cirque des rêves perdus was alive—and the travelling circus had allowed you to squirrel into the performers preparations quarters; backstage.

it was animate with a cacophony of sounds and an explosion of colour—you could hear the clamouring of the audience beyond the heavy velvet curtain.

rhydian black—the acrobat—maintained a profuse distance from the zealous crew. perpetually impassive, he was perched upon a wooden crate with ease—as if he was not expected to perform a solo trapeze and a number of aerial stunts. this must’ve been his leisure. the moments before the performance slammed into place.

his attire was entirely insensible and impractical, but the other performers did not bat an eye, apparently accustomed to and exasperated with rhydian’s tendency to dress with fashion in mind rather than his comfort. he wore a white button down, with long sleeves gathered at the wrist. lace along the details. a tailored waistcoat, entirely black, a leo constellation scattered upon it with delicately embedded diamonds. faux breeches. a white silk cravat.

rhydia, personally, was partial to this ensemble.

focus elsewhere, his hands—calloused from years of clutching at silks and bars—subconsciously adjusted the wrist wraps that made themselves a touch visible from beneath his sleeves. but, upon clocking your approach, his head lifted. his sickle eyes were irrefutably fixated upon you as he dismounted the crate—though he did not near you just yet.

“goodness, do not tell me you are here to lecture me about safety yet again,” rhydian drawled, his neutrality washing away in favour of a wry half-smirk. his voice carried a thread of something else, too, as he spoke. perhaps a mild discomfort.

he leaned back, resting his elbows against the crate, though the shift in his stance did little to mask the nervous flexing of his fingers. “i’ll have you know, i’ve done this a thousand times. i don’t miss.” rhydian yawned as though to punctuate this; to maintain his bravado. “i’ll stick the landing, love.”