arms and head, pushing up until she was supporting herself with just one hand. More applause came and she held the position for a few moments longer, smiling as dollar bills and change floated into the hat lain out for her payment. “Thank you all so much. Come back tomorrow night to see my full act.” Belle put her hands together as if praying, bowing at the waist.
She headed into her own train car, one which she shared with two others. Neither Sebastian, Svetlana, nor Sugar were there. She assumed that the gypsy family trio were off somewhere conning somebody. She smiled at the thought of privacy and moved to her chest, opening it to pull out another outfit. Cotton and animal skin - It felt like heaven against her flesh. Her attention finally turned to the flowers and cards waiting for her - And the other two, she assumed - clapping her hands quietly. She didn't get too close because there were some daisy bunches and she didn't want to break out like she had last month. She'd let them sit for now, leaving her hat in her chest and exiting her car to sneak off to the still up big top. Standing in the center she imagined an even larger crowd, all chanting for her. Only her. She loved the spotlight. She loved being seen as new, exciting, and exotic. Belle was never without fans and the joy she brought outweighed the hatred.
Her arms went up slowly as she imagined the beating of a drum, humming as she slid her hips from left to right, no other part of her body moving. She was always moving, always practicing and keeping herself in shape. Her body moved fluidly as she sang to herself, closing her eyes. She could still hear the hustle and bustle of people hurrying off to head home, some still lingering to see the animals and abnormal performers. A little more concentration and she tuned them out to continue her dance, experimenting in which ways she could bend and twist her body, how far she could turn, how well she could isolate and move each muscle.
The young girl sat dejectedly outside the main tent, her view of the final act restricted to the half open tent flap in front of her. Evee could have taken a seat at the back of the audience seats, but she didn't think her disappointed pout would fit in with the amazed expressions of the crowd. Many might have wondered what a girl of sixteen had to be upset about, especially when she lived with the circus. But life wasn't all candyfloss and Ferris wheels when you lived in Cirque Regalis, especially when you had a protective mother. Evee had been dreaming of performing with the other acrobats ever since she learned to do her first cartwheel, but her mother was determined the keep her securely on the ground until she deemed her ready for the big leagues.
However, her disappointed pout didn't last long. As the excited cheer exploded from the tent, Evee felt her frown evaporate away to be replaced by an excited smile. She bounced to her feet as the acts began to exit the tent, standing on her tiptoes to peer over the sudden crowd. She spotted her mother chatting with another acrobat.
"Pardon, excusez-moi" The girl chirped as she dodged and dived through the brightly dressed acts. She was light on her feet and rather adept at making her way through thick crowds, even so she almost tripped over someone's trailing costume. She would have face planted had it not been for a steadying hand grabbing her shoulder.
"Watch yourself kid." Jack Connolly said as he let her go. 'Kid' was Jack's pet-name for Evee. Evee gave him a cheeky grin, before pushing her way back into the crowd, shouting a cheerful, "Thanks Jack!" back over her shoulder.
By the time she reached her mother, Ana Howell was saying goodbye to the other acrobat, a young Russian man who insisted on ruffling Evee's hair whenever she was around. Now was no exception and Evee had to quickly duck to avoid having her hair messed up. She poked her tongue out at him as he walked away with a chuckle. Then Evee turned to her mother, who was waiting patiently for her daughter to behave.
"You were fabulous, Mama. I can't wait until I'm up there too." Evee said by way of greeting. Ana smiled at her daughter before wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
"Thank you, Pip." Ana murmured into her daughter's hair as she planted a kiss on her head, "What's that saying... 'A watched pot never bubbles'? You'll get there in time."
Evee giggled at her mother and wrapped an arm around her waist, "It's 'boils', Mama. 'A watched pot never boils'."
"Ah, silly English sayings." Ana Howell said, waving her free hand as if to dismiss the saying completely. "Come on, let's go get you fed."
The mother-daughter duo wondered off towards their train car. It was smaller than some of the others, but the pair did have it to themselves. The privacy had been particularly important to Ana as Evee grew. Ana was also glad that none of the acts had to deal with Evee's constant energy. Ana loved her daughter to the ends of the earth and back, yet even she sometimes grew tired of Evee's sometimes non-stop questions.
Evee and Ana entered their small home. Bright costumes fought for space with books. Evee's collection of keepsakes lined one a ledge, although her keepsakes usually took the form of a glittering rock, or some other item Evee hadn't been able to let go of. Once the door was closed behind them Ana began to undress, stripping the tight acrobats' costume off and replacing it with a pair of comfortable slacks and a blouse. Ana wiped her makeup off as Evee, sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed, began to chat with her mother.
"Jack let me have a ride on Rocky today. I rode bare back and he said he'd take me out for a day ride next time. And he's going to show me how to..." Evee stopped abruptly, and Ana turned to find her daughter trying to cover a guilty expression on her face.
"What is it?" Ana pressed, already disapproving. She liked Jack Connolly. Ana thought he had a steadying effect on Evee. She could only hope that any bad habits belonging to the older man weren't rubbing off on her impressionable daughter.
"It's just a card trick Mama." Evee assured her, an innocent smile on her face.
Ana frowned. Experience told her not to trust that 'innocent' expression on her daughter's face. "Maybe I should have a word with Jack." She said, tying her hair in a bun as she watched Evee's face closely.
Rather than risk being pressed into revealing that the trick was actually a sleight of hand useful when cheating in cards, Evee decided it was best to evacuate. Hopping off the bed she gave her mother a peck on the cheek before going for the door,
"It's just a little trick, Mama." Evee assured Ana as she paused in the doorway, "I'll be back before late." She added with a smile before jumping outside. Evee had nowhere in particular she wanted to be, but she was certain some adventure would appear.
Ana let Evee go with a sigh. She trusted her daughter, but that didn't mean that she didn't worry. Sitting down on her bed Ana stretched out her limbs, getting the kinks out before resting back on her elbows. Picking up the book tucked under her pillow, Ana flicked through the chapters until she'd reached the book-marked page. Pushing herself down the bed until her back was resting against the train wall, Ana let herself sink into the words.
Among all the hustle and bustle of happy faces, both from the performers and audience as they exited the tent, a small white figure wove in and out of the crowd silently, keeping her head ducked down to avoid being spotted as much as possible. It was a pitiful attempt, with the dark purple dress that draped across her thin frame her pale skin practically glowed in the night. She glanced up nervously, hearing a few gasps as she brushed past people and spotting children pointing up at her. Evelyn cringed, squeezing her hazel eyes shut and ducking her head back down as she sped up her pace.
Moving away from the crowd and toward the cars she relaxed, uncurling from herself and lifting her head. Slowly her head moved around, watching the others start to relax, or in some cases others were just getting their night started. She wasn't sure if she wanted to even do anything tonight, on some occasions she would be included in outings, but it seemed that everyone else already had plans. Evelyn's eyes rested on Mr. Petrov's car for a moment, feeling a disgusting shudder run through her body as she quickly turned away. If she wasn't hallucinating or acting too paranoid then he was watching her more than usual these days. It was strange, for some reason, it sent a chill of something like excitement down her spine..
We find our callings in the most unlikely places. Clayton never wanted to work at the circus as a boy. Sure, the circus was enjoyable to watch as a child. The acrobats twirled above, and the elephants stomped below. Like most boys his age, he wanted to be a soldier or a sports star. As he got older, he wanted to a lawyer or a doctor. And then she left him. Of course he also never thought his mother, his guardian, his protector, would leave him, but she left him in the orphanage like an unwanted piece of furniture. Nevermind. The circus was still wonderful. It was here that he could make use of the "skill" his mother had found disgusting. The hours teaching himself to cry "ow" instinctively were of little use now that he didn't have to worry about her.
Still, he missed her.
His car was further down the train. It had once been shared with a few workers, then a pair of conjoined twins, then an old accountant, and finally, and currently, a boy who fed the animals. He was usually gone however, so when Clayton opened the door, he was greeted only by Argos, who threw himself at the bleeding man. A broad smile lit up his features as Clay knelt to embrace the dog. He stood slowly and reluctantly as the blood coming from his wounds began to show on the dog's white fur. Every night, Clayton told himself he'd remember to clean up first, and every night, the excitement of finishing a show and returning to Argos overwhelmed him like a child.
The St. Bernard wound around Clay's legs as he walked over to the tin bucket of soapy water. Bubbles popped and parted as Clay thrust a nearby rag into the depths of the bucket, soaking the fabric before he started to work on the punctures. They were mostly on his arms and abdomen and left by his various skewers. His right hand twitched slightly, an odd quirk that had begun when he'd sliced his palm open in an act. The doctor said nerves were most likely severed, but Clayton didn't seem to feel a difference. He just found it a bit harder to grip things, sure, but it still worked. The blood rinsed off easily, mixing with the water the cloth carried. He finished by tending to the two punctures on his cheeks, left by a skewer that evoked a cry of shock from the audience and loud applause. He liked that one the most.
The water tinted a soft red now, Clay pulled an under shirt over his head, grabbed a bottle of beer, and walked out of the train car with the bucket under his arm. Argos followed closely, snuffling at the ground for leftover cotton candy or popcorn. Occasionally, a soft slurp would signify the dog's success. Clayton casually tossed the water on to the grass nearby. A bonfire was already burning a few hundred feet from the tent, and he decided to move toward it. A few other figures sat around it, but most were obscured from his vision because of the flames. He turned the bucket upside down and perched on it, following a routine he had created for himself since he was discharged from the war. Argos settled by his feet as he popped the bottle open and sipped from it. Life was pleasant, to say the least, for he was able to unwind easily. There was a feeling of normalcy that came with having a place in the circus. Life was secure and relatively happy, yet he could sense the tensions rising throughout the circus grounds. He knew things were changing; he just didn't want to acknowledge them.
Still, he missed her.
His car was further down the train. It had once been shared with a few workers, then a pair of conjoined twins, then an old accountant, and finally, and currently, a boy who fed the animals. He was usually gone however, so when Clayton opened the door, he was greeted only by Argos, who threw himself at the bleeding man. A broad smile lit up his features as Clay knelt to embrace the dog. He stood slowly and reluctantly as the blood coming from his wounds began to show on the dog's white fur. Every night, Clayton told himself he'd remember to clean up first, and every night, the excitement of finishing a show and returning to Argos overwhelmed him like a child.
The St. Bernard wound around Clay's legs as he walked over to the tin bucket of soapy water. Bubbles popped and parted as Clay thrust a nearby rag into the depths of the bucket, soaking the fabric before he started to work on the punctures. They were mostly on his arms and abdomen and left by his various skewers. His right hand twitched slightly, an odd quirk that had begun when he'd sliced his palm open in an act. The doctor said nerves were most likely severed, but Clayton didn't seem to feel a difference. He just found it a bit harder to grip things, sure, but it still worked. The blood rinsed off easily, mixing with the water the cloth carried. He finished by tending to the two punctures on his cheeks, left by a skewer that evoked a cry of shock from the audience and loud applause. He liked that one the most.
The water tinted a soft red now, Clay pulled an under shirt over his head, grabbed a bottle of beer, and walked out of the train car with the bucket under his arm. Argos followed closely, snuffling at the ground for leftover cotton candy or popcorn. Occasionally, a soft slurp would signify the dog's success. Clayton casually tossed the water on to the grass nearby. A bonfire was already burning a few hundred feet from the tent, and he decided to move toward it. A few other figures sat around it, but most were obscured from his vision because of the flames. He turned the bucket upside down and perched on it, following a routine he had created for himself since he was discharged from the war. Argos settled by his feet as he popped the bottle open and sipped from it. Life was pleasant, to say the least, for he was able to unwind easily. There was a feeling of normalcy that came with having a place in the circus. Life was secure and relatively happy, yet he could sense the tensions rising throughout the circus grounds. He knew things were changing; he just didn't want to acknowledge them.
As the girl continued towards her car she spotted a familiar face walking in her direction, a feeling of safety returning to her body at the sight of Clay. She looked up to him as a brother, she instantly fell safer whenever he was near, mostly because he wasn't a major playboy like many of the others around the circus. It's not like she didn't trust the others, she did, and she felt very safe around them too, but Clay always felt like a different kind of safety. Evelyn continued on her way towards the car, she would definitely join Clayton wherever he was going, but she had to check on her baby boy first. She smiled as she sped up, running on her tiptoes to her car and hopping in, greeted with a "Hello" in her own voice.
A grin spread across the albino's face as she leaned down, stroking Vladimir's body gently and sighing happily as he hopped closer to her. "Hello there.." She cooed, letting the Raven clutch onto her forearm and nip at her ears gently, causing a soft giggle to ring through the cart, sounding like wind chimes. Normally Evelyn wouldn't come back to check on Vladimir first but she felt like Dmitri was acting more hostile towards him than usual. Gently she kissed his head, placing him back on his perch and stroking his feathers before exiting her car again.
She probably should have changed into something that wouldn't make her look as bright, but she didn't really mind tonight. Easily spotting Clay, she hurried over and bit her lip nervously, noticing there were no free spots. Not wanting to be any trouble, she sat down silently beside Clayton, giving him a small smile and murmuring a quiet "Hello." so not to disturb anyone.
A grin spread across the albino's face as she leaned down, stroking Vladimir's body gently and sighing happily as he hopped closer to her. "Hello there.." She cooed, letting the Raven clutch onto her forearm and nip at her ears gently, causing a soft giggle to ring through the cart, sounding like wind chimes. Normally Evelyn wouldn't come back to check on Vladimir first but she felt like Dmitri was acting more hostile towards him than usual. Gently she kissed his head, placing him back on his perch and stroking his feathers before exiting her car again.
She probably should have changed into something that wouldn't make her look as bright, but she didn't really mind tonight. Easily spotting Clay, she hurried over and bit her lip nervously, noticing there were no free spots. Not wanting to be any trouble, she sat down silently beside Clayton, giving him a small smile and murmuring a quiet "Hello." so not to disturb anyone.
Nathaniel did not perform like the others did. He did not flip, nor twirl, nor parade around on wild beasts from far off lands. He did not share the stage with his kin, and tonight, like every other night, he did not bask in the glory of the cheers like the others did. Oh no, his job was not in the lime-light like the others, whom took their shining places in the spotlights with such vigor and ambition. His job was a more shadowed kind. Once the spotlights clicked on, and Mr. Petrov opened the show, Nathan's job was done. Not that it mattered to him, Nathan quite enjoyed sitting behind the main tent, his back rested against an empty cage as the show ran it length. He listened closely to the roars of wild cats and the cries from the crowd, not denying the smile that tugged on his lips. The 'Oh's and the 'Ah's of the crowds being the tell-tale signs that his family members, the performers who coaxed those reactions from the wide-eyed crowd's lips, were doing a particularly good job that evening. Usually, Nathan would have stolen one of the women on their way in, taken her back to his empty cart, his bunk-buddy busy with the night's show, and they would have done what grown ups do. But, tonight, Nathan hadn't felt up to it. It was all so much work, and he was tired from so many sleepless nights.
As Nathan elbowed his way through the crowd, he called out to a few 'Good show, guys!' over the chaos, maybe smacking a few on the back as he passed, but he didn't stay long to joke around. Dragging his feet slightly, rubbing at the sore spot on his neck, Nathan crossed the grounds to a small make-shift bench that sat near the long line of carts. Throwing himself down on it, too tall for its length so that his legs hung off the end at the knee, he produced an apple from his pocket. Mentally, Nathan claimed this bench as his, being that it was where he had spent almost every night since they arrived. It was uncomfortable and far too small, but at least that kept him awake. Taking a rather large bite from the apple, Nathan rolled his head to the side to watch straggling people mill about.
Jack Connolly led his small troupe of horses back to the stables. One hand held the reins to the three horses, while the other hand moved from the lip of his trousers to the cigarette in his mouth. He took the back way, knowing that if he took his horses through the circus crowds people would stop him and ask to pat the horses, or one would step on the foot of a small child. He passed over acts and circus folk, either returning to their train cars or heading to the bonfire for an end of day drink. Those that Jack knew received a nod, no calling out a greeting or stopping for a chat. Jack wasn't one to let his mouth run away with him.
The horse trained reached the horses' stall and quickly got to work with the beasts. He took off and stored costumes, rubbed them down, and fed them. All the horses were used to his quiet, confident presence. He made them feel secure. His knowledge of each individual horse was without a doubt the best of the circus. He knew each horse's strengths and weakness. He could tell when one was developing an injury, and when another was growing angry. As he set up the horses for the night he hummed to himself, a quiet little tune that he had picked up in the army. Finally, with everyone settled, Jack took his leave.
His car was close to the horses. He shared it with a young man, Joshua, who helped around the circus, running errands and working maintenance when needed. As Jack entered the car shocked squeals drew his attention to his roommate's bed. Three heads emerged from beneath the covers. Joshua, sandwiched between the two ladies, ran a hand through his hair.
"Jack, man. You mind giving us a minute?" He said, nodding to his companions.
The red-head on his right giggled and cast a seductive look Jack's way, "Or he could always join us?" Neither Joshua nor his other bed mate rejected the suggestion, the trio merely looked at Jake expectantly.
Without a word Jake grabbed a bottle of whiskey, his jacket, and a book. "Next time leave a sock on the door." He replied as he turned and took his leave. Joshua was alright, as roommates went. He gave Jake his privacy, and didn't seem to grudge him his silence. On the occasion that Jack had gone to the local bar with the other man he'd always enjoyed himself, although he'd never taken Joshua up on any of his 'intimate offers'.
Outside again and with time to burn before he could hit the hay, Jack planned on sitting somewhere quietly and reading. He spotted a bonfire not too far off and made his way towards the flames. Around the fire other performers had gathered. Some were merely enjoying the warmth and company, while others were quietly relaxing with a bottle of spirits. He spotted Clayton and the albino girl Evelyn seated around the flames and gave them a nod in greeting before taking his own seat not too far around. Without a word to anyone Jack took a swig from his bottle before leafing through his book.
Music. Some say that it is the purest form of communication, a language spoken and understood by all. Beethoven had shown it to be a language even for the deaf! For Svetlana it seemed that her violin was one of the very few ways she could communicate with others. The scrawny young woman who just barely passed as an adult seemed to always have her violin clutched to her chest, her bow always under her fingers. Unlike her elder brother she wasn't exactly the world's most interesting person. Her involuntary silence and often timid nature did give an initial air of mystery but once you got to know the poor girl, all mystery was gone. She was just a sweet person who loved her music and her family. Perhaps she would surprise someone now and again by her display of other talents such as tailoring or cooking or even making herbal remedies to cure a fellow performer before a show, but there wasn't much too her.
Perhaps that was something refreshing about her.
At this particular moment she was making her way through the crowd, offering a kind smile to those who waved at her but making no indication that she desired any sort of conversation. English was not her forté and she doubted any of the people here were fluent in reading Ukrainian, Belgian, or Roma. In fact, besides her brother and niece, Dmitri was the only person she could “talk” to. The ringleader wasn't exactly in line to win an award for Kindest Man of the Year but she felt that he had some goodness in him. Or perhaps she was just biased because he was one of the few people that didn't treat her like she was some handicapped and helpless creature. Or maybe she was just too nice. Either way, she couldn't help but to feel grateful. He did give her and Sebastian jobs and a home. And he hadn't fired her violent brother yet. But she did have a hand in that, something she didn't ever want her brother to find out about.
She took a deep breath as she came to the circus master's train car, knocking on the door timidly as she waited at the top of the three steps. Tonight's show was a good one so perhaps he would be in a good mood. Or at least what passed as a good mood for Dmitri. She momentarily placed her violin and bow under her arm to smooth out the wrinkles in her white dress from the performance, adjusting some tufts of hair so that they weren't so out of place. She smiled to herself and took her violin back into hand, curling her feet against the metal. She should probably invest in some shoes some time soon before she caught a cold or something.
Frances
Her drink was bland. That, she expected. Frances had topped the bottle off with water three times already, and sorely considered a fourth, given her draining supply.
She didn’t watch the show. She didn’t have to; tonight was about applause, and Frances heard the audience from here. Fire and animals, aerial twists, each step choreographed, memorized and well-received. Her window let the nuances indoors. With a finely penned schedule, she could match their reactions to every performance. Soft grades on the eighth line matched the people’s awed gasps as Dmitri’s acrobats danced to fearsome heights. Higher marks on lines ten through twelve caught the frenzied cheers for the main tent’s finale. Now she held these notes against the ones from last week.
Down.
Down did not cut it. Not for her, not for the audience, certainly not for their ringleader.
“Damn it to hell.”
Frances crushed her cigarette in the weak drink still wetting her glass’ curves. Next she stood with a vengeance, her white shawl doing nothing to soften the edges of her figure. Never mind the warm night – that smooth fur wrapped around her neck defined her image. She would not be seen outside without it. The dark dress against her skin was enough to let summer breeze flow through.
“Damn.”
Robby. She’d have to go to him. As a rule, she gave Dmitri the bad news only after she’d struck upon its cure. Robby handled the talent, but he wouldn’t have noticed this slip because he wasn’t paid to. The acts were ‘fine’, his end considered. Frances managed the bigger picture, the one tracking the cirque’s crowd and their spoiled, temperamental, waning interest.
This thing dropped across the board – a lazy plrrrft for any part of the show she could name, it seemed. Yes, their reputation had shot to the stars, and yes, more were coming from miles and exotic lands away, but what good were newcomers if they wouldn’t stay? Had they seen this before? Had they seen better?
“Damn. Dammit.”
The night was warmer than she’d realized. She scowled at it, but left her trailer. Her trailer, she noted, although she’d been in line to share it for years. So far, she’d been able to excuse herself to the end of the list, but Frances suspected she’d be trapped with a friend should she get too far on Dmitri’s rough side one day. She let the thought keep her on her toes. Motivation, one might say.
“Mason, open up.”
He may have been ‘Robby’ on a nicer evenings, but during business, she preferred less familiarity. It added to her focus. Dear Mr. Mason should be used to this.
“Mason. We need to talk about the show.”
She knocked. She wasn’t used to knocking, but the pleasant eyeful she caught last time she’d barged into his car taught her an unusual patience.
“Your acts are slipping,” Frances intended to say the very instant he answered. Then she would invite herself in, and move on to add, “The crowd’s bored. I said to excite them, not spoon-feed more of the same but with a few twists. What will Dmitri say when they walk off?”
Robby would help fix this. Whatever he could squeeze from the talent would ease the sting away. Whatever he couldn’t, meanwhile, she would, whether it involved a tighter squeeze or slow crush.
Whenever he waited in his car instead of wander the tents making deliveries to his lovelies, he always ran the risk of getting flagged down by the other management. Robert could deal with Dmitri, even on the Russian's bad days. He'd been the man's companion long enough to know just how much to piss him off and exactly when to stop. With her it was different. Frances has been riding his ass since her first day on the job. He would never accuse her of telling him how to do his job but he would never deny that she made suggestions in a rather abrasive way. Though he doesn't like being told what to do with his lovelies, he doesn't particularly care for conflict. So, when the occasion presents itself, he allows the woman to rant and badger him to her heart's content. Unfortunately for him, the occasion was presented itself in the form of brutish knocks and boisterous yells.
He knew before he even opened the door that he was in trouble. For one thing, she called him by his surname, and you don't exactly visit someone on pleasantries raising your voice like that. Yanking his door open, he gives the feisty señorita a thin-lipped smile and greets her with his Cajun accent weaved into his words, "Franny, a pleasure as always."
"Your acts are slipping" she says forthright, "The crowd’s bored. I said to excite them, not spoon-feed more of the same but with a few twists. What will Dmitri say when they walk off?"
Leaning against the door frame, Robert cocks a brow. "Excusez-moi?" he replies, touching his hand to his chest in faux indignation, "I'll have you know that the crowd is far from bored. You'd know if you actually bothered to come to a performance." This he retorts with a petty grudge in his voice before he changes both his tone and his countenance in a blink of an eye. In a mere second he goes from brooding condescension to curious concern. "Now what how you all in a tizzy, sweetheart? What's wrong?"
The Pin Cushion sat not too far away from the fire. Any other person would have felt the heat of the flames intensely, but this was Clay, and he'd learned the hard way that he could not feel heat either. He'd been young, still living with his mom, and water was boiling on the stove. Long story short, Jane Sullivan had been shocked to find her water on the floor and her son covered in second degree burns. He shifted his bucket back as the memory returned to him. Argos continued to snuffle around and pester various members of the circus for food. Modestly successful, he finally returned to Clayton as Evelyn approached.
"Hello." Lips tight around the mouth of the beer bottle, Clay turned quickly to look at the young albino and smiled around the glass in his mouth. As Clayton swallowed the alcohol, Argos pushed past his owner in a gentle manner and nudged Evelyn's hand with his snout, silently asking for her attention.
"Hey there, Evelyn," he greeted, Southern twang flavoring his words so that the second "e" in her name was forgotten. Seventeen years here and he still retained the dialect of the hick his father must have been. He held the bottle in his left hand, his reliable hand, and swirled the contents around lazily. "Your performance was really something." He made sure to use the word "performance", for he too knew that it was more of a parade than an actual act. That was how it was, at least, before he learned to juggle the skewers. That was irrelevant. He started to take a sip from the bottle and then stopped, gesturing quickly toward the bucket below him. "D'you want to sit here?" Meanwhile, he all but finished the bottle before offering it to her. "You seem distant tonight." She seemed distant quite often actually but tried not to comment on it too often. He merely could not think of another topic to broach.
Movement to his side caught his eye and Clay looked up, beer bottle dangling by Evelyn still. Jack nodded to Clayton and Evelyn as he walked by, taking a seat among the performers by the flames. Clay raised a hand, ducked his head a bit, and flashed a bit of a smile. "How are you, Jack?" he inquired, turning slightly to face Jack while making sure not to cut Evelyn off.
"Hello." Lips tight around the mouth of the beer bottle, Clay turned quickly to look at the young albino and smiled around the glass in his mouth. As Clayton swallowed the alcohol, Argos pushed past his owner in a gentle manner and nudged Evelyn's hand with his snout, silently asking for her attention.
"Hey there, Evelyn," he greeted, Southern twang flavoring his words so that the second "e" in her name was forgotten. Seventeen years here and he still retained the dialect of the hick his father must have been. He held the bottle in his left hand, his reliable hand, and swirled the contents around lazily. "Your performance was really something." He made sure to use the word "performance", for he too knew that it was more of a parade than an actual act. That was how it was, at least, before he learned to juggle the skewers. That was irrelevant. He started to take a sip from the bottle and then stopped, gesturing quickly toward the bucket below him. "D'you want to sit here?" Meanwhile, he all but finished the bottle before offering it to her. "You seem distant tonight." She seemed distant quite often actually but tried not to comment on it too often. He merely could not think of another topic to broach.
Movement to his side caught his eye and Clay looked up, beer bottle dangling by Evelyn still. Jack nodded to Clayton and Evelyn as he walked by, taking a seat among the performers by the flames. Clay raised a hand, ducked his head a bit, and flashed a bit of a smile. "How are you, Jack?" he inquired, turning slightly to face Jack while making sure not to cut Evelyn off.
Frances
"Franny, a pleasure as always."
‘Franny’. They were back to that then, were they?
He thought this was cute. He wasn’t speaking like he gave even half the crap she needed. If she were to guess, she’d say he was still on the stage in his mind. The show just finished; who could blame him? But she didn’t share his luxury of riding the rush of the spotlight, and she wouldn’t relax – or couldn’t. She never learned which it was. Did it matter?
"I'll have you know that the crowd is far from bored. You'd know if you actually bothered to come to a performance."
So he was annoyed with her. Funny, she thought her absences felt like a small vacation. The woman settled in to watch nearly every rehearsal his acts prepared. She stayed quiet while she did, but according to the mutterings her ears caught wind of later, that silence spoke volumes of its own. She added ‘pressure’ to the ring. Be at the show, don’t be there, but either way, someone didn’t appreciate it. At least with Robby, she earned an itch of guilt behind the firmness on her face. Frances worked better away from their performances, but one day, she might make her own show of attending.
It didn’t mean there wasn’t still a problem.
"Now what how you all in a tizzy, sweetheart? What's wrong?"
“I’ve been listening.”
She’d started more than one conversation that way. It worked as her shorthand, skipping the spiel of, ‘I’ve been tenser than I always am about this for weeks, but now I have proof’. Her mouth stayed set in its hard line, and the stick she admitted she had up there remained firmly in its place, but her eyes, remembering their allies, lightened to a calmer brown. This was her kind of cordial. He’d made his effort, after all. No sense in refusing her turn for it.
“It’s been two months since the talent…” What sounded like a fair word? “… refreshed.” Close enough. “The excitement has dimmed. Whether it’s a hack troupe putting on some butchered mockery of us or sightseers spreading too clear a word of our great attractions, but the audience knows what’s coming. Their applause isn’t amazement anymore. It’s satisfaction. They’re getting what they paid for and nothing else.” Her voice tightened. “It has to change again.”
Two months since the latest set list, four months to nail new routines… Three, if they pushed it.
“I don’t expect them to like it. Your people, I mean,” Frances said. “They won’t. But we’re at the top of the hill looking down. Right now is ample time to change paths before we have to struggle back up.”
Evelyn, still smiling up at Clayton, giggled quietly as she cuddled into Argos happily, scratching his head affectionately. She was almost tempted to ask if he was alright, but caught herself before she opened her mouth. It embarrassed her to admit it took her almost half a year to finally get out of the habit and some nights when she was... distant, like Clay noticed, she would forget. She muttered a shy "Thank you.." in response, smiling up at him again.
"I'm fine here.." She cooed, leaning into Argos as she continued to stroke his fur, looking to the fire nervously as she mulled over Clayton's statement.
"You seem distant tonight."
She scanned the fire slowly, "It's nothing... Nothing aside from the usual.." She whispered, chewing her lip as more performers started to wander around the fire. It didn't seem necessary to bring up her suspicions about Dmitri since she didn't know what she was even suspicious of, she just thought he was acting different. Suddenly the girl fell silent, smiling up and waving to Jack when he walked over. She wasn't good at conversation, and the only other thing she could think of speaking about the deteriorating state of the circus.
"You seem distant tonight."
She scanned the fire slowly, "It's nothing... Nothing aside from the usual.." She whispered, chewing her lip as more performers started to wander around the fire. It didn't seem necessary to bring up her suspicions about Dmitri since she didn't know what she was even suspicious of, she just thought he was acting different. Suddenly the girl fell silent, smiling up and waving to Jack when he walked over. She wasn't good at conversation, and the only other thing she could think of speaking about the deteriorating state of the circus.
Cigar smoke filled the space within Dmitri's car as the circus's owner settled into his after-show routine. He'd swapped out his ebony breeches that he wore while ring leading for a pair a looser, khaki trousers. Oscuro cigar hanging from his mouth, Dmitri swapped out the album on his phonograph. It was Requiem in D Minor this time. It was a composition left unfinished by the composer's untimely demise at a mere age of 35. Untimely demises brought memories back to Dmitri. He released the smoke within his mouth as he thought. They were good memories, as morbid as that was, for it had meant the end of showing affection for an affectionless man.
He rested the cigar in the ash tray on his desk as he sipped at the wine still in his glass. To him it had been a good show that night. His ears were not trained enough to gauge the thoughts of the audience based upon their applause. Dmitri only heard the applause and revealed in it. He had been a boy starved of attention, so he fought to regain that lack of attention now as an adult. The smoke added greatly to the almost perpetual haze within the room, for cigar smoke was not inhaled. Dmitri was honestly not sure why the thick, rolled stick of tobacco appealed to him more than cigarettes. Perhaps it was because the former looked more professional, grander, and cigarettes were cheaper. Of course, it also could have been because his father smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.
He coughed once from the thick smoke and moved toward the car's windows to open them. From the corner of his eye, as he opened the last one, he swore he saw movement on the stairs leading to his car. It hardly fazed him. People came and went from his car as the night wore on after shows. Most bore questions or information for him. Dmitri had barely replaced the cigar in his mouth before the timid knock sounded. It was dainty so certainly not Frances or Robby who both tended to have quite loud knocks. He assumed it was a female, for not many men knocked so softly.
"Wait," he called, holding the cigar in between his thumb and index and middle fingers. Dmitri could easily speak without an accent, for he did that in the circus, but he seemed to enjoy his Russian accent and fascination Americans had with it. And so, his words were thick with an accent when he called out. The door had a minute window set in it, but he usually kept the drapes over it. After unlocking it, he met eyes with Svetlana, to whom he offered a typical smile of is. "Добрий вечір, Lana," he greeted, stepping to the side to allow the young woman to pass. "You were lovely tonight, моя любовь."
He put the cigar back in his mouth, formulating his words to her. Ukrainian was not a first language to him by any means. Sure, he could read a good amount Ukrainian words and perhaps translate spoken statements, but he had trouble speaking what was on his mind. Really, he could only do that in Russian and English. He made a soft "er" sound for a while, searching for the correct phrasing in the unfamiliar language. "ти тут для мене...або з інших причин?" For a while, he stood over by his ash tray to remove the ashy end of the cigar and waited for her response. Then, he moved closer, closing the space quite quickly between them. He brushed his cigar-less hand against her cheek in a soft, fluid motion, looking down into her eyes. He liked the girl though "like" was an extremely relative term, for he had little concept of commitment and love. She did, however, make a wonderful companion both in and out of bed.
He rested the cigar in the ash tray on his desk as he sipped at the wine still in his glass. To him it had been a good show that night. His ears were not trained enough to gauge the thoughts of the audience based upon their applause. Dmitri only heard the applause and revealed in it. He had been a boy starved of attention, so he fought to regain that lack of attention now as an adult. The smoke added greatly to the almost perpetual haze within the room, for cigar smoke was not inhaled. Dmitri was honestly not sure why the thick, rolled stick of tobacco appealed to him more than cigarettes. Perhaps it was because the former looked more professional, grander, and cigarettes were cheaper. Of course, it also could have been because his father smoked a pack of cigarettes a day.
He coughed once from the thick smoke and moved toward the car's windows to open them. From the corner of his eye, as he opened the last one, he swore he saw movement on the stairs leading to his car. It hardly fazed him. People came and went from his car as the night wore on after shows. Most bore questions or information for him. Dmitri had barely replaced the cigar in his mouth before the timid knock sounded. It was dainty so certainly not Frances or Robby who both tended to have quite loud knocks. He assumed it was a female, for not many men knocked so softly.
"Wait," he called, holding the cigar in between his thumb and index and middle fingers. Dmitri could easily speak without an accent, for he did that in the circus, but he seemed to enjoy his Russian accent and fascination Americans had with it. And so, his words were thick with an accent when he called out. The door had a minute window set in it, but he usually kept the drapes over it. After unlocking it, he met eyes with Svetlana, to whom he offered a typical smile of is. "Добрий вечір, Lana," he greeted, stepping to the side to allow the young woman to pass. "You were lovely tonight, моя любовь."
He put the cigar back in his mouth, formulating his words to her. Ukrainian was not a first language to him by any means. Sure, he could read a good amount Ukrainian words and perhaps translate spoken statements, but he had trouble speaking what was on his mind. Really, he could only do that in Russian and English. He made a soft "er" sound for a while, searching for the correct phrasing in the unfamiliar language. "ти тут для мене...або з інших причин?" For a while, he stood over by his ash tray to remove the ashy end of the cigar and waited for her response. Then, he moved closer, closing the space quite quickly between them. He brushed his cigar-less hand against her cheek in a soft, fluid motion, looking down into her eyes. He liked the girl though "like" was an extremely relative term, for he had little concept of commitment and love. She did, however, make a wonderful companion both in and out of bed.
She wasn't left waiting too long, offering her trademark timid smile as Dmitri answered to let her in. It wasn't her first time in his train car and she was sure that it wouldn't be her last. She let her gaze wander over the familiar sights, setting down her instrument to pick up a pencil and notepad that she often left in his quarters. As she turned back to face him she was met with a hand gently across her cheek, her eyes closing. It did often surprise her how gentle that Dmitri could be. She had seen his bad side a few times before and she often recalled a few other performers warning her of his temper and harsh words. She liked to think that he simply lashed out because he was lonely. She knew from experience that he was more than capable of showing at least some sort of affection. Perhaps that's why she worked so hard to give good shows lately.
She remembered how nervous she'd been during her very first performance, being laughed right out of the tent when she froze. It had been Bastian who'd saved their act. Dmitri had been half an inch away from hitting her and his face had been soo red from screaming at her. She had only fumbled a few times after that, getting rid of her stage fright with enough practice. Dmitri had been much kinder after that. He had even been more receptive to her advances than she thought he'd be. She initially was just sleeping with him to keep Sebastian around after Dmitri threatened to get rid of him. But she had to admit that she had grown quite fond of spending time with him. He might not be as attractive as some of the other men but he certainly had his own charm. The naive nineteen year old held out the notepad with her reply written on it, placing her free hand atop of his resting on her cheek, stepping a bit closer.
Я тільки думав, що ви, можливо, потрібна компанія. Я міг би продовжувати, якщо хочете.
Translation; I only thought that you might want some company. I could go if you wish.
For the first time since she started working with Cirque Regalis, her words do not fall on deaf ears. Hanging on the woman's every word, Robert purses his lips in consideration. He doesn't want to admit that she's right, wants to remain in denial that they're always taking the crowd by surprise. Further speculation points out that, unfortunately, that's just not the case as of late. Newcomers stride through the tents and are put in awe, left blown away, and bring their companions to share in that experience. Ideally you'd think this as a good thing, but that's not how this industry works. It's their job as performers to leave even the return customers on the edge of their seats. People coming back aren't dissatisfied, like Frances says, but they're not surprised either. Worse still, when they spread the word to their friends and family, those people come and know exactly what to expect. The fourth wall is broken. Everything's scripted. Well Robert doesn't live that way, and it'll be a cold day in Hell before he lets this circus fall through the crack because of something as menial as expectancy.
"You're right-..." he says, pushing himself off of the door frame and closing the door to his car. "No, you're more than that. You're absolutely right-...and I'm going to fix it. " Trotting off in the direction of the not-so-humble abode of their fearless leader, Robert halts and turns on his heels. "Don't fret, Franny, your name won't come up unless he sings my praise. If it's any inconvenience at all for him, I'll be taking the wrap."
Before she can utter a word he's on the move, cutting through (what he calls) the satirical tent. It's small, relatively, or at least compared to the others. Aesthetically, the tent is more pleasing to the eye. Colors, though bright, do not clash as they do in other tents. It's a rainbow spectrum of fabric, confetti, and balloons with twinkling florescent lights throwing shadows all over the dirt floor. Costumes hang from little brass hooks on the wall, boxes stacked precariously about the tent as makeshift beds made of different blankets or varying cloths are scattered about. Clowns were always a curious bunch. They never slept in cars, choosing instead to reside in their tent like some kind of pack. In the winter months the blankets are brought to one area of the tent and they're all huddled up in a dog pile. It's endearing really. Now that it's summer you'll find each one spaced far from another, laying atop their blanket bed with hardly anything on except something to conceal their decency.
Passing through will get him to Dmitri's car faster, or so he thinks-...
"Daddy dearest-..."
"...-what brings you to our neck of the woods?"
A grin threatens to split his face in two as he turns to face two familiar—almost identical—faces. They mirror his smile with matching ones of their own, white face paint scant shades lighter than their actual skin tone. Tousled red hair is choppy and doused in glitter, one crown flattened and matted down by sweat which only left Robert to assume that a hat had been worn as a part of one of the boys' costumes. Though twins, they were easy to tell apart when you got to know them. Conner, the youngest of the boys, had one too many freckles than his brother Kieran. Right now, however, you could easily discern between the two of them. Kieran's eyes were framed with green diamonds, painted attributes to a theatrical makeup not yet washed away. Conner, on the hand, always wore blue around his eyes—the shape of which varying with his mood. They were spades today, so he must've had a good day.
"Mes petits princes-..." Robert coos, his accent changing with the foreign words. He holds his arms open and grins impossibly wider as they latch onto him. Wrapping an arm around each set of shoulders, Robert spares a glance at each before moving them forward, both boys embracing him from the side as they mimic his stride. "Excellent show tonight, boys. I don't think I've ever heard the crowd laugh so hard."
"Improvisation Papa Bear." Conner quips, his Irish accent dripping off his words.
"Crowd'll get bored otherwise." says Kieran, his accent one and the same. Worry hits Robert hard suddenly, souring his mood so noticeably that the boys stop and turn to face him, effectively blocking his path. "No, no-...don't think of it that way."
"You know us, we always like to change things up."
Robert hums, low and noncommittal, "Apparently there's a demand for a lot of that-..."
"How you wager-...?"
"Franny says the crowd's bored."
Conner scrunches up his nose, "Oh that ol' crone-...?"
"She hardly knows what she's talking about."
"She doesn't even watch the show."
Kieran gives his brother a sidelong glance, "Kinda glad she doesn't though-..."
"Yeah-...bit of a nerve-racker, that one." Conner nods
Robert chuckles, shaking his head as he looks at them with fondness. Bringing his hands up, he plucks both of them in the forehead, earning a simultaneous 'ow' before he takes a moment to scold. "I don't want to hear any more foul-mouthin' from you two. Are we clear?"
"Transparently-..." he says, still rubbing his forehead.
Conner smirks, "With nagging like that you'd think you were our mum."
"Be glad I'm not then." Robert retorts with a smirk before pushing past the twins, "It's been great chatting with you boys, really, but right now I'm on business. Whether I like it or not, Franny's right and it's high time we liven up the set list. I'm going to have a quick talk with Mitri and get it all sorted. Feel free to stop by my car later-..."
"I wouldn't if I were you, Dad." Kieran says in a sing-song way, smiling wickedly.
He's seen that look before on his boys, multiple times, and it only promised mischief. It didn't help that Conner was wearing that same expression. "Why not?" Hazel eyes meet one another and Robert watches as the eldest bestows the honor on his littler brother. When it comes to these boys, you never know what to expect. They wander about the tents and cars just as much as Robert himself when it comes down to it. They have eyes and ears all over the place and are usually the first to anything about anyone when it comes to the performers. As friends, they're a great asset. But as enemies? Robert shivers at the thought.
"He's got a lady friend in his car."
A more obviously genuine smile glided across his features as she closed her eyes, lingering for a few heartbeats before it reverted into his usual smile. There were not many within the circus who still trusted the circus owner so much or at least were capable of relaxing in his company. His regular, almost constant grin certainly wasn't a feigned smile, but it was more difficult to get a read from this typical smile of his, for it translated into array of emotions that contradicted each other greatly.
He was a volatile time-bomb. To many, his anger was extreme and pointless, yet he found his bursts of anger to be quite normal and truly reasonable. To him, anger was a normal thing that humans expressed, or at least it was for a man whose entire livelihood rested upon the shoulders of others. His father had been a bitter old man, and then he had died. Dmitri knew he certainly wasn't this bitter as a child, so the anger certainly had to come with the added responsibility. Perhaps it did, yet there was no arguing (except with Dmitri) that his volatile nature was destructive.
If one were to ask him about Svetlana's first performance, he probably would not have remembered how he nearly struck the girl. However, Dmitri did vaguely remember his anger toward her as he watched her stand, dumb-struck, in the ring. Either way, he'd find his anger well-placed and justified. Forty-six years of performances blurred together, more or less, in his mind. He did, however, remember the sound of her violin as he walked along the streets four months ago. Dmitri had played the violin for years now, yet he knew he could never, despite any amount of practice, compete with the sounds she and her brother produced. The obvious response, of course, was to hire them both on.
When she had begun to stop by his car after shows, he'd been skeptic. At first, they slept together only to ensure Bastian stayed in the circus. The young man's record with the law concerned Dmitri, for he certainly did not need circus goers finding out he kept convicts in the circus. Her affection, however, lessened his animosity for Sebastian. Plus, he was still a wonderful violinist despite his history.
He laughed softly to himself as she moved closer and placed her smaller, softer hand over his. It wasn't a rude, demeaning laugh by any means. Rather, it was one of slight amusement, a laugh a parent might respond with watching a child act endearingly. He read over the note she held up, taking his time to analyze the letters before he looked back at her with a mixture of endearment and something else in his expression.
"нет," he cooed. Dmitri's thumb moved away from his other fingers then glided back to them, causing him to stroke her cheek gently again. "пробути, Звездочка." The constant transition between the two languages was most certainly confusing for both parties, but he made up for it by utilizing the tone of his voice and his body language as he'd learned ring leading. Dmitri leaned forward just slightly and rested his lips upon her forehead in a quick peck. "Ты такая красивая." He murmured the term of endearment against her skin, stressing the appropriate words to make it sound more sincere. As he spoke, he turned his hand around and intertwined his fingers in hers. Only a few steps away sat his desk, and he moved toward it with her, beckoning her with a few flicks of the wrist from his hand with the cigar.
"приїхати, красива дівчина." As he sat, he pulled her down on to his left knee, making it possible for him to support her with his left arm as he continued to smoke to cigar. "я тебе люблю, мій ангел." Love was, to say the least, a tricky topic with the Russian. He had little concept of love for anyone despite being fond of the young woman. His emotional ties were few and miniscule. They were hollow words that he repeated because they sounded good or they kept him in good favor. He'd memorized them in multiple languages. Te amo. Je t'aime. Ich liebe dich. I love you. Dmitri was notorious for his empty declarations. He could promise Lana anything, everything in the world, but what good was an unreliable promise from an unreliable man?
He was a volatile time-bomb. To many, his anger was extreme and pointless, yet he found his bursts of anger to be quite normal and truly reasonable. To him, anger was a normal thing that humans expressed, or at least it was for a man whose entire livelihood rested upon the shoulders of others. His father had been a bitter old man, and then he had died. Dmitri knew he certainly wasn't this bitter as a child, so the anger certainly had to come with the added responsibility. Perhaps it did, yet there was no arguing (except with Dmitri) that his volatile nature was destructive.
If one were to ask him about Svetlana's first performance, he probably would not have remembered how he nearly struck the girl. However, Dmitri did vaguely remember his anger toward her as he watched her stand, dumb-struck, in the ring. Either way, he'd find his anger well-placed and justified. Forty-six years of performances blurred together, more or less, in his mind. He did, however, remember the sound of her violin as he walked along the streets four months ago. Dmitri had played the violin for years now, yet he knew he could never, despite any amount of practice, compete with the sounds she and her brother produced. The obvious response, of course, was to hire them both on.
When she had begun to stop by his car after shows, he'd been skeptic. At first, they slept together only to ensure Bastian stayed in the circus. The young man's record with the law concerned Dmitri, for he certainly did not need circus goers finding out he kept convicts in the circus. Her affection, however, lessened his animosity for Sebastian. Plus, he was still a wonderful violinist despite his history.
He laughed softly to himself as she moved closer and placed her smaller, softer hand over his. It wasn't a rude, demeaning laugh by any means. Rather, it was one of slight amusement, a laugh a parent might respond with watching a child act endearingly. He read over the note she held up, taking his time to analyze the letters before he looked back at her with a mixture of endearment and something else in his expression.
"нет," he cooed. Dmitri's thumb moved away from his other fingers then glided back to them, causing him to stroke her cheek gently again. "пробути, Звездочка." The constant transition between the two languages was most certainly confusing for both parties, but he made up for it by utilizing the tone of his voice and his body language as he'd learned ring leading. Dmitri leaned forward just slightly and rested his lips upon her forehead in a quick peck. "Ты такая красивая." He murmured the term of endearment against her skin, stressing the appropriate words to make it sound more sincere. As he spoke, he turned his hand around and intertwined his fingers in hers. Only a few steps away sat his desk, and he moved toward it with her, beckoning her with a few flicks of the wrist from his hand with the cigar.
"приїхати, красива дівчина." As he sat, he pulled her down on to his left knee, making it possible for him to support her with his left arm as he continued to smoke to cigar. "я тебе люблю, мій ангел." Love was, to say the least, a tricky topic with the Russian. He had little concept of love for anyone despite being fond of the young woman. His emotional ties were few and miniscule. They were hollow words that he repeated because they sounded good or they kept him in good favor. He'd memorized them in multiple languages. Te amo. Je t'aime. Ich liebe dich. I love you. Dmitri was notorious for his empty declarations. He could promise Lana anything, everything in the world, but what good was an unreliable promise from an unreliable man?
Translations (Russian and Ukrainian)
нет - no
пробути, Звездочка - stay, little star
Ты такая красивая - you are so beautiful
приїхати, красива дівчина - come, beautiful girl
я тебе люблю, мій ангел - I love you, my angel
нет - no
пробути, Звездочка - stay, little star
Ты такая красивая - you are so beautiful
приїхати, красива дівчина - come, beautiful girl
я тебе люблю, мій ангел - I love you, my angel
{Collaboration between ibecameinsane and Little Fox}
She still couldn't get used to it. The small brown girl with puffy black curls was unable to wipe the beaming smile from her face after each show. She never dreamed that she'd be adopted by a white family. She had most certainly never dreamed to have a crowd of white people cheering for her! After everyone had taken their bows she was trailing behind her adoptive father, Sebastian, heading for their train car. They beat Belle and Aunt Lana there, though neither of the two women seemed to go to the car after the show that much until it was time for bed. She put away her cello before sliding behind her partition to change into the new dress she had gotten the other day; White with blue polka dots and puffy sleeves. She even felt happy enough to put on her frilly white socks and white “church shoes” to match. Sebastian beamed a smile at her as she came out, twirling to show off.
“Ah! You look красивий!” He was still working on transitioning fully to English. Unlike his sister, he had managed to pick up on a great deal of the language from their early days in America and even now he was learning from his fellow performers. Sugar clicked her heels happily and slipped her hand into his. They traveled outside the car together but Bastian placed a hand on her shoulder. “You go see funny men. I need to find Belle.” He kissed her on the forehead, trusting her to be safe. There were performers all around and she needed only to scream if she was threatened. Sugar cast him a smile and was immediately taking off, waving to every one of the other performers that she passed by, calling out to a few. “Hi Jack! Hi Clay! Hi Evelyn!” She zoomed around with her arms out like an airplane, circling the trio before taking back off into the crowd.
With little coordination she soon found herself bumping into an elderly white gentleman. “Umph! Sorry, mistah!” She scrambled up herself and attempted to help him only for him to recoil with disgust in his face. “Watch where you're goin', you little nigger!” He lashed out at her with his cane, rapping her knuckles before leaving. Sugar didn't cry, not out loud anyways. There were tears as she ducked through the crowd and made a beeline for the clown's tent. She stumbled her way in, sniffling as she sought out the twins. She hadn't ever had much of a chance to interact with them – Mostly because she'd only been there a week or so – but Sebastian assured her that they were nice and she should certainly associate with them. They weren't too hard to find after asking around but the sight of Robert with them stopped her in her tracks. Clutching her hands to her chest and sucking up her tears, she muttered a soft “Didn't mean to interrupt.”
Robert frightened her. Not his demeanor or anything. He'd never said anything mean to her or brought her any sort of harm. But the man had tattoos for days and tattoos made her think of pirates and criminals. She took a step back and eyed the three of them, wondering if it was too late to make a run for it and pretend she'd gotten lost.
Did it bewilder him that the old Russian bastard had a woman in his car? No. If anything he was impressed. Good on Mitri. He couldn’t say anything more on the subject before he heard a small voice at the front of the tent. Turning his attention towards the sound, his expression softened at the sight of an adorable little African-American girl with puffy pigtails and all white attire. The tears in her eyes made his chest clench and he crouches down, offering a kind smile to console her. For whatever reason, she was timid around him and it broke his heart.
“No intrusion at all, little miss. What’s your name?”
“That there is Sugar, papa bear.” Conner interjects, getting into a crouch beside him.
Kieran does the same, his iridescent hazel eyes locked on the young girl as he smiles, “Don’t be startled, lass. This here’s Caretaker.”
“He sure took care of us-….”
“He’s good people.”
With a huff of adoration, he put there compliments to the side, letting his gaze travel downward to the slight redness on the girl’s knuckles. He furrows his brow in concern, reaching out slowly as he tilts his head to the side. “Sweetheart, what happened to your hand?”
Sugar puffed her cheeks up and kept silent, eyeballing the three males in front of her. The twins seemed nice enough and they assured her that Robert was kind as well but she was still put off by his tattoos. As they all crouched in front of her, the older man pointing out the redness of her knuckles while reaching, she took a few steps back and turned her hands, burying the evidence in her dress. She was unable to meet any of their eyes, instead looking at the ground as she poked at the dirt with her toes, dirtying up her shoes a bit. “Nothin' – I jus' hurt my hand playin' my cello is all.” Lying. It wasn't something she often condoned but she didn't want to say that someone had hurt her. “Just... Don't tell my daddy... Er... He might make me stop practicin' a while.” More like he'd go apeshit and kill some old white man.
She didn’t meet his eyes, which meant only one thing. There was more to this story than she was leading on. Being as bright as they ever were, the twins took the initiative. Kieran and Conner could tell that she was scared of Robert, knew that if he tried to get an answer from her it’d end up going nowhere. So with one exchanged glance, they got up from their crouch and ushered Robert to do the same, signaling for him to stay put as they slowly approached the girl. They were careful, both of them wielding smiles of benevolence as they carefully walked toward hers—as if she were a fawn and moving too fast would startle her away. Both boys sit in front of her with their legs crossed, mirror images of each other.
“Do you know what we do here, little lass?” Kieran asks.
Her eyes followed them with suspicion, watching as they moved Robert away and approached her cautiously. They knew she was scared. Could they smell it? Was it Robert who smelled it? She knew it! He was a pirate! Pirates smelled fear! She trembled a little more as the boys sat down in front of her, her throat getting a bit dry as she held back a whine. She couldn't associate with pirates. She stared at Robert long and hard before looking back at the twins. “I don't get to see your act. But my daddy says you're funny men. I think that means you're clowns. Is that why you talk funny? Or is it because you're pirates like him?” She let herself get a little bolder, pointing at Robert and calling out her suspicions. Because she was obviously right.
Matching look of puzzlement adorned the twins’ faces before they burst into laughter. “A pirate? Papa? No, no Sugar. He’s no pirate-…” Conner snickers as he wipes tears from his eyes.
“…-he’s a monster hunter.” Kieran smiles in reassurance, “He chases away all of the bad things, all the wicked beasts that do harm to little girls and boys. He’s got a tattoo for every single one.”
“You look like you’ve seen a monster, Sugar.” says Conner, “If you tell Mister Caretaker, he’ll make sure that whoever hurt you will never do it again. He chased all of our bad monsters away. No foolin'-...”
“And he'll do the same for you.”
Not a pirate? Who'd they think they were fooling? While she was firmly stuck in her belief that Robert was in fact a pirate, it seemed hard not to trust the boys. The two of them were very polite – except for laughing at her accusing Robert of piratism – and seemed kind enough. She poked her nonexistent chest out as a show of bravery, moving her arms so that they were at her side, her stride almost comical as she marched right up to this “Caretaker” this “slayer of monsters”. She'd see for herself if they were lying to her. Holding her breath as though it'd save her from whatever attack he might hold in store, she grabbed him the shirt and yanked as hard as she could, determined to inspect his ink as though she could determine the meaning behind the designs.
His eyes widened a tad as Sugar marched towards him, a look of determination shrouding her innocent countenance. As he’s tugged down, he lets out a breathy chuckle, and holds out both arms to put his tattoos on display. Decorating his arms were a plethora of different portraits and phrases, none of which anything a ‘pirate’ would have on their skin. As farfetched as the twins’ story seemed, it wasn’t entirely off base. Every patch of ink was a memento; a reminder of some hardship—some monster—that he had conquered. As she took in the sight of each tattoo, he turned his back towards her and lifts up the back of his vest “See that foot print darling, little darling?” he pauses, waiting for her attention before turning to her once more, “That’s my daughter’s footprint. Victoria. She’s waiting for me back home” He turns his arms up to reveal two signatures, one on each wrists. “And these? These are their names.” He points towards the twins, both of them giving her a wave before they settle into a small smile. “They’re adopted, just like you—adopted by me.” Pulling his arms away, he smiles at Sugar without any sort of false façade, letting her see all of his genuine adoration towards Kieran and Conner. “They’re right, you know. Every tattoo I have is from some monster I had to fight to protect my loved ones. All except these-…”
“Not to sway you or anything, lass-….” Conner pipes up, catching their attention, “…-but does that really seem pirate-like to you?”
She almost fainted from the amount of ink the man had. She had never seen anyone with so many tattoos before in her life. She wanted to reach out and touch to see what a tattoo felt like but she was pretty sure that tattoos could be contagious. Possibly. She didn't know anyone with tattoos. She saw people with tattoos before but they all hung out with other people who had tattoos. But Rob's tattoos were different. They were so pretty and intricate and colorful! She had to stifle a bit of a giggle of exhilaration. Her brown eyes were as wide as could be, practically the size of saucers and glimmering in the light ever so brightly like a New York City skyscraper. After all was said and done she forced herself into composure, looking about as professional as an eight year old possibly could.
Did it seem pirate-like that Robert had many tattoos?
Absolutely.
Did it necessarily mean that he was a bad pirate?
Maybe not.
Pirates don't adopt kids.
“I'm pretty sure you're all pirates. You don't have to lie. But you're nice pirates anyways. So I won't tell no one.” She declared her judgment with a voice of confidence and authority as though it were a royal proclamation, though she kept her hands out of sight. Perhaps all this talk of pirates and tattoos had erased thought of her sore knuckles.
Conner’s eyes go comically wide, his smile just as much, “What?! We’re not pirates. Cross our hearts-…” Simultaneously, all three of them brought their finger to their chest and made an ‘x’ where their hearts were.
“Oh leave her be, Conner.” Robert laughs before turning his effervescent eyes on Sugar once more, “Don’t be afraid to tell me if you need anything at all, Sugar. I have to go see some folks about some buried treasure.” With that and a wink, he leaves the tent, turning away towards Dmitri’s car despite the twin’s word of warning.
Kieran nudges his brother and scoots up towards Sugar, balloon in hand. “What’s your favorite animal, lass?”
While the one twin, which she couldn't identify if her life depended on it, assured her that they weren't pirates, Robert only confirmed her suspicions with his announcement of treasure hunting. He mustn’t be very good at treasure hunting – or being a pirate in general – if he was working at a circus. She hadn't figured that part out yet but she refused to believe that he wasn't anything more than a pirate in disguise. As he headed off she turned to the twins, lifting a brow curiously. “I like birds. They can fly away and go wherever they want whenever they want. And if they don't like somebody, they just poop on 'em!”
“S’why I wish I was a bird-…”
“Conner, shut up-…” Kieran says with a laugh before turning to Sugar and holding up a finger, “Now watch closely, lass-…” Blowing up the blue rubber, Kieran manipulates it to his desire, his artisan fingers turning and twisting every which way until the end result was a gorgeous dove-like silhouette. “Tada-…”
“That’s for you, little miss” Conner preens
Kieran nods, handing it to her, “We take care of people to you see. We like to make people smile.”
“And you looked like you could use a smile.”
She'd never seen a balloon animal be made before. She had seen them before and tried figuring them out by process of reversing it and attempting to twisting and fold back the way she had undone it but the balloons always popped. She was in awe of how the balloon didn't pop, though its squeaking gave her fear that it might at any moment. She reached out with tiny, dark hands and gently took the balloon bird, beholding it as though it were the holy grail. She held it with hesitance as though the slightest jerk in movement might cause it to pop. She was careful to keep her already short nails away from the pulled tight inflated rubber. This was a gift that she had watched someone work to put together. For her. It would be rude to destroy it, on purpose or not. She slowly and gently brought it to her chest for a hug, closing her eyes and swaying just a tad bit to express her happiness. “Nobody's ever made me nothin' before.”
“Double negative-…”
“Conner, shut up-…” Kieran says, not laughing this time. Conner smiles meekly before Kieran looks to Sugar again, “Well that little birdie is yours to keep, lass”
“Definitely-…” Conner interjects “Don’t be afraid to come visit us, Sugar. We’ll make you a whole zoo of balloon animals if you want.”
Jack's arrival at the bonfire did not go unnoticed. Both Evelyn and Clayton greeted him in return, and one of the circus' youngest members ran by with a shouted 'Hi Jack!'. Jack wasn't one to frequent the social gatherings after performances, he generally preferred sitting quietly with a book or heading down to the pub alone. It's not that he disliked any of the other acts, he merely preferred his own company and the peace that went with it. He wasn't someone who needed to interact with people. He'd honestly be perfectly happy to spend the whole day out riding a horse, or reading in the shade of a tree. Yet here he was, waiting for his roommate to finish up with his two conquests of the night. He hoped Joshua wouldn't be long, but if worst came to worst Jack could bunker down in the stables for the night, it wouldn't be the first time. Even so, the company here wasn't all that bad and the fire was pleasantly warm.
"How are you, Jack?" Clayton's voice pulled Jack out of his thoughts. The horseman glanced up from his book towards the other man. Jack wasn't much of a talker, but his mother had taught him to be polite around decent people. He may not have been best friends with the Human pin-cushion, or Evelyn, but he hardly disliked either of them. Therefore a reply was in order and, as was customary with Jack the reply was short and simple.
"Alright. Yourself?"
Jack took a swig from his bottle before holding it up by the neck towards the other two performers. It was a clear invitation for either to have a sip if they so desired. The whiskey wasn't a particularly decent brand, but it sent a warm shiver down his spine. He didn't plan on getting drunk tonight, but a few sips never hurt anyone.
Evee made her way through the collection of circus folk and visitors, feeling herself lucky to have escaped her mother's questioning. She would have to warn Jack not to tell her mother the card trick he was teaching her, or the fact that he was also teaching her how to cheat in poker. Both of which were not things Ana Howell deemed appropriate for her 16 year old daughter to know. Evee liked to keep her mother happy and lived by the saying 'What she doesn't know, can't hurt her'. Of course, she'd never do anything seriously harmful. The card tricks were just a little fun, no harm ever came out of them.
When Evee reached the stables (She had decided to warn Jack then and there), she found them disappointingly empty. Jack had obviously already finished with the horses. Evee stayed long enough to pat some of them on the noses before heading off again. She could have tried his car, but knew from past experiences that his roommate tended to bring home partners most nights. Evee may have been an innocent naive girl in her mother's eyes, but she knew how sex worked. She was 16 after all. So, having no wish to walk in on Joshua and his night's partner, Evee set her feet towards the big tent.
Her path took her through many of the circus' cars, and around groups of other performers relaxing for the night. She passed Conner and Kieran with little Sugar. Evee felt her cheeks flush and, ducking her head, she quickly rushed by. The girl was quite taken with the twins, both for their looks and their constant humour. They were some of the few people that she didn't badger with questions, mainly because she grew uncommonly shy and flustered around them. Making a quick exit Evee ducked under a tent rope and into the big top.
Much to her surprise the large tent was still occupied, not with cleaners but with one of the newer members of the circus, Belle. "How do you do that?" Evee asked, voice hushed in awe. She had seen Belle's act before, but never this close up. Evee could do amazing acrobatic tricks, but this type of movement was beyond her.
For beginners, her moves could easily become tiring with less than an hour; Especially the more advanced movements and positions. However, Belle had been at her trade all day every day for twenty-six years. She lived and breathed movement, constantly finding new ways to push her limits and awe the people around her. As someone who'd been performing nearly her entire life she knew well enough that it did no good to do the same thing over and over. Joining Dmitri's roaming circus gave her the opportunity to get even more creative. She'd been working with Zenobia and Rozella over the past three months to teach them her movements while they trained their animals to perform with her. They had yet to approach any of the managers to inform them of their secret training, feeling it'd more appropriate to simply surprise them. Wouldn't they be ever so pleased when they brought in more patrons than they've ever had under the tent before? They'd certainly need more seats to accommodate! And a bigger tent, naturally. She would perfect the way the Silver Sisters moved their hips with a bit more...private lessons. Soon they'd be center stage, performing with the cats and snakes in ways not seen before!
She smiled with content, placing the fingertips of her right hand against the center of her chest, the fingertips of her left hand resting lightly against her abdomen just under her navel. Knees bent, she felt her movement as she isolated the muscles in her chest and hips. With little effort she popped her chest out and then back again, repeating to an imaginary beat. She moved to her hips, tracing a figure eight. Hip swaying was easy. Getting just one's hips to move while all other body parts remained still took great skill. She moved into a shimmy, one of the real attractions to her routines. It was no secret that men lusted for a woman who could move her rump. She lowered her body to the ground, her arms out to the side, moving in a wave-like, serpentine way. She rolled her hips to emphasize on her ass only to find herself being watched. She ceased movement and rose up slowly, her brow lifting at the look of awe in Evee's features.
While Belle was intent on learning all she could about her fellow performers, she had to admit that between practicing and playing with the animals, she hadn't had much time to gather too much information on everyone. What she did know was that Evee was the daughter of Anna, they were French, Anna was an acrobat, Evee hadn't performed yet because she was still training, and Evee spent quite some time around Jack and took a shine to Conner and Kieran. The Arabian offered Evee a kindly smile and moved towards her, standing a distance that most people found uncomfortably close, just inches away from brushing against her. “Ah, العزلة العضلات. ثني ركبتيك. التفاني. كل شيء في الوركين، طفل جميل. هل تريد أن تتعلم؟ أنا دائما يمكن استخدام عدد قليل من أكثر السيدات جميلة في الرقص معي.” The Arabic words rolled from her tongue, adding more mystery to her as her brown eyes gazed down at the teenager, her fingers dancing, playing with Evee's chocolate colored curls. Obviously the young girl had no clue what the dancer had said. A light giggle bubbled past her lips as she moved her hands to position the young girl. “Muscle isolation. Bent knees. Dedication. It's all in the hips, beautiful child. Do you want to learn? I could always use a few more lovely ladies to dance with me.”
“Do not frighten the child, silly Bells.” Sebastian emerged, chuckling as he moved to stand a bit behind Belle, placing a hand on her shoulder. The older woman gave another giggle, releasing Evee and placing her hand against Sebastian's. “Do not be silly; I am not frightening to anyone. Am I frightening you, little acrobat?”
“нет. пробути, Звездочка.” She couldn't help but to smile just a little wider, biting down on her lip to keep from appearing too excited as he praised her and kissed her upon her brow. It truly was just a bit funny that she would be so giddy for a simple acceptance of company and a short kiss to her forehead when the man had explored so much more of her. She, for the life of her, could not find just what it was of the man that drew her to him like a moth to a flame. His power and money? She'd been without it her entire life and it never really appealed to her. Perhaps it was his unique charisma. She couldn't say she'd ever met a man quite like him before. He could be violent and unpredictable, sure. But he hadn't directed much anger towards her since she began having relations with him only a month ago. If anything, she liked to think that she cheered him up immensely with her presence and favors. Obviously it probably wasn't as true as she believed it to be, but it settled well in her mind. She was being useful.
Her fingers curled against his hand gently as she allowed him to guide her to his lap, her eyes bright with flagrant infatuation for the older ring master. From the outside looking in they had quite the resemblance of a stern father and his loving daughter. That only made it appear all the more strange and just downright wrong when the young woman with all the youthful appearance of a teen let her head drop, careful to avoid being burnt by his cigar, allowing her lips to brush against his just ever so gently, lingering there for moments before she pulled back enough for them to hover inches apart. There was a certain sort of high she got from being with him. Maybe that's what she loved so much about him. He didn't make her feel like a child as many others did. She had even bothered to acclimate to the thick smoke produced by the cigars he constantly had lit. She had tried to smoke one once but he had reprimanded her and told her that it wasn't attractive for a lady to smoke. She was able to actually be around him when he smoked now without dissolving into a coughing fit.
The wordless woman put down her pencil and notepad, occupying her hands by slipping one to rest against the back of his neck and the other to rest upon his cheek, her thumb brushing gently against his skin as his had done previously. She wasn't the most competent when it came to using her almost nonexistent feminine charms, having gone so far as being coached by Belle in a game of charades and simply taking direction from Dmitri. Unlike many of the other women working for Cirque Regalis, Svetlana didn't have much of her own will. That's not to say that she had no sense of purpose without others to guide her. Lana simply didn't know how to turn others down and would always act in favor of someone else over her own intentions. She was extremely pliable.
A sigh escaped her as she massaged the back of his neck, sitting in silence. There was almost always such a silence between them in these moments but that was bound to happen when there was a mute involved in a conversation. It wasn't so much that she couldn't speak; Her vocal chords worked quite perfectly, that much Dmitri could certainly substantiate. She would even mutter a word or two here or there though the people who managed to hear assumed they had heard the wind. She herself wasn't sure why she never did talk. After seeing her mother gunned down by Nazi soldiers she simply stopped speaking. Maybe she just never knew how to express the gut wrenching sorrow she felt, diving into her music to shut out those feelings. Sometimes she was afraid that she'd burst into tears if she tried to talk. The last time she'd truly spoken was to tell her mother that she loved her. But she shut all of that out for years. Performing for the cirque and spending time with Dmitri helped keep her mind from such depressing things. It provided her with a perpetual smile. That very same kind and timid smile that she wore now as her eyes sung praises for the ring master.
The look in her eyes stroked his ego, inflated his ego. It was a look of adoration, infatuation, blindness. She was adorably pliable, like a loyal pup, and he had little trouble getting what he wanted out of the girl. He looked into her eyes, fawn-like and innocent, and offered his smile which she'd received many times, countless times. Dmitri's eyes closed as she leaned to kiss him, the smirk pressing into her lips softly at first and then with more of a passion until they parted. The Russian pulled the cigar from his mouth and released the smoke to his side, careful to not blow it into her face lest she cough or he ruin the moment.
Her hand brushed against his cheek, and Dmitri pressed into it. In a practiced move, he dropped the cigar into an ash-tray and met her hand with his own, holding her hand softly enough against his cheek that she could continue to brush her thumb along his cheekbone. For a few heartbeats, they sat in stillness and then silence as the record player clicked, indicating the record had come to an end. Her hand massaged his neck slowly, and he let out a mixture of moan and sigh in reply.
"Лапушка..."he whispered, eyes closing partially in contentment. He'd never heard her speak. Not to him, nor to anyone else. She could speak, however, for she had a tendency to become quite vocal between the sheets. Still, not a word to him neither in love nor anger. Dmitri cared little, for he didn't care much for conversation as a whole unless it was business related. His now cigar-less hand moved slowly down her slender arm, slid gently along her waist, and came to rest on her thigh. His left hand traced circles through the back her dress, then hearts. "Солнышко..." His face had moved progressively closer to her's until he only needed to, more or less, breathe the word to her for her to hear it. There was softness in his voice, a kind of sweetness that was never heard and quite artificial, but Lana didn't need to know that.
Dmitri closed the space between them and pulled her closer as he pressed his lips into her lips in a far more passionate kiss. As their lips disconnected and reconnected, he mumbled more pet names under his breath and into her lips, his breath tasting quite obviously of wine and smoke. His hand on her thigh moved upward slowly along the inside of the leg whilst his hand on her back moved lower. His breath came a bit quicker now as they pressed into each other. Dmitri was quite ready to lift her up and carry her to the mahogany bed.
And then the knock came.
"отвяжись..." he muttered into her lips, forgetting the pitch of his own voice. The knock came again, harder this time. His lips parted from Lana's in a hurried manner, his face quite red from a mixture of arousal and anger. "отвяжись!" He huffed softly after the shout, anger evident in his eyes, and waited for the sound of footsteps going down the stairs.
The knock came a bit slower this time, but it came nonetheless.
Dmitri hardly yelled overall, but he could barely contain his annoyance at whoever stood behind the wooden door. Lana had moved by then, getting off of his lap just moments before he stood and moved toward the door. "I said fuck off!" He shouted as he unbolted the door and flung it open...and stood just about face to face with Robert. For a heartbeat perhaps his face remained angry and contorted with said anger. Rapidly, in just few few more moments, he lightened up and smoothed his hair as he recognized the younger man. "Robby...ah, sorry for the outburst...come in," he said quickly, letting the man in before closing the door behind them. Dmitri found his wine glass and drained it before refilling it and picking up the cigar again. "What can I do for you?" Alternating between his wine and cigar, he perched on the edge of his bed and gestured for Rob to take the chair at his desk where he had just been sitting moments ago. Dmitri was quite visibly flustered, but he tried to play it off as a mixture of alcohol and his notoriously low tolerance for annoyance.
Her hand brushed against his cheek, and Dmitri pressed into it. In a practiced move, he dropped the cigar into an ash-tray and met her hand with his own, holding her hand softly enough against his cheek that she could continue to brush her thumb along his cheekbone. For a few heartbeats, they sat in stillness and then silence as the record player clicked, indicating the record had come to an end. Her hand massaged his neck slowly, and he let out a mixture of moan and sigh in reply.
"Лапушка..."he whispered, eyes closing partially in contentment. He'd never heard her speak. Not to him, nor to anyone else. She could speak, however, for she had a tendency to become quite vocal between the sheets. Still, not a word to him neither in love nor anger. Dmitri cared little, for he didn't care much for conversation as a whole unless it was business related. His now cigar-less hand moved slowly down her slender arm, slid gently along her waist, and came to rest on her thigh. His left hand traced circles through the back her dress, then hearts. "Солнышко..." His face had moved progressively closer to her's until he only needed to, more or less, breathe the word to her for her to hear it. There was softness in his voice, a kind of sweetness that was never heard and quite artificial, but Lana didn't need to know that.
Dmitri closed the space between them and pulled her closer as he pressed his lips into her lips in a far more passionate kiss. As their lips disconnected and reconnected, he mumbled more pet names under his breath and into her lips, his breath tasting quite obviously of wine and smoke. His hand on her thigh moved upward slowly along the inside of the leg whilst his hand on her back moved lower. His breath came a bit quicker now as they pressed into each other. Dmitri was quite ready to lift her up and carry her to the mahogany bed.
And then the knock came.
"отвяжись..." he muttered into her lips, forgetting the pitch of his own voice. The knock came again, harder this time. His lips parted from Lana's in a hurried manner, his face quite red from a mixture of arousal and anger. "отвяжись!" He huffed softly after the shout, anger evident in his eyes, and waited for the sound of footsteps going down the stairs.
The knock came a bit slower this time, but it came nonetheless.
Dmitri hardly yelled overall, but he could barely contain his annoyance at whoever stood behind the wooden door. Lana had moved by then, getting off of his lap just moments before he stood and moved toward the door. "I said fuck off!" He shouted as he unbolted the door and flung it open...and stood just about face to face with Robert. For a heartbeat perhaps his face remained angry and contorted with said anger. Rapidly, in just few few more moments, he lightened up and smoothed his hair as he recognized the younger man. "Robby...ah, sorry for the outburst...come in," he said quickly, letting the man in before closing the door behind them. Dmitri found his wine glass and drained it before refilling it and picking up the cigar again. "What can I do for you?" Alternating between his wine and cigar, he perched on the edge of his bed and gestured for Rob to take the chair at his desk where he had just been sitting moments ago. Dmitri was quite visibly flustered, but he tried to play it off as a mixture of alcohol and his notoriously low tolerance for annoyance.
Translations
Лапушка - lapushka - darling
Солнышко - solnyshko - little sun
отвяжись - otvyazhis' - fuck off
Лапушка - lapushka - darling
Солнышко - solnyshko - little sun
отвяжись - otvyazhis' - fuck off
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