Baekhyun wakes up slowly, the acrid bile he’d heaved onto the muddy ground the night before still burning in the back of his throat. His entire body is unbearably warm, clothes soaked under a thin layer of sweat, no doubt the product of the storm, of his prolonged exposure to it.

But this fever is the least of his worries. Still sleepy, his mind replays Chanyeol’s dark eyes illuminated by firelight, replays the way he had scrambled away from the taller in fright, mind whirring out explanations that will never fully make sense, his stomach retching at the panic that resided in Chanyeol’s features, too. He’d run then, ignoring the offer spat in his face and the lack of logical explanation for the scene he’s trying to escape, welcoming the angry storm’s winds. 

It had felt like hours that he sprinted into the cold rain, mouth burning from where Chanyeol hands had touched him, grip tight and gaze steady. And by the time he stumbled back to familiarity, finally escaping the waning rain, soaking wet and shaking, he’d wanted to do nothing more than strip to his underclothes and crawl into bed. Eyes shut tight, he murmured a little prayer, the same one he’d heard years ago from a foreign mouth, whispered faintly against the silence of a frigid alleyway -- a prayer to wake up the next morning.

And it had worked, he supposes, though the pounding in his head and taste in his mouth makes him doubt if it was for the better, after all. 

He blinks away the clouds in his vision, trying to sit up and find any of the other musical performers he shares his tent with. Jinki, Taemin, and Kibum are all gone, however -- and when he hears the birds singing outside, he knows that he’s overslept, that this explains their absence. 

He gets dressed hastily, not bothering to apply any pink salve on his lips, too tired to decorate his cheekbones with dusted gold -- not this early, not when his mind can only think one thing: people can’t control fire like that. Or at least, they shouldn’t be able to. 

Minseok is the one he must find, for he’s wiser by both years and experience, for he values Baekhyun’s safety and sanity as much as his own. Certainly, Minseok's delicate hands will hold his, and, undoubtedly, the older’s sharp tongue will shelter him from Chanyeol's fiery gaze. He leaves his tent, legs buckling under the sleep-induced static engulfing them, and has to force himself to focus on the emerald shirt of the dancer that passes him, if only to stabilize himself against the residual shock of it all. 

Hangovers have never grounded him so wholly, but he’s also never seen a human hand holding fire, never felt his pulse quicken at the thought of some kind of witchcraft and sorcery only inches from him. There are no rules here, Minseok’s voice races through his mind, and his own chimes in, too, a cacophony of panic screaming nothing makes sense. 

His brain is muddled with confusion and paranoia, each new thought blindsiding him, and it completely disarms his senses, leaving him unaware of the countless people and colors that pass by, numbing the intense beams of sunlight on his face. He knows there are performers looking at him strangely, and he’s vaguely aware that he looks disheveled and uncharacteristically plain at the moment, that his legs wobble their way across the grass as though he’s never walked before. And he also knows that, somewhere in this chaos, Chanyeol exists, b with strange threats and promises, filled with a fire Baekhyun can never hope to extinguish. 

These distractions are enough to keep him from seeing the familiar body approaching his -- and so his shoulder hits Sehun’s upper arm harshly, painfully. It sends him stumbling into the taller's arms, dazed, a mess of static limbs and flooded thoughts. Ordinarily, he would welcome this embrace, would melt into Sehun’s touch and stand a little taller, hoping for a small dose of affection from him -- but today he can only think of the strangeness of the night before, can only step away from the performer in a haste. 

"Baekhyun?" Sehun's face shows concern, though his voice denotes a tiny amount of confusion, amusement even. "You look as though you've seen a ghost." 

And, oh, Baekhyun wishes he had -- a specter would’ve perplexed him less. He imagines that stormy night again, only this time he’s intercepted by a womanly apparition, and his hand passes through her when he reaches out to help; he is terrified, yes, but it is a ghost, it is something he’d been raised on stories of. This fright isn’t foreign, unlike the fear that had gripped him so completely the night before, the unfamiliarity before his eyes. None of his clients or acquaintances had ever gleefully whispered of a man who can control fire, of a creature that can hold the flames as easily as he holds Sehun’s attention, not the way they’d whispered about ghouls and goblins and spirits. 

“Hungover,” he mumbles out, voice as raspy as he’d expected it to be. Sehun’s gaze trails from his haggard appearance to the purple marks across his collarbones, barely visible -- or so Baekhyun thought. He likes the affectionate twinkle of Sehun’s smile when he catches sight of them, likes the way his stomach boils over at the memories of it all.

“Too much wine? Bad headache?” there’s a finger on the bow of his lips, and Baekhyun recoils as if Sehun’s fingertips could hide embers, too. “I should’ve gone easier on you last night, I suppose. Next time, tell me if --” 

“I’m feeling fine. Promise. Just need to get some breakfast and talk to Minseok.” 

Sehun only nods, and then his lips are pressed against Baekhyun’s, the pendant of one of his necklace’s colliding with the hickeys on the shorter’s neck, cold against his sensitive skin, frigid against the fire that’s been trapped under it since the night before. 

Fever, he thinks -- this fever will eat him alive, just like Chanyeol’s hands and voice already are.

“He is in Jongdae’s tent, I believe,” Sehun’s breath is warm against his lips when he says it, but all Baekhyun can think about is the palm that burned so similarly. “Or at least, he was. Something about borrowing clothes and jewelry.” 

With a final press of lips from his lover, Baekhyun is set adrift in the sea of people once again, alone and fatigued, the weight of his sanity crushing him. 

--

Minseok is half when Baekhyun peeks through the curtain of Jongdae’s tent. He’s talking boisterously with the boy sat on the bed, laughs pealing louder with every passing second, and Baekhyun admires the curve of his defined chest and stomach, noticing the way Jongdae slaps his own knee in protest of the trapeze artist’s words. 

Looking into the tent of a magician is much like he’d imagined -- bursting with patterns and fabrics, a feast for the eyes, a confusing setup with tricks that elude even the keenest viewer. There are dried flowers and candles all around, a faint scent of incense clouding the entire tent, making Minseok and his giggly attitude illusive to the youngest, as if Baekhyun will wake up from a confusing dream any moment, wondering just when magic will stop being real, when the fog of laughter will evaporate from his lungs. Their exchange, with faces dimly lit and words steeped in fondness, feels so familiar -- clearly intimate -- and Baekhyun wants nothing more than to invade this and soak up a portion of the tenderness flowing between the two. 

He wants too much, he knows, but it isn’t all for naught -- his need for approval, for care, has lead him into this life, into Sehun’s arms, and now further into this tent.  

“Minseok?” Baekhyun ventures to speak as he steps inside, sparing a smile for the magician watching him, shocked. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Kim Jongdae, it’s a pleasure. I’m Byun Baekhyun, a pianist.” 

At this, the man stands to greet him, smiling and warm, a summer’s day landscape come to life in front of him, all crinkled eyes and plump cheeks. His hand against Baekhyun’s feels like the moment before a sunset, fading and pink, trees dancing in the wind, a mother calling their child closer -- he is comforting. 

“Hello, Baekhyun,” his hand rubs Baekhyun’s arm before it rests on his shoulder, gentle as the ripples across the pond in the painting he must’ve leapt out of. “So polite and so pretty. Minseok’s told me all about you, and you’re even lovelier in person.” 

“Stop fawning on him, that’s my job,” Minseok teases, awakening Baekhyun from the foggy stupor Jongdae’s touch had put him in. “Also, he’s not even wearing his usual makeup and outfit. He is sublime then.” 

This praise makes Baekhyun turn, delighted at the words, and he realizes that Minseok is not topless anymore. There’s a lilac shirt stretched across his back, a checkered pattern on it that makes him look even younger, if possible.

“You can just call me Jongdae,” the magician squeezes Baekhyun’s shoulder twice, and then he’s walking delicately toward Minseok, mumbling about a fragrance he should try -- something to do with peaches. They both laugh, and Baekhyun walks forward unconsciously, drunk off the feeling of safety they give him. 

Together, they are a picnic scene painted in oil and framed in gold, just like the painting above Yerim’s fireplace. And Baekhyun wants nothing more than to sit riverside and eat fruits, Sehun’s adoring gaze and Minseok’s caring words shrouding him from all the evils of the world, from all the boys who threaten to burn him, who entice him with pretty words and prettier smiles. 

Boys who threaten to burn him. 

Minseok says something quietly that makes Jongdae bend over in giggles, and Baekhyun suppresses all the thoughts of the night before, of the fear he’d felt -- it’s not Minseok’s burden to bear with him. The questioning and confusion is best if it belongs to one person only, especially if his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, if the things he’d seen were true. 

“I like the shirt, Minseok,” he basks in the glow of Jongdae’s smile, of Minseok’s curious glance toward him. “The color is so pretty on you.” 

“You only like it because it matches the marks all over you,” Minseok teases as he paints his lids a twinkling silver; Jongdae practically yells out a laugh, the sound as deafening as the blood rushing to Baekhyun’s cheeks. “I wasn’t aware you were such a fan of purple until this moment.” 

“Leave the kid alone,” Jongdae defends him, though Baekhyun can see just how hilarious he thinks this all is, just how much he wants to laugh loudly again. Even if it’s at his expense, he wants to hear their giggles and words directed toward him, and so he refrains from covering the hickeys with his hand -- maybe he likes the looks they’ll garner from others. 

“I’ll see you tonight, after the show?” Baekhyun asks, face red, heart beating far too fast from embarrassment and happiness combined into one. “Good luck, Minseok. And nice to meet you, Jongdae. I hope to see you again.” 

“Well, of course. Now that you’ve met me, you’ll never escape my endless charms.” 

--

Dear Mr. Cho, 

Could you perhaps ask Yerim if she has any books on the subject of individuals with preternatural inclinations? I know she always has a book in her hand, and recently I’ve become interested in the subject, as the circus inspires a side of me which is less than logical. I would love to receive a book from my lovely student when I see her next, in exchange for all the knowledge I could hope to share with her. 

There is no real news, which is good -- it is rainy season, and we dread a flood more than anything. Recently I have grown closer to Kim Jongdae, a magician -- the same one who proposed to his girlfriend (a dancer named Dahye, I’ve learned) in my last correspondence. And I do believe Yerim would be enthralled by his act in the show. 

Please tell me of anything interesting on your end, as, unfortunately, even the circus cannot always be entertaining. 

Best wishes for your health, 

Byun Baekhyun

--

It’s drizzling, wet and humid outside, and Baekhyun had run into the main tent to escape it all, hoping for a few scraps leftover from dinner -- he hadn’t grabbed enough earlier, and Sehun’s relentless touches leave him exhausted and hungry. He’d trudged through the thick air, mind occupied with thoughts of the books Yerim may bring him, of the days that have passed without any fear boiling in his veins, of the joke Sehun whispered into the crown of his head minutes before.

He’s found that avoiding Chanyeol is easy, though avoiding thoughts of him is far harder to accomplish, especially since he has the ringmaster wrapped around his finger, since the other musicians whisper about the sight of his rare smiles when they think no one is listening. 

The sun has risen and fallen many times since the night their gazes burned against each other, twin flames drowning in a storm, and Baekhyun thinks that, maybe, it had been his mind playing a trick on him. Post-coital bliss and a lingering buzz from alcohol must’ve made him see things out there, must’ve warped his mindset to that of a homesick sailor, forced his addled mind to see a mermaid in murky water, even if, deep down, he knows it must’ve been a whale -- the waves of rain must’ve obscured everything he knew to be true. 

Baekhyun’s hands drip with moisture as he fumbles around the kitchen, eyes searching for something to snack on for the walk back to his tent, stomach rumbling with a startling greed. He’d never been raised to feel like this, to eat like this, to waste like this -- but he doesn’t mind overindulging in wine and food, in feasting on the pleasures of conversation and touch, not when he thinks of dirty streets and shaking voices. The circus allows him to live free from the looming fear of destitution for the first time, and, most importantly, it has given him a taste for decadence, for another’s attention. 

He spins, a heel of honey-slathered bread in his hand, a cup of lukewarm cider in the other, stilling completely when he notices a tall figure backing slowly into the tent, his careful hands gently closing it behind him and wiping water from his face. His back is broad, shirt nearly soaked, and his hands are too familiar -- Baekhyun knows exactly how they feel against his lips, knows how they taste bathed in heat and drenched with raindrops. Chanyeol is here, with him, and there is nobody around, no person to save him from the burns waiting to blossom on his skin. 

When he turns and finally sees Baekhyun, the shorter hopes the terror holding him captive isn’t too evident in his eyes, breathing temporarily halted and hands tightening around his food. Except, Chanyeol pays him no mind -- he shuffles toward the stew atop the counter, eyes downcast, and Baekhyun watches his tongue dart out nervously in the eerie silence of the tent. Maybe he had dreamed it all, if Chanyeol’s actions are any indication, and now he’s stricken with fear in a way he hadn’t expected.

“We always catch each other in the rain, I noticed.”

Baekhyun waits for a response, any response, because, as frightened of the taller as he has been and forever will be, the lack of reaction from Chanyeol made him feel empty and foolish, made him feel as though his brain concocted it all as a joke on its owner.

He wants Chanyeol to act confused, to introduce himself sheepishly, to let Baekhyun capture his attention and forget his mistaken memory. Baekhyun doesn’t want the performer to look through him like that first night, doesn’t want to feel alone in his recollections, doesn’t want to feel as though he’s invisible again. 

“Are you hungry? I took the last of this bread loaf, I apologize. But I can make you some tea, if you’d like. I’m Byun Baekhyun, a pianist, by the way -- I thought you would recognize me from that night, from the way you --” 

“I do not know what you think you saw, but I want you to extinguish your imagination now,” Chanyeol’s voice is as deep as he remembered, and it makes him shiver, suddenly very aware that his face and hair are wet, chilled to the touch. Another fever will visit him tomorrow, he fears -- if his actions even permit him to see dawn once again. “You have not spoken of that night to anyone?” 

A drop of water slides down Chanyeol’s cheek and hits the counter. Baekhyun watches it move weakly, no current to carry it any further, and startles when Chanyeol wipes it promptly with his damp shirt sleeve. He tries to ignore the way the taller is inching closer, gentle demeanor fading with each second. 

“I would not know how to explain what I’d seen,” he sips from his cup of cider, hoping this action will cover the goosebumps across his arms -- excitement or fear, he can’t tell. “Though I’ve tried, certainly.” 

And Chanyeol is only a foot away now -- so close, so warm -- that Baekhyun almost wants him to close their distance, almost wishes to leap across the miniscule canyon between them, to light the fire in his hands and leave marks on his shoulders and neck, tiny and pink and more beautiful than the splotches of purple that Sehun paints. 

“No, I haven’t told anyone,” he clarifies quickly, a self-preservation instinct taking control.

He desperately wants Chanyeol to see him for the first time, finally unobstructed by Minseok’s arms or an abhorrent storm, but he also wants to avoid the pain this man can bring him so easily.  

“Keep silent, and you will keep your place in this circus,” Chanyeol’s presence the air out of his lungs, leaves him fighting for oxygen in a smoke-filled room -- he likes attention, likes being coddled, but Chanyeol’s eyes on him makes his fingers tremble in a way that he can’t understand, that he’s never felt before. “Forget it completely, and I will act on my promise -- your own part in the circus. A better one.”

And maybe it’s the way he aches to move closer, the way he yearns to find the words he’d always chased after to describe the taller, but he doesn’t want to back down. There is heat in every fibre of Chanyeol’s being, and Baekhyun wants to add fuel, wants to let it consume him whole, if only to keep those pretty eyes on him. 

“Why must I forget something if it’s all in my imagination?” 

He thinks of the first night at the circus, of the way Chanyeol had glared straight through him to speak to Minseok, of the way he’d so craved for the star of the show to focus on him -- he thinks to the times Sehun had held him and, somewhere in the most dreadful corners of his mind, he’d pictured hands drowning in rubies and blisters instead.

“You must forget so that your friends don’t get it into their heads, too. I don’t long for the other performers’ attention, curiosity, or company,” his voice drops, barely a whisper. “Not as you so clearly do.”

Baekhyun is aware of his wide-blown eyes, of the purple that lines his throat, of the way he dances and sings with everyone after each performance -- loud, clinging, draped over any shoulder he can get close to -- but hearing this hurts. Yes, he longs to be adored by everyone he encounters, and there’s nothing wrong with that, he reminds himself. 

And so he stands on the tips of his toes, putting his lips into the shell of Chanyeol’s ear, a sad gratification sizzling in his throat at the way the taller jerks back in surprise.

“I won’t say a thing as long as you keep your promise -- as long as you stop saying things to hurt me.” 

Chanyeol says nothing in return; the taller simply watches as Baekhyun drops back to his normal height and hurries into the night, unsteady hands filled with his dessert, ears ringing with anger and shame. 

--

“Have you not stretched in your entire life?” 

Baekhyun groans in response, annoyed at her tone, even if she’s joking. Song Qian has no right to for this, not when her entire life is built around flexibility and dancing, when her and Jongin naturally curve into each other’s hands. 

“Pianists usually don’t do handstands or flips, no.”

He can barely even feel his toes right now, he’s leaning so far forward -- all thanks to the foot Song Qian is pressing harshly into the small of his back, forcing him closer to the ground. In the rush of air and pain swirling through his brain, he thinks he can hear Jongin snickering somewhere in the distance, though he’s too tired to lift his head and confirm it. He’s been avoiding thinking about his conversation with Chanyeol in the kitchen two days prior, but now, with only this acute pain and suffering on his mind, even that interaction seems pleasant. 

“Well, you should at least be able to do the splits,” her voice is filled with happiness, and Baekhyun chooses to believe it is because she enjoys instructing so much, and not because his stretching is pitifully amusing in her eyes. “Your life is a circus show, after all.” 

“It hurts!” 

Song Qian’s foot is gone from him, and Baekhyun is sitting up as quickly as he can, gasping as he makes eye contact with the beautiful girl smiling down at him. Her lipstick is blood red today, which Baekhyun finds a little silly, as they had foregone a night of celebration and drinking in order to stretch and talk -- why look good for an empty ring, for a night of quiet chatter with a close friend?

“Don’t whine, you baby,” Song Qian settles down next to him, lithe figure making a surprisingly loud thud against the mat under them both, her next words directed over her shoulder. “Go away, Jongin. You can be erse somewhere else. Bring fruit back when you come home.” 

Baekhyun isn’t sure if he actually leaves, but then Song Qian’s hand is wrapping around his arm, eyes curious and gentle. Her earrings have three tiers to them, and Baekhyun counts the four pearls among the multicolored jewels in them, connects them in a shape he’ll sketch in his notebook later.

“Are you okay? Your face is so pink.”

“I feel my pulse in my feet. You need to take me to the medical tent, please.” 

They laugh, shoulders together, the air turning sweet. Being with her feels like walking into a field of flowers, a mother, a confidant, a friend -- she is the first person he’d met here, and she will be the person he protects beyond all reason. He’d been raised around women with long hair and longer dresses, with prim and proper mistresses who raise their voices, warning him to refrain from touching anything besides the piano lest he dirty it.  

But here she sits, hair cropped and filled with glitter, eyelashes impossibly long and lips the color of expensive silken sheets.

“Can I ask you something?” 

She smiles, and Baekhyun feels as though he could go a week without eating, full from her undivided attention, from her gentle nod. “Of course. Can I get a question in return, then?” 

“Yes, yes,” and suddenly he’s eager to share about himself, to speak of his own emotions and thoughts with someone who will care. “I feel taken care of here, but I am still new. I’m just curious, is all -- what do you know about the people here?” 

And she gives him all the answers he could ever want, her voice silken and a little sad at some parts, but tone always open, always giving. She whispers of  the big family of daughters she’d been born into, about the choice she made when she got on a late-night boat to Korea, when she threw away her childhood. 

“Leave or be married within the month,” her mother had whispered, voice frail, a crack in Song Qian’s heart deepening at the sound. “I have delayed your engagement with the Zhao’s boy long enough. Unless there is no daughter to send them, there is no way to delay it further. If I am never to see my daughter again, I would rather she decides.” 

And she tells of Kyungsoo’s collection of books -- far too large for a trapeze artist, she reckons -- and her voice turns raw when she informs him of the family he sends all of his earnings to, even if it means he borrows costumes from Jongdae and Minseok, even if it leaves with him less pocket money than even the cleaning and cooking staff. 

“Other performers spend their paychecks on the booze, or on trips into town to see the picture shows,” she’d used her long nails to scratch at Baekhyun’s forearm then, soothingly, eyes focused on something in the distance. “But he only ever keeps a few coins for himself. I know he will never admit this, but he doesn’t want to be here, truly.” 

Baekhyun didn’t know what to think, especially when she leaned her head on his shoulder, hair tickling his neck softly, and told her final story, the one about a boy who was raised alongside the ringmaster as a brother, whose entire life exists in this ring only, who refuses to talk to other performers and hides away when he’s not performing. 

“This is Chanyeol’s home,” she ends her tales with a finality that makes Baekhyun sigh, eyes shut against the now-dull pain lingering in his legs and back. He feels tired, the weight of this knowledge heavy as it settles in his chest. “Now, it’s time for my question.” 

“Ask anything, Song Qian,” Baekhyun smiles down at her, thrilled by her radiant stare back, by the stars she’s hidden in her eyes. “I’ll do my best to answer it.” 

“Why did the ringmaster task me to train you to be Chanyeol’s assistant?” 

--

how are we FEELING? sorry for the wait, but i really hope you enjoy this!

thanks if you read! 🧡✨

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