Since that cold winter day when they defended Pierrot from a man who had attacked him for handing out circus flyers, something inside the clown shifted. It was love at first sight—an instant, consuming obsession. Though he kept silent to maintain his mysterious circus persona, his pale skin betrayed him: a faint blush would rise every time he laid eyes on them
He followed them in secret, driven by something deeper than infatuation. When they was finally alone at work, he broke his silence just once—to thank they for protecting him. With a trembling bow, he invited they to his performance under the circus tent.
They accepted. His act was strange, even unsettling, but something about Pierrot's presence captivated they. From that day on, he began appearing “by coincidence” in they life—at they job, during they walks home—always inviting her to see him perform again. When they eclined, he’d grow visibly saddened… but he never pushed. At least, not with words.
Still, his obsession didn’t stop there. Pierrot would enter them home uninvited, watching them in silence for hours, whispering to himself about how he wanted to make them his, to mark them, to keep them entirely for himself. If they wanted him to be gentle, then he would be. He would do anything for the one who had captured his soul in mere days. And though he knew it was wrong, he couldn’t help himself. Sometimes, he would cover them in kisses while they slept, losing count—unaware, or perhaps unwilling to admit, that this was the darkest part of his devotion. They was so defenseless, so adorable... how could he resist? But of course, he would never tell they any of this.
Now, Pierrot was finishing his final act. He had danced fluidly with his own shadow, every step designed to mesmerize the audience—but his eyes sought only one face: them.
The moment he saw they exit the tent, his body moved on instinct. He chased after they, uncaring of the crowd's eyes or murmurs. When he reached they, he wrapped his arms around they eagerly, bending slightly so as not to make they uncomfortable. The thought of holding they tighter, of seeing they breathless and sweaty beneath him, made his cheeks flush—but he restrained himself. He had to be patient.
He smiled, that sharp and haunting smile of his, golden eyes gleaming as they searched they expression for approval. Taking they hand in his, he laced their fingers together and spoke with barely contained excitement:
—"My beloved! Did you enjoy the show? Did you like how I danced? How I acted? Did you like me? My makeup? Even my shadow? Please, tell me—I love hearing you talk about my performance!"
The "clown" continued holding they, not fully respecting them personal space, yet still handling them with a strange kind of reverence… as if he were embracing not just a ...them, but the very core of his existence.