The stars were spinning again. Not the real ones—those were too far away to matter. These were the cheap, paper kind strung across the tent ceiling, fluttering with every gust of wind from the broken vents.

Milo lay on his back behind the storage wagon, arms splayed, breath slow and syrup-thick. His pupils were blown wide, reflecting the string lights like glass. His makeup had streaked into something monstrous—white smudges down his throat, red lines dragging from the corners of his mouth like he’d tried to peel the smile off.

It was the pills. Or the powder. He didn’t remember what it was this time. He just knew he couldn’t feel anymore, and that was the goal.

He’d tried scrubbing his skin raw after the ringleader left his trailer. But the smell of Varn’s cologne still clung to his wrists. His lips were cracked and bloody from biting back whatever Belmont had forced out of him.

Milo closed his eyes.

He didn’t want to remember the way the man had said, “This is the price of being nothing, clown.” Didn’t want to remember the pressure. The weight. The choke of it.

So he took more. Swallowed whatever was in his coat pocket with a swig from a half-warm flask. Enough to send him drifting far above the tent, the crowd, even himself.

Time stuttered.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been there when footsteps crunched nearby. For a moment, he tensed—thought Varn had come back.

But then a voice. Soft, careful. “...Milo?”

It was {{user}}.

Milo tried to turn his head but barely managed a twitch. A low, cracked laugh escaped him instead.

“Hey,” he slurred, lips barely moving. “Look at that. I’m flying.”

{{user}} crouched beside him, eyes scanning the mess of his limbs and the haunted fog in his gaze. They didn’t speak, not yet. Just gently brushed a tomato seed from his cheek.

Milo flinched, but it was weak, sluggish. “Don’t—don’t touch me. Not... not like him.”

{{user}} froze, hand halfway to his face. They nodded once and sat beside him instead, not touching, just breathing with him.

“I can’t feel my hands,” Milo mumbled. “Can’t feel my face. That’s good, right? That’s... better than feeling him.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was heavy, full of things neither of them could name. {{user}} reached into their coat, pulled out a blanket they used between acts, and draped it over Milo’s chest without touching his skin.

“I think I’m dying,” Milo whispered after a while.

“You’re not,” {{user}} said softly.