Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It rained the day he left.

It was not a grand, cinematic storm nor a downpour worthy of a farewell. It was a simple cold drizzle. The kind that soaked into your clothes and stayed there, like shame. The kind of rain that didn’t cleanse anything - only made the world feel heavier.

John - not Kryoz, not anymore - didn’t look back as he walked away from the tented grounds. His briefcase stuffed with nothing but a couple of his worn down leotards and a handful of souvenirs from previous travels. His boots sloshed through the mud as if the very earth wanted to drag him back and keep him there, rotting quietly beneath the sagging weight of striped canvas and a forgotten applause.

He hadn't bothered with farewells. Neither did the others. No small words for his departure, just empty stares and half-hearted waves - more dismissive than anything.

Some part of him hoped it would.

John hadn't cared. He tried not to.

He had gotten old. Not in body, though his joints cracked more than they used to, but in presence. He had stopped dazzling. Kryoz had stopped shining. He had stopped flying with fire in his veins - Kryoz becoming nothing more than a myth falling out of loose lips. And in the circus world, if you didn’t shine brighter than the millions of stars in the sky, you were obsolete.

The final blow was laced in cruelty. A simple business decision. A coverup. A subtle conversation with the manager behind the costume trailer. A tone of voice John wouldn't mistake as anything but condescending.

”We’re rotating the acts, John.” His name slithering out of his manager’s mouth.”Trying something younger. Fresher. You understand, right?”

And he did.

He understood in a way that a crumpled flyer understands wind.

Discarded, confused yet understanding, with absolutely no energy to fight back.

-

Months passed in a blur of cigarette ash, trolley terminals, and cheap lodgings. John kept moving, not because he wanted to find anything, but because it prevented any more space for the unwanted memories to blossom.

He took odd jobs to keep himself afloat. Stagehand, rooftop cleaner, newspaper distributor. Briefly, at some seedy place away from the city, he helped install an aerial rigging for an amateur pole show. The person in charge of the show had recognized him and asked for his professional help. John had wanted to decline, but something in the darkest corners of his mind crept up on him and convinced him to see the stage one last time.

It wasn’t his.

But that didn't matter.

The girl that was hired to fly on it had caught him staring and asked if he had ever done that sort of thing.

He lied. Said no.

Not because he was ashamed - though he partially was - but because he couldn’t bear to remember about his life in the circus - his life high up in the air. The rush of blood whenever he let go of the bar and flipped through the sky. Nothing could ever compare to that feeling of absolute freedom. Nothing at all.

But that wasn't him anymore.

The cigarettes helped with the silence. The drinks helped with sleep. Nothing helped with the ache. Not in his knees, not in his head, not in his chest.

Kryoz was a ghost. Regal, cold, untouchable. John, to put it simply, was just the corpse Kryoz left behind.

-

It was a Thursday, he thinks. Maybe a Wednesday. He wasn’t sure. The days were blurred together in a strewn out mess. He was sitting on the curb in front of a local bakery, hunched against the wind, watching rain slick down the old wooden pub sign. He was tired - more like exhausted. Not the kind that sleep fixes, but the kind that sits behind your ribs and presses inwards like the handle of a knife. The same dull ache that came whenever John inhaled the ashy smoke of the cigarette pressed between two fingers.

Then came him.

White hair, like spun sugar or fresh chalk, something John had never seen before. He wore an expensive navy blue coat, similar to the one’s noblemen wore. Boots clicked with rhythm. With purpose. This man didn’t walk - he pranced, like every step was an applause waiting to happen. He stood tall in front of John, who was stuck staring up at the white hair that wetly clung to the stranger’s forehead.

John squinted through the haze. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man beamed. “A dreamer, visionary, and your biggest fan,” he held his hand out, gesturing for John to take it, “The name is Smitty. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kryoz.”

John blinked, turning away from Smitty. The cigarette dangled from his fingers, half-smoked, forgotten.

“I’m not performing anymore.”

“So I've heard.”

John scoffed. “So why are you still here?”

Smitty crouched beside him on the curb, looking out across the street - at the same rundown pub sign. “Because I know who you are.”

“Used to be,” John muttered.

“No,” Smitty said. “Still are

Their eyes met.

It was brief.

But for a flash, in the reflection of Smitty’s emerald green eyes, John swore he could see it - Kryoz flying through the air once more. A shiny smile on his face and eyes that gleamed even brighter. A vision that could only be seen in John’s dreams when he thought too much or drank too much. A Vision John had no desire to ever see again.

“No. I’m not doing this.” John scowled, standing. “Kryoz is dead. He is no more. Whatever you had planned for him is useless. He isn't coming back.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Smitty said, voice lower now, stripped of all bravado. “If Kryoz is dead, that’s fine - I won't begin persuade you any further, all that I ask is that you come see my world that I built for yourself. A world where the weirdos, freaks, and the unwanted thrive.”

John watched him.

Watched the way Smitty’s eyes didn't flicker. Not with hesitation. Not with deceit.

“Sounds like a fantasy.”

Smitty smiled. “Good. You always performed better in dreams. So perform in mine.”

-

John had seen Smitty around town more often than not.

Turns out when Smitty had said he wouldn’t try to persuade him, meant only for that day. Because Smitty had kept showing up pitching his outlandish idea of John joining his circus.

At first, John had tried ignoring him. But when that didn't work - Smitty was irritatingly persistent - John cursed him, letting his mouth run and shoot sharp daggers at Smitty, who just deflected them with ease. Then John resorted to violence, throwing a half-empty bottle of liquor at the white haired fiend.

None of it worked.

Smitty followed him around town, weaponizing his charm and exquisite eyes to bewitch John. John wouldn’t fall for it - that was what he kept telling himself.

No matter how many times Smitty bought him breakfast. Or how many times he praised John’s name. Or how many times he brought up his circus, subtly trying to lure John in with his fantastical talk. John would not be swayed.

Except he was. He could no longer ignore the way he yearned to climb the trapeze structure, to be wrapped in ribbons, to soar through the sky like a bird.

“You still love it.” Smitty had said to John, both sitting under an apple tree staring up at the starry night sky. John doesn't know how he ended up here, or how Smitty always managed to know where he was.

Perhaps it's fate.

John shook his head and stared at his hands. “So what if I do?”

“Then don’t waste it in the dark.”

-

Smitty’s final offer came one night in late autumn. Months after pestering John.

A letter. Stuffed under the door of the recent lodging he was staying at.

Just:

”Come see.
If you don’t like it, you can walk away.
But let Kryoz decide.
– Smii7y”

With an address attached underneath Smitty’s signature.

John didn’t plan to go.

He had meant to burn the letter.

Instead, he found himself standing outside a crumbling theatre circus tent at the edge of a foggy field three days later, suitcase in his hand, heart caught up in his throat like a coin lodged in a drain.

The tent was… wrong to say the least.

It was uneven for one. Sewn from mismatched worn down fabric. The lights flickered and buzzed like sleepy fireflies. John could hear a couple arguing back stage along with the sound of metal clattering. A man in chainmail walked by with a helmet on his hip and a pipe in his hand - muttering something about the stars.

It was chaos.

It was comfortable.

And standing in front of it all, John felt real again. Like the air he breathed was no longer thick and suffocating - but fresh like a summer breeze.

Smitty met him at the entrance, his smile as wide as ever.

There was no speech.

No dramatic flair.

Just his smile and a gesture for John to step inside.

John scanned the place. The frayed rope. The laughter echoing somewhere near the animal pens. The smell of freshly popped popcorn and sawed wood. The stage that stood tall, despite looking unsafe to walk upon.

And above it all was the aerial rigging.

Trapeze lines like constellations. Silk hanging from the ceiling like falling stars. A hoop dead center of it all, capturing John's attention like a lense caught sunlight.

His palms itched.

“Show me the rig,” John demanded.

Smitty nodded, leading the way for John. “It’s all yours.”

“I can't promise I'll stay.”

“That's alright.”

“Really?” John eyed Smitty carefully, “And if I leave tomorrow?”

Smitty’s smile didn’t falter. “Then we’ll fly today.”

John swallowed the lump that began to grow in his throat.

-

John climbed that night.

Hands raw. Breath uneven.

He stood on the platform, waiting for Smitty to make it up on the other side - to see his gleaming green eyes that knew nothing but promise from across. John's long hair was tied back, his coat, shoes, and socks discarded.

The two stood straight, each with a bar resting tightly in their grip.

John stepped off the platform at the same time as Smitty - taking that leap of faith.

And when he let go of the bar - when gravity unhooked its grip and the air welcomed him back - he didn’t hear applause. Didn’t see lights.

He just felt it.

The hush before taking flight.

The blood surge of a catch.

The old fire crackling back to life in a chest that had forgotten how to burn.

And when Smitty caught him - the world felt as though it stopped moving. The complete blind trust he had put into this man, this man he had met only two weeks prior, was honestly the greatest gamble John had ever bet on. It wasn't only faith that Smitty would catch him, but faith that he would change John's life forever.

When they were back on the ground he immediately looked over at Smitty, panting, trembling, heart racing, blinking the dust of memory from his eyes.

Smitty tilted his head.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I've been reborn.” John exhaled shakily.

“And how about Kryoz?”

The name tasted strange in his mouth.

Like assurance.

Like resurrection.

“…Kryoz.” John smiled softly, finally able to say that name without falling apart. “Yeah, I’m sure he agrees.”

And that was the day the prince of angels returned to the sky.

-

John's heart was still thudding with adrenaline.

“You're actually my first acrobat, aside myself of course.” Smitty says - almost proudly - which in turn causes John to whip his head around.

The two were sitting on a crate outside the tent. Sipping on some celebratory ale - or that's the excuse Smitty had given, a drink to a new member of his family and the revival of a lost soul.

“Pardon? Did you say first? As in I am the only trapezius you have?” John stared at Smitty with wide eyes.

Smitty didn’t answer.

He just tilted his head, smiling his charming smile before letting out a loud laugh. John certainly wasn’t as amused as Smitty seemed to be.

“How the hell do you expect to run a circus with only one performer.” John frowned, elbowing Smitty’s abdomen.

“Don’t worry your pretty little heart!” Smitty hopped off the crate spinning around to face the incredulous John. “This is just the beginning!”

John quirked an eyebrow, “How so?”

Smitty beamed brighter than the stars in the sky, taking John’s hands in his own and bringing his face closer, “Together, we are going to build something amazing - even if it takes one baby-step at a time. This dream will come true, no matter what.”

His words sat heavy in John’s mind as he stared into the depths of Smitty’s eyes - the ones John found fascinating. Smitty’s logic was ludicrous, fueled only by ambition and a dream bigger than anything John could ever comprehend.

John let out a small puff of laughter - catching Smitty off guard - catching himself off guard. Removing one of his hands from smitty’s to cover his mouth with wide eyes.

Smitty gave him a starry eyed look before pulling John off the crate and into a tight embrace, spinning him around, “Aha! So wonderful! The world will never see us coming!”

John couldn’t agree more.

-

It was late. The sky was a heavy velvet blue, the kind that swallowed the moonlight whole. Most of the camp had gone quiet for the night, flickering lanterns snuffed out one by one. The only real sound was the distant clatter of someone still trying to land a backflip off a stack of crates.
Smitty was hunched over the little desk inside his trailer, coat slung over the back of the chair, hair in a loose tie.
“I applaud your confidence my friend!”

Smitty - busy with paperwork - raised his head. A figure stepped out of the shadows, illuminated only by the candlelight

“Matt,” Smitty smiled softly, “What are you doing up so unusually late?”

“What? Can't I congratulate you on your excellence?” Matt laughs. “You have managed to convince the elusive Kryoz to join your circus, well done Smitty.”

Smitty shakes his head. “Come on Matt, you know as well as I do that this Circus is both of ours. I couldn't have built it without you by my side.”

“You flatter me. This was all you, all I've done was gather buncha’ idiots who're willing to see your dream play out. That's all.”

Smitty pouts - brows furrowing and frown deepening - clearly displeased with Matt's lack of acknowledgement to his own relevance in Smitty's grand ambition.

“Matt, you say that as though you giving those people a place to call home wasn't part of my dream. To our dream. You've done so much for me Matt, I'm not sure how I could even repay it!”

Matt only chuckles, ruffling Smitty's snow white hair as he leans against the desk.

“Just keep shining brighter than the sun, buddy. That's all I ask of you.”

Chapter Text

It had been roughly two days since Smitty had left his trailer.

Ever since John had joined, Smitty had worked tirelessly to perfect the show. Carrying a burden full of stress and irritation all by himself. He had even snapped at the others, which according to Matt, Smitty never got angry.

So Matt had begun to worry himself senseless. Matt had known him for nearly his entire life so of course he was worried. He knows that Smitty never shuts himself in unless something was truly bothering him - but even then, he always allowed Matt to share the burden.

So Matt put on his softest smile and pushed the door open without knocking. He never knocked, he didn't have to with Smitty. His usual colorful face paint was smeared off, replaced by the tired expression underneath - mussed brown hair, dark circles, too much energy behind his eyes.

“You have been in here for hours, my friend.” Matt said, flopping dramatically onto the bench across the way. “You’re gonna turn into a ledger if you keep this up.”

Smitty didn’t look up. “I’m trying to make this month work without cutting another act. But it seems we’ll most likely have to rearrange Soup’s schedule or shorten Eric’s intermission.”

Matt let out a groan. “Again with the cuts.”

“Yes. Again.” Smitty dropped the pencil and finally looked up, and there it was - tightness around his mouth, that pinch between his brows. “We can’t afford to keep bleeding money, Matt. We're not pulling anything. But the crowds are going to grow, especially since we’re taking in new performers.”

Matt squinted. “Oh. So is this about John.”

Smitty didn’t answer.

Matt sat up straighter, his tone sharpening. “You mean to tell me, you suddenly bring this thrown out hotshot, no offense to him, and suddenly the rest of us don’t matter? Because the guy's gonna pull in more people in a week than I could in a month?”

“No,” Smitty snapped, and then his voice lowered. “It’s not about John.”

Matt laughed, bitter and quiet. “Of course it is. You bring in your graceful little sky prince, and suddenly you’re tightening belts and running numbers like we didn’t used to pay each other in soup and goodwill. Now you’re stretching yourself thin for a newcomer that probably won't even stay.”

“Because we didn’t have anything back then!” Smitty stood now, the legs of his chair scraping hard against the wood floor. “We ran off scraps and dreams, and now we’ve got twenty people under these tents depending on me to not let this place crumble! I don’t have the luxury of just hoping things work out anymore.”

Matt’s eyes burned. “Oh, right. You. It’s always you doing the work, you making the hard choices. I’m just fucking useless, huh?”

Smitty sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Matt, you know that’s not what I fucking meant.”

“Maybe not but that's what it’s really beginning to sound like,” Matt stands up - disappointment written all over his face, an expression Smitty has never seen on him before.

“What happened to what you said last week? That you couldn't have done any of this without me? Well it seems like you’re doing everything perfectly fine by yourself.”
Before Smitty could get another word in, Matt stormed off. Leaving Smitty by himself in the dimly lit trailer.

He wanted nothing more than to tear off the array of tapestries on his walls - to tear every single paper to shred - but all Smitty could think about was the hurt that drove creases into Matt's face.

-

Since the beginning, Smitty has always been different.

He was born in the dead of Winter, under a gray sky, in a town too small to not care about miracles or curses. From the moment he had taken his first breath, wrapped in the arms of a horrified midwife who whispered prayers instead of congratulations, Smitty was different. His pale hair silken and sharp, strands like threads spun from cloud and frost. His eyes, wide and unnerving for a newborn, were a shade of green way too sharp to be natural - like emerald glass soaked in sunlight.

His parents stared down at him with stunned silence as the midwife handed him over to his father.

Neither of them had hair like his. Neither of them had eyes piercing - so vivid that they practically glowed. His parents were nothing like him at all with their natural brown hair and natural brown eyes.

They were normal.

Of course the news spread across the village like wildfire. Some people speculated infidelity - others accused witchcraft - but everyone convinced themselves that Smitty was a bad omen. His birth proof of sin. By the third week of his life, whispers of changeling and demon child swept through every corner of the town.

His parents, bound by only the law to keep him alive, gave him food but no warmth. A bed, but no lullabies. A home, but no love. He wasn’t raised - he merely endured the conditions he was forced to live.

He was no older than six when he realized why his parents barely spoke anymore. Not to each other. Not to anyone. And especially not to their son.

Smitty didn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend why his mother refused to touch him, or why his dad never looked him in the eyes - especially when Smitty wandered around town and saw the other town’s children being embraced lovingly by their parents.
All he knew was that it hurt.

And as time passed by, when he stepped out into the world, the village children followed their parents’ lead. Though they were much crueler. They called him a demon, a mistake. The other children didn’t want to play with a witch’s child. He was too strange. Too soft-spoken. Too weird. They pushed him in the mud, threw pebbles at his back when teachers weren’t looking - they laughed at his hair, at his eyes.

They said he looked like something the gods meant to hide, a mistake worthy of shame from the gods themselves.

More often than not, he spent his nights alone - either wandering around the house
But despite the pain and the loneliness, Smitty did his best to not let anything get the best of him.

Even if he never learned to smile.

Or what true happiness felt like.

But he hoped that someday he would.

-

The day came sooner than Smitty had ever expected
.
Smitty had just turned ten when the news of an orphanage catching on fire and turning to ash a couple towns over reached his village.

Most of the children made it out safe - and as a result - they were transferred over to the closest orphanage, which happened to be the one Smitty lived down the street from. And out of all the children, one stood out the most.

Smitty had been sitting on a bench in the school courtyard, by himself of course, when one of the orphan kids sauntered up to him. Smitty had expected the usual - harsh teases and finger jabs - instead the kid introduced himself as Matt.

Matt was tall and lean, wild-eyed, always grinning, always speaking his mind. He wasn’t graceful or charming or normal - but he was kind. In his own odd way.

Smitty had been wary at first. But soon came to find out that Matt wasn’t liked either. He was too opinionated. Too clever. He questioned the rules. Defended outcasts. Picked fights with bullies and sometimes with teachers. He was the sort of boy who’d stare down a priest and ask, “If God made everything, why not him too?” while pointing at Smitty without a hint of shame.

Smitty couldn’t understand Matt at all.

-

“You look like someone plucked the moon out of the sky and told it to walk around pretending it wasn’t special.” Matt had said to him. He was following Smitty around town - as he always did with or without Smitty’s approval.

Smitty blinked. “What?”

Matt shrugged. “It was supposed to be a compliment.”

Smitty found it so outlandish that he found himself laughing. It was the first time Smitty had allowed himself to laugh in months.

From then on, they were inseparable.

Smitty had never felt this much joy in his entire life. With Matt, he could breathe. He could dream out loud. They would sneak out of town together, find abandoned fields, and climb old fences just to lie under the sky. Smitty would point to stars and invent constellations. Matt would name them ridiculous things like Butt the Lesser or Chicken-Footed Grandmother.

The world felt brighter when Matt was around.

Where Smitty was dreamy and unpredictable, Matt was grounded, careful, a schemer with a soft spot.

Matt made the world feel safe.

He made Smitty feel human.

-

Years passed. They grew. They fought and made up. They defended each other against cruel words and unfair rules. When someone insulted Matt’s clothes, Smitty insulted theirs louder. When someone mocked Smitty’s eyes, Matt told them off until they cried.

They lived like the world was theirs. When they weren’t being chased away from the marketplace for stealing fruit or dodging angry shopkeepers, they were deep in the woods, discovering places that felt untouched by judgment. They swam in the river until their fingers wrinkled and teeth chattered. They stargazed from the broken roof of an old farmhouse, pretending they lived there. They made up stories about who they would be, far away from this place.

They were stupid together.

They were happy.

In the quiet moments, when it was just Smitty, he still felt it - the weight of being other. Of being looked at and never truly seen. He’d dance in the meadows and wish someone would clap. He’d twist in the air during storms, barefoot and wild, and imagine a crowd gasping, eyes wide, hearts lifted by his movement.

He wanted to be seen not as a curse, but as art.

But over time, the hatred began to spread. Adults at the orphanage turned cold toward Matt. Families that once considered adopting him pulled away. The village had decided: if Matt loved the devil’s child, then he was no better.

Matt didn’t flinch. “Screw them. You’re my family now. I don’t need anyone else.”
And for a while, that was enough.

Until Smitty found the flyer.

He’d never heard of a circus before. Not really. The concept fascinated him - people like him, paraded around like curiosities. Like freaks. It sounded cruel… and yet, it also sounded familiar. More than that: it sounded like possibility. A place for the unwanted. The different.

It was everything he had ever dreamed of.

Therefore, an idea was born.

-

At first, he kept it quiet. It was foolish, he thought. Not the kind of dream he thought an eighteen-year-old should have. But it grew inside him like a vine - twisting, stretching, persistent.

He needed to tell someone.

So who else did he have to tell besides Matt?

Smitty told him one night on the farmhouse roof, stars glittering like sequins overhead.
“Have you ever heard of a circus?”

Matt snorted. “Who hasn’t? Those things are such horse shit - parading humans around like they’re nothing more than shitty entertainment.”

Smitty swallowed the lump in his throat. “I… I think I want to build a circus. Not like the ones I read about, or the kind that revolve around cruelty - something different. A place where people like us aren’t laughed at. Where we shine. A world where no one gets hated for being… wrong.”

He waited for Matt to laugh. Or scoff. Or tell him to grow up.

Instead, Matt sat up, eyes wide with something close to awe. “Really?”

“Really.” Smitty confirms.

“Then we’ll build it. Whatever it takes. You dream it, I’ll help make it real. ‘Cause I’ve seen who you really are, buddy. And the world needs to see it too.”
Smitty grinned, throwing his arms around Matt’s shoulders. “Thank you for not laughing.”

“I would never laugh at something like this, especially when I get to see you smile like that.”

He could always count on Matt to believe in him.

-

Smitty stared at the scattered papers on his desk. A sour taste snaked around his tongue - his argument with Matt ringing like hometown church bells in his head - the pressure of a migraine forming near his temple.

The candlelight flickered uneasily, as if the flame could feel the tension in the air.

“He makes it so hard for me to hate him.” Smitty mutters under his breath while running a hand through his snow white hair.

-

The fire had burned low by the time Smitty found him.

Matt was sitting out behind the caravans, where the circus grounds met the forest. The lantern he’d brought with him flickered gently beside a log, casting a pale amber glow across his face. In his lap sat one of Smitty’s old coats - patched, ridiculous, and stained with paint and glue from a million past repairs. He must’ve dug it out of storage.
Smitty hesitated in the dark.

Then stepped forward, slow and quiet. The air smelled like trampled grass and sawdust. The show had long ended. So had their argument. But the silence afterward had been worse.

Matt didn’t look up when Smitty sat down next to him.

It took a long moment before Smitty spoke. His voice was soft, but steady.

“…I was too intense,” he said. “About everything. About the money, about the show. I… I know. I see it now. I didn’t mean to shut you out, Matt. I didn’t mean to act like you were just part of the backdrop. I just… I wanted it to be perfect. For everyone. For all of us. For you. I hadn’t meant to become such a tyrant, I was just so… Stressed.”

Matt didn’t respond at first.

Then he said, quiet and hoarse, “You’ve always tried to protect the dream. Even back when it was just two idiots and a tarp we tied between trees.”

Smitty gave a soft, breathy laugh.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter. You do. You always have. I truly don’t think this circus could exist without you.”
Matt picked at a loose thread in the coat.

“…I’m sorry too,” he mumbled. “I got in my own head about it. About everything. I let the insecurity fester. I know you care about us. I just hate to see you so stressed - especially when I know this circus means so fucking much to you. When I saw you looking so upset, more than I’ve seen in months… Hell even years. It made me realize how much I hated seeing that look on your face. It scared me. Made me feel like maybe I wouldn’t be able to make you smile, that the circus we’ve built was becoming a burden. That maybe I was becoming a burden.”

Smitty turned to him then. Really turned. His brows furrowed in something like disbelief, and his voice cracked with emotion.

“You made this world with me, Matt. Every nail, every show, every dumb, ridiculous moment. You did that. With me. There wasn’t a single time where I thought of you as a burden. No world of mine would ever be the same if you didn’t belong in it.”

Matt finally looked at him. His eyes were glassy, lip curled into a sappy grin.

“I just want you to be happy, Smitty,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted. If this is your dream, I’ll fight tooth and nail to keep it alive. I just… ask that I get to see you keep shining in it. That I get to see that happiness flourish. That you don’t forget the idiot who’s stuck with you since you had sticks for stilts.”

Smitty smiled. Not his usual confident grin, not the flashy showman’s smile. One that was only reserved for Matt.

A small one. Honest. Gentle.

He reached out and pulled Matt into a hug, arms tight around his best friend’s back, forehead resting against his shoulder.

“Until the end,” Smitty whispered.

Matt swallowed. Nodded. “Yeah. Until the end.”

The wind rustled through the trees. The stars blinked overhead. Somewhere, Soup was probably yelling about something on fire. But for now, nothing else mattered.

“It also might be time to find ourselves an accountant.”

-

The morning had been dewy, John’s shoes were slick with water as he walked through the field.

“John! Wait up please!”

John slows his pace, turning to look over his shoulder, surprised to see the co-founder of the circus jogging towards him.

“Mathew?”

Matt lets out a breathless laugh, hands on his knees while he pants, “Please, just call me Matt - or Blarg, whatever floats your boat?”

John's eyebrows furrow. “...Blarg?”

“It's my stage name, haha.” Matt stands straight, taking out his right hand and beckoning for John to shake it. “I don't believe we've properly met.”

John reaches for his hesitantly before Matt grabs in and pulls him into a hug. John freezes in the embrace, unsure of what to do.

When Matt pulls back - leaving John flustered - he grins and properly shakes John’s hand. “Both Smitty and I welcome you to the family. Seriously, you have no idea how much this means to Smitty. We promise to not abuse your potential.”

“Uh,” John composes himself quickly. “Right, yeah. I'm forever grateful to you guys for welcoming me so warmly.”

“You are going to do wonders. I can not wait to see you fly in your next performance.”

The corners of John’s mouth curve slightly with amusement. “Thank you.. Blarg.”

Chapter Text

Eli lived a mundane life.

But he was content. Content in the kind of way most people dreamed of but rarely admitted to. Every morning was the same - early, efficient, unbothered. His pressed shirts were stacked in exact order, his schedule timed to the minute. The world made sense in numbers. Debits, credits, ledgers. A life of clean lines and even columns. Some might call it dull, but to Eli, simplicity was a luxury.

He didn’t crave excitement. He craved consistency. He had worked hard for this job - stable, respectable, average. So when a man waltzed through the thick glass doors of the bank one dull Tuesday morning, Eli had no reason to think the trajectory of his life would shift so drastically.

-

The bank was silent in the way only places full of other people could be - where the hum of a hundred shuffles, sniffles, and shifting weight on old parquet floors were dampened beneath high ceilings and dull plaster columns. A bell above the door chimed dully as Smitty stepped inside, but no one looked up. Not yet.

The man did not look like he belonged.

His hair was a shade of white that didn’t look natural for someone so young. Like winter frost kissed his scalp. It fluffed in soft waves, a little too long to be formal, yet somehow carried an effortless charm. His suit was navy, sharp in cut but frayed at the cuffs, with threads tugged from years of movement. It was a suit that had lived. His posture was noble, perhaps theatrical, shoulders straight and chin slightly high, but his expression was puzzling. His pale eyes darted around the marbled lobby like he’d walked into the wrong place and was too polite to admit it.

Eli was just beginning to return to his numbers when Madge at the front desk tapped on the glass of his office door. She wore a look that said this is your problem now.

"Mr. Eli," she said with the forced cheeriness that only ten years of customer service can hone. "This gentleman says he is in need of an accountant."

"Walk-ins aren’t-" Eli began, but then the man stepped forward.

"I do hope this isn’t inconvenient," the stranger said, voice dipped in velvet, his accent elusive - somewhere between aristocrat and vagabond. "I was told you’re the most reliable man in this establishment."

Eli blinked. "I… suppose. What exactly are you looking for?"

"A partner," the man said simply. "For numbers. And logic. And all those dreadful details I’m simply no good at."

“…What do you do?”

The stranger smiled, wide and honest, but strangely grave. “I run a circus.”

There was silence for a beat too long.

Eli leaned back in his chair. “A… circus. You’re telling me you walked into a bank, in the city, and asked for an accountant - for a circus?”

“Is that not what one does?” the man asked, confused and yet not remotely embarrassed. “I assumed banks were full of men with arithmometers and responsibilities. You looked the least likely to lie to me.”

“I- Thank you?”

“I’m Smitty,” he added, reaching out with a hand. Eli, always polite, shook it.

“…Elias.”

“Eli,” Smitty repeated, like he was tasting the name. “Good name. Sharp. Efficient. You have the air of a man who files his receipts twice.”

“I do.”

“I like that.”

Eli narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t a joke, is it?”

“Oh no,” Smitty said, with that same maddening sincerity. “I’m quite serious. I’m building something magnificent. A place for the odd, the misfitted, the dreams too fragile for city walls. And you strike me as someone who loves understanding. Patterns. The way things unfold. Am I close?”

Eli opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked down at the papers in his hands. They were suddenly very dull.

"That’s… poetic," Eli muttered.

"I am quite the poet."

“Right. Of course.”

Eli couldn’t help but peer at him a little longer. There was something unsettlingly convincing about this man. The more he looked, the more absurd the man appeared - his tie was askew, one sleeve had a loose thread, and his shoes weren’t shined. But he had a gravity. Something in his eyes sparked with a purpose Eli couldn’t name. As if the man wasn’t eccentric - he was just further along some path that Eli hadn’t even considered walking.

“…How am I sure this isnt a scam?”

“Oh absolutely it is,” Smitty grinned. “But it’s not money I’m after.”

He tapped Eli’s chest lightly with one finger.

“It’s this. Whatever part of you is still dreaming, even here. Even in a booth. I don’t need a clerk, Eli. I need someone who sees the world like a book with missing pages. Someone who wants to know.”

“To be exact…You want to hire me?” Eli asked before he could stop himself.

Smitty brightened. “Not exactly. I still can’t promise money. Not much. Not yet. But I can promise purpose. Community. Strange friends. Magic - real or not. A place where your usefulness will be seen, not hidden behind that wooden door.”

“That’s vague.”

“I’m a very vague man. But I think you’re very clear. That’s why we’d work.”

“You know I can’t just abandon my job for a silly life that could crumble in an instant.”

“Sure you can.” Smitty assured bluntly. “Don’t you ever wonder what would happen if, just once, you could live a life full of excitement?”

Eli frowned. “Excitement is…overrated. Unstable.”

“Maybe. But so is laughter. And yet, we chase it.”

There was a pause. Long. Weighted.

Eli tried to return to his work. He looked down at the tax form in front of him. He looked at the signature line. Then back at Smitty. The absurd man stood calmly in the center of the office, hands in his coat pockets, as though this outcome was always inevitable.

“Suppose I say yes, then what?”

“That question can only be answered with time, my friend.”

Eli looked down again. Numbers stared back.

He sighed.

“…When do we leave?”

Smitty grinned. Not the charming stage smile Eli would one day learn to see through - but a real one. Wide and warm and too bright for an office like this.

“Tonight,” he said. “We've got a show in two days. You’ll meet the others. I’m sure you’ll hate the mess. But I think you’ll stay.”

The next two days, which Smitty visited three more times (once with a clown named Blarg who was apparently the co-founder of the Circus, and once during Eli’s lunch hour with a long haired blonde with a strange spark in his eyes), before Eli finally stood in front of his manager and handed in his resignation letter.

The man stared at him like he’d declared he was joining a pirate crew. In a way, he sort of was.

“You’re leaving… for a circus?”

“Yes,” Eli said, voice trembling slightly but not breaking. “Yes, I am.”

That night, Smitty met him at the gates of the bank with a small leather suitcase in one hand and an umbrella twirled in the other. The sky was grey. The wind smelled like sawdust and something sweet.

Smitty winked. “Ready for the most absurd decision of your very responsible life?”

Eli took a breath. “No. But I’m coming anyway.”

And that was how Elias L. Rhodes left his tidy desk behind for a world where receipts were sometimes written in glitter and the books never quite balanced.