Chapter Text
Andrew’s shirt sticks to him like an inebriated sorority girl after Bama Rush. His mouth is dry, and there’s a dull pounding at the base of his skull; a warning for a well-deserved headache.
Music blasts as Aaron dangles from the ceiling like haphazardly hung mistletoe, and the lights flash in blending hues of pink and blue as his act comes to an end. Andrew leans forward, supporting himself on the bannister separating the crowd from the performers, and questions his life choices.
Specifically, the exact moment that led to him being surrounded by a group of rowdy teenagers and screaming babies in a circus tent.
One would have thought that, by now, Andrew would be more than capable of denying his brother’s and Kevin’s pleas for him to attend one of their shows.
One would be wrong. So very wrong.
Because when Aaron had flopped onto Andrew’s bed for the fourth time this week, ticket in hand, Andrew had only said one measly "fuck you" before taking that small slip and sliding it into the back of his phone case. A mistake, if the pain in his feet means anything.
His current opinion on his past decision doesn’t mean anything, though, considering Aaron has officially touched ground, the music has settled into a steady melody of drums and low guitar riffs that will successfully lead them into the next act, and Andrew is still loitering in the crowd. Swaying on his feet slightly after not having had anything to eat or drink in over six hours.
A few workers dart out from behind the thick curtains to run on stage and begin taking down Aaron and Kevin’s equipment. They’ve gotten almost everything put away when the light rumble of Nicky’s voice comes over the speaker.
Why the fuck did his entire family feel the need to get a job in the travelling circus, again?
Andrew doesn’t listen to a word that comes from his cousin’s mouth. He hardly even pays attention as some guy in a white button-up and black slacks with stripes of glitter down the seams comes strolling out onto the stage, casually adjusting the leather straps of the harness he has secured around his chest, which appears to act as some kind of belt for him.
Flashing lights flicker from pink to orange and then settle on red. A yellow-toned spotlight skitters across the floor, slowly making its way to the boy standing in the middle of the stage.
Something glints in the low lighting, catching Andrew’s eye.
He leans forward a little more, squinting now to try and see through his sweat.
The spotlight travels up the guy’s body slowly, illuminating an intricate set of swords beside him as it goes.
A sword swallower, then
And he thought Aaron’s job was awful.
Not that swinging from a chandelier is any better than swallowing a glorified steak knife, really. There is no bright side here for anyone.
"Freaks," he says, hardly a whisper under his voice that’s bound to get lost in the noise drifting through the crowd around him.
There is no science that would allow his comment to reach the ears of the man on stage. And yet, sharp eyes that are an indecipherable colour under the red lights turn to Andrew faster than a dog running after the mailman, and a shallow chill dances up Andrew’s bent spine.
The sword swallower’s hard gaze feels like insects crawling on sweaty skin, but just as fast as it came, it goes again. Flitting across the rest of the screaming people in the tent as the music quiets.
He waves to the people before him, a friendly smile already playing on his lips while he sizes up the room.
The quiet music suddenly spikes. A fast rhythm with booming bass that times perfectly with the lights that now flash from red to blue and back to red again.
One of the hands that had just waved at the crowd travels behind the man, feeling blindly to grab one of the many swords from the display. It resurfaces with a hilt held loosely in its grasp, such a lazy grip that causes the sword's weight to drag the hand down in a way that would be unnoticeable to the rest of the audience; most people are probably too caught up with the performer’s looks to even notice the weapon in his hand, anyway.
Andrew wouldn’t expect anything else, truthfully. It’s not like it’s unheard of for teenagers to be drawn to a glistening guy with tight curls and features sharper than the blades he willfully shoves down his throat. Natural attraction, human instinct, or whatever the hell people use to excuse their objectifying gaze.
A collective gasp is drawn from the candy covered lips of the crowd as the man loses all nerves and finally brings his sword to his mouth, head tilted back and Adam’s apple taking one final bob before the steel surpasses his lips and begins its drawn out journey down the oesophagus of its wielder.
Odd, Andrew thinks, watching with poorly concealed judgment as the blade continues its descent.
Odd that someone would do this. Odd that people would pay to watch. Odd that Andrew himself can’t pry his eyes away from the magnetic figure.
Not even just the figure, but the actions, the small details, the picture-perfect ease he moves with to rest the hilt on the crest of his mouth, bending at the waist and swaying the upper half of his body from side to side slowly so the crowd can get a good look.
Andrew isn’t fond of how hard he finds himself staring, his eyes boring into every inch of the guy’s unhinged jaw, thinking for just a moment about what else would fit into the performer’s mouth.
Natural attraction. Dangerous; almost more so than the very real swords being handled like cheap toys.
It’s awful. Everything about it. Andrew has to right himself and push away from the bannister just to get away from it.
His plans are derailed, though, just slightly, by a detour to the back of the tent.
Earlier that morning, before Andrew had left the house and ruined his own chances of sanity, Aaron had requested to see Andrew after his act. Well, see, gossip, bitch about Kevin, a little bit of everything.
Andrew hadn’t promised to entertain Aaron’s demands entirely, but as Andrew slips past one last wine-drunk mother, he decides showing face for five minutes is easier than dealing with Aaron’s whining for the rest of the week.
And, well, maybe he has ulterior motives.
Motives he won’t even admit to himself because they would make him seem crazier than he already might very well be.
The sun has set, and twinkling sets of demure stars are the only thing to look down upon Andrew and his rolling stomach after he exits the tent fully.
He takes a few steps away from his brother’s bright orange place of work, weighing the pros and cons of lighting up a cigarette and somehow settling on the negative, telling himself he’s in a no-smoking zone, even knowing that no one would be able to pick up the scent of nicotine over the lineup of food trucks.
Quiet music grows closer to silence in the wake of Andrew’s near-aimless wandering. The closer he gets to the back of the tent, the more dull everything is. His shoes beat against the wilting grass, and not even the small crunch of dying leaves really reaches his ears. He hears cheers from the tent, laughter, and loud conversations, but even they sound lifeless.
Andrew almost turns around. He gets worryingly close to calling it quits on this whole thing and caving just for the sake of not being around more than two people at a time.
But, right when his footsteps stutter and his fingers twitch with the compulsory urge to claim that cigarette he denied himself, the flap on the tent bursts open, and out comes Kevin.
He stumbles, grabbing pointlessly at the air for purchase, before falling to his knees and vomiting into the grass like a sick pet.
Andrew pauses fully, his body rocking forward with the haste of his sudden halt.
"Ohh," Kevin groans, his hand coming down to balance him and landing just an inch from the pool of puke that glitters in the moonlight. "Fuck me."
"Don’t you have a boyfriend for that?" Andrew asks before he can help himself, his nostrils flare in disgust as his brows furrow.
Startled, Kevin gasps, sitting up in a way that was clearly too fast, if the stabilising hand he reaches out once more means anything.
With only one ounce of hesitation present in his body, Andrew takes another handful of steps forward, approaching Kevin with trepidation.
"When did you get here?" Kevin slurs, squinting up at Andrew.
"When did you get drunk?" Andrew counters.
He doesn’t get a response. Kevin doesn’t even look like he wants to try and think one coherent thought when the tent opens again and produces Aaron.
"For fuck’s sake." The addition to the Kevin Day Watch Party says, observing the scene before him with tired eyes, having made it outside just in time to watch Kevin flop over and release one final groan.
His blonde hair is almost blinding with the way the light hits it as he shakes his head and turns to Andrew. Sighing deeply, he addresses Andrew. "Help me get him back into the tent?"
Andrew hums. "I’ll pass."
Aaron’s stare is flat, piercing Andrew like a needle and somehow managing to urge him forward one more step, just close enough to bend down and grab the now sleeping Kevin’s arm.
"He started drinking before the act," Aaron explains, with nothing but exhaustion in his tone. "Stressed for no fucking reason."
"Sounds pretty typical for him."
"It is," his brother complains, using his left foot to push open the entrance to the tent while he adjusts his grip on Kevin’s legs. "Can’t believe his liver hasn’t started failing yet."
Andrew releases one of Kevin’s arms, catching the tent door so it doesn't hit his head as he follows his twin. "He’s indestructible; he’ll get dementia before his liver gives out on him."
"Wonderful," Aaron comments, dropping the lower half of his boyfriend onto the leather couch Nicky bought for the lounge space after complaining about grass stains on his pants for months. "He’s a medical mystery."
"Who’s a mystery?" Matt asks, stepping up beside Aaron. "Oh. Kevin." He amends, a frown tugging at only one side of his mouth. "Yeah, he’s a mess."
"Understatement of the century," Dan comments, coming up behind her boyfriend and playing with the collar of the suit he wears for his tightrope walking act. "With all due respect, I’m surprised neither of you died during your set today."
Aaron shrugs, the gears in his head already working to find a way to deflect the slightly critical statement.
"I’m good at what I do," he settles on, tipping his head to the side and resting it on his raised shoulder while he continues to look over Kevin’s unconscious form.
"Don’t get too cocky, Minyard," Allison says from across the sorry excuse of a lounge while she stretches out in one of the three chairs that came with Nicky’s couch, and suddenly Andrew is very aware of just how many people are back here. From the quick scan of his eyes, it seems as though it’s everyone but the owners, Nicky, and the sword swallower. "That’s how people like you die."
"People like him?" Renee inquires from her position at Allison’s feet, opting to sit on the ground for a reason Andrew won’t work to decipher.
"Queers." Seth says flatly, popping the lid on a beer.
"No," Allison says with an eyeroll. "People like him," she argues again, like it’ll make more sense the second time. "The ones that do freaky stunts in the air."
"Said with the attitude of a true contortionist." Dan laughs, stepping away from Matt and grabbing a bottle of water from the same cooler Seth retrieved his beer out of.
"The fuck is that supposed to mean?" The arch of Allison’s brow tells Andrew that she knows exactly what Dan means.
"It means you’re a bitch," Aaron says, taking a seat beside Kevin’s feet.
"Strongly opinionated." Renee corrects, toying subconsciously with the tulle collar of her clown costume.
Joining Renee on the ground with her water, Dan nods innocently. "Same difference."
"You’re wrong," Wymack, the owner and self-proclaimed uncle of Andrew, says upon surfacing from behind a curtain that leads to the storage space.
"You don’t even know what we’re talking about," Dan says, drawing the words out similar to the way an angry child might.
"Don’t need to." Wymack counters, claiming the last open chair. His eyes wander across the room, landing on Kevin for a brief moment of concern, and then quickly skipping over to Andrew. "Kid?" He asks. "What’re you doing out here? That reporter job fall through or something?"
Andrew doesn’t respond directly, but he does glance at Aaron, searching for a familiar set of eyes that will confirm that this is real life and not just a very vivid nightmare.
"No," he answers at last, and, surprisingly, it’s not a lie.
His job isn’t exactly stable as of now, stories are coming his way at a rate that’s alarmingly slow, but he hasn’t been officially fired just yet. Technically, he’s still employed. Being strung along by the ruthless woman who calls herself his boss, yes, but employed nonetheless.
Wymack nods, probably figuring out how to say "holy shit, that’s a miracle" without offending Andrew. Ever since Andrew was first taken in by Bee, his only semblance of a mother, Wymack had always been hovering at her shoulder, silently judging the twins in that tough love sort of way that Andrew quickly got used to. The man tried, on occasion, to be personable. Very rare occasions. Right now, it looks like he’s deciding between some sort of sugary response or a curt nod.
In the end, whatever flowery bullshit or unnecessary gesture he picks doesn’t matter, because the front of the tent erupts with a roar of applause that could kill a small Victorian child with its volume alone, and a thunder of footsteps rushes across the stage and down the rickety metal stairs Andrew has been told about by a bruised version of Nicky many times.
The overdramatic sighs from behind yet another black curtain act as the only real warning for the appearance of his cousin, who, miraculously, did not fall down the stairs during his rush away from the crowd.
He throws his cheesy hat in the direction of Aaron and Kevin, his steps slowing to a skidding stop once he starts to lose momentum.
Heavy pants fall from his mouth while he crouches down, putting out one hand, and simply expecting someone to pass him a water bottle.
"Where’s Neil?" Renee asks Nicky, grabbing Dan’s water and tossing it gently towards the huffing man.
Nicky, keen on ignoring Renee and remaining entirely unphased by the lipstick marks on the mouth of the bottle and the lack of actual water inside, chugs the surely frigid liquid, pulling his lips back from it with a deep breath before crushing the plastic between his hands and tossing it towards the garbage can, missing by maybe half a foot.
"You don’t have to run from them, you know," Wymack says, arching a brow at the awful throw. "They're mostly kids, they can’t kill you."
Nicky gives up on balancing, falling to his knees, then on his ass, then surrendering to gravity and lying flat on his back. "You don’t know what they’re capable of."
"I can make a decent guess." The cheering from the front dissipates slowly, carrying enough to still be heard over Wymack’s reply.
"Nicky," Renee tries again, the creases between her painted eyebrows cracking her white makeup. "Did you leave Neil out there alone?"
"Huh?" Nicky sits up, his breathing evening out slowly. "No, he's with that chick who, uh, wants to be his assistant or something…" He trails off, his dark brown eyes lifting from Renee over to Andrew.
His face lights up, a touch of confusion mixing with his complete delight as he stares at Andrew and starts unbuttoning his sweat-soaked jacket. "What the hell are you doing here?" He asks, a smile far too big to be healthy splitting his lips.
"I have the same question." Matt says lightly, raising his hand like a kid in school.
From where Andrew stands at the opposite end of the couch, he can see Aaron’s eyes roll as he shakes his head. "He’s allowed to be here," he says, pinching the fabric of Kevin’s sweatpants between his thumb and forefinger. "I asked him to stop by after my act."
Nicky’s smile grows impossibly wider, disbelief painting his burning eyes. "And he listened?"
Andrew leans up against the arm of the couch, his posture slouching as he’s discussed as though he isn’t even in the room. Aaron catches his shifting out of the corner of his eye, taking the skin of his left cheek between his teeth while levelling Nicky with a weak glare. "Considering he’s right there, I’ll let you take one lucky guess."
"Did you bribe him or something?" Seth asks, lowering his bottle of beer so he can squint at Andrew and drag his eyes up and down his body in a way that was most likely meant to be threatening.
The illusion falls like a house of cards in a windstorm, Seth’s eyes going wide and his mouth dropping open at the squeal and loud sob of a girl.
No one has any time to question it, the sounds get louder and closer, reaching a climax as the girl in question comes running out from behind the curtain that Andrew is assuming leads to the stage. In one hand is a glowing cup from the gift shop outside of the tent, in the other is what looks to be a resume.
"The fuck?" Wymack stands, watching with a deep frown as the girl disappears out the exit.
In less than one second, the energy in the room shifts from winding down to curious and on edge. Only when the curtain moves again and the sword swallower steps out from behind it, his shoes shining, his shirt sweaty, and his harness-belt thing undone and clutched lamely in his hands, does it all settle.
"Neil?" Dan prods. "What the fuck was that about?"
The sword swallower doesn’t respond. He keeps his head down, jam red curls falling in front of azure eyes.
Matt takes a step after him, but quickly deems it useless, stopping after one stride and watching as the man pushes past the door of the tent and makes his way outside.
A look of horror dawns on Dan’s face. "You’re not gonna follow him?"
"Eh," stuffing his hands into his pocket, Matt leans back. "No," he says simply.
"No?" Allison questions, her spine straight with the looming anticipation of something she can’t see.
"He looked upset." Matt explains, wrinkling his nose.
"Yes." Allison stands, one of her hands clenched into a fist. "Which is why you’re supposed to follow him."
"That was the sword swallower guy we got," Kevin whispers to Andrew while Matt and Allison continue to argue back and forth uselessly. Apparently, he’d risen to consciousness during the commotion. “He’s new. I think."
When Andrew doesn’t respond to that, Kevin continues. "I mean, I know him. Sort of. But he didn’t join until a few months ago."
Kevin’s glossy eyes look between Andrew and the exit the girl and the sword swallower used to escape the tent. "I’m guessing that had something to do with him still needing an assistant. He’s too picky, though, so everyone who applies just gets their hopes crushed."
Ulterior motives.
Andrew has them.
And this is their time to shine.
"Hey, Kevin?" Andrew whispers back to the bleary-eyed giant. "Go back to sleep."
Kevin listens without hesitation, his head dropping back down onto the couch, and his snores resume, barely audible over the yelling of Matt, Allison, and now Dan.
With Kevin’s big head now out of the way, Andrew has a clear view of Aaron’s all-knowing eyes.
He doesn’t move at first, neither of them do, but after a prolonged staring contest, Aaron nods.
It’s all the permission Andrew needs, really. He stands up fully, glances over the room, and finds no one but Renee looking at him. Without a single care, Andrew leaves, feeling her eyes on the back of his head and choosing to ignore them.
There are two blocks of cement outside the tent. They come up to just above Andrew’s waist and are about the width of two door frames side by side. One block is on the left side of the door. The other block is on the right.
On the block to the right is where the sword swallower chose to sit.
Held clumsily in his hand is a cigarette that burns slowly on its own, only being raised to the man’s mouth when the cherry threatens to go out.
In Andrew's back pocket, he can feel the weight of his own pack of cigarettes. He ignores it.
"Can I get one of those?"
The sword swallower lifts his head quickly, snapping it in Andrew’s direction. "Uh," he hesitates, having heard Andrew but not processed a single word that came out of his mouth.
Andrew darts his eyes down to the cigarette, a hint, and the performer finally understands.
"Right," he says, his voice wonderfully raspy. "Sure."
He reaches over, rushing with the growing pressure Andrew adds by taking a handful of steps forward, not stopping until he’s beside the stranger.
"Here." His chest heaves with a breath of relief.
Andrew grabs the cigarette and the sketchy lighter that gets offered with it. The flame it produces is short, but it does the job.
With the end sparked to life, Andrew takes one quick drag from it.
"Are you Aaron’s brother?" The guy asks, watching Andrew with a critical gaze.
Releasing the smoke from his lungs, Andrew nods. "Did that girl run away from you because you didn’t want her as your assistant?"
If there’s any question as to how Andrew got enough information to put that guess together, the sword swallower doesn’t show it. Instead, he leans back, his spine melting into the tent, and he brings the hand with his cigarette in it up to his stomach, resting it there without taking a single hit from it.
"Happens at every show." He says with no regard for the girl. "Usually, they’re not as outwardly upset."
"Is there a reason you keep turning them down?"
"Is there a reason you haven’t come around here until tonight?"
A game. That’s what this is, then. A trade of surface-level truths that don’t warrant the guarding they receive.
Andrew bites the bait, dangerously curious and naturally attracted. "I have a life that doesn’t revolve around a tent and a trailer full of equipment."
His smoking break companion hums. "Reporter," he says. "Aaron’s mentioned you."
Andrew doesn’t comment on that. Aaron’s strange levels of pride in Andrew’s continued attempts at making a career for himself are just facts of life he’s accepted at this point; it hardly feels worth talking about. Especially not when his question burns the dry air it sits in with each passing moment it continues to go unanswered for.
"Why do you keep turning people down?" Andrew tries again.
The performer sighs, the hand on his stomach raising with the movement. "I don’t know," he admits. "I don’t want them coming to me."
Without actually asking a question, Andrew angles his head slightly and hums.
Tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette, the sword swallower continues. "If I have to work with someone, I’m gonna be the one to pick them." He says, expanding on his own volition before taking his unestablished turn. "What’s your job like?"
"Slow." Andrew says quickly. It’s the first word that came to mind, and it’s painfully accurate. "Pretty sure my boss is working up to fire me." He adds, expanding, so he doesn’t owe the redhead anything.
"So much for having a life that doesn’t revolve around a tent and trailer," the man humours. "The circus might not be conventional, but at least I know that Wymack wouldn’t string us along for nothing."
Andrew takes a drag from his cigarette, rolling the smoke around in his mouth while he remembers the exact wording Aaron used when he gave Andrew the whole "join the circus; it’s like a family" spiel.
It was tempting.
But then Andrew got a job, a steady paycheck, a decent roommate who lives with him in a nice enough apartment.
And then that job started getting rocky. Money started to stop flowing as freely, the decent roommate became a massive pain in the ass overnight, and their apartment started smelling like weed and burnt patchouli burgers.
Now Andrew’s here, sitting next to the hottest circus worker he’s probably ever seen, not sure of the guy’s name, and not sure what the hell he’s really trying to get out of him.
Once more, becoming a cliché and running away with the travelling circus is sounding much more appealing than it really needs to be.
"You should quit." The sword swallower says, unprompted.
Andrew chokes.
He covers it up quickly by clearing his throat and trying to play it off, but there’s a quick snort-sounding laugh from beside him.
"Just a suggestion." The performer amends, a smile in his voice.
"Quit and go where?" Andrew asks, knowing what he’s getting at but still pushing just because he can.
There’s a quiet hiss sound when the sword swallower's cigarette is put out against the concrete block they’re sitting on. "Here." He says, like it’s that easy. "You scared of heights? They could always use another person to hang from the ceiling."
Andrew’s stomach drops like a bowling ball from a bridge. The idea of working for a carnival seemed slightly worth entertaining at first, but not if it involves heights.
Freakishly enough, though, for someone whose job includes nothing but entertaining people by causing unease, the sword swallower Andrew has happened upon tonight is unnecessarily emotionally intelligent. At Andrew’s relentless silence, he breaks, picking the conversation back up from where Andrew left it. "Or you could work for me."
If heart defects ran in the Minyard family, Andrew would have dropped dead the second the redhead finished talking.
"Why would I do that?" He asks, feigning a level of tranquillity that he will never possess.
"You need a new job. I need an assistant. Seems logical." The man reasons, being more put together than Andrew in every sense of the word.
"More logical than hiring the girl who actively wanted to work for you?" Andrew asks, knowing full well he’s only a handful of seconds away from saying yes.
Tipping his head from side to side, Andrew’s smoking companion fights for words. "She came to me, remember?" The world stops spinning. "Are you good with swords? Knives?"
In one fluid motion, Andrew pulls his knives from his right armband and holds them out towards the sword swallower, not expecting much but still having the nerve to be surprised when he takes one.
He taps his fingertip against the point. "Sharp," he comments casually, examining the blade as if he’s an expert trying to diagnose it.
Andrew’s about to say something. Anything. But as words start to form, the sword swallower does what he knows best.
He swallows.
His head goes back, his mouth opens, and Andrew’s sharpened knife disappears with ease.
Andrew is speechless at the scene.
Any thought he’s ever had is gone. Lost to the void for the rest of eternity.
Or, as it turns out, until the circus freak with Andrew’s knife decides to pull the thin blade out of his throat.
A line of saliva connects the two. It shines in the moonlight, brighter than any of the stars that have ever burned in the atmosphere.
"Is this your version of a blood pact?" Andrew asks, needing the silence to be broken by something.
Wiping the knife on his pants, the redhead grins. "If I say yes, will you agree to be my assistant?"
Andrew hums, already knowing the answer to that question. "Blackmailing, are we?"
"Perhaps." The man says with no shame. "There’s only one way to find out, really."
He tosses the dead end of his cigarette out into the grass beneath them and places Andrew’s knife in the space between them. He holds out the hand he’s just freed for Andrew to shake, possessing all the charisma of a sleazy loan shark from any old Hollywood movie to ever exist.
Even with the return of his thoughts, Andrew can’t use real words anymore. Not to agree. Not to argue some more. Not for pointless pleasantries. He’s got nothing.
The only thing he’s capable of doing is taking back his knife and shaking the hand holding a new world of opportunities for him.