#route du soleil | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jisokai · 2 months ago

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You always thought the circus was where you yearned to be. At least, until it finally let you in—and introduced you to Hanta Sero.

[circus AU where seamstress!reader and acrobat!sero realize that their lives have been running parallel for a long time, and it’s up to you to weave them together]

part 1: one brighter than the rest.

sero hanta x reader ch 1/6 | 12.1k words | masterlist | ao3 cw: mentions of past death of a family member notes: chapter song is gloria by kendrick & sza

the circus arrives in Milan, and you arrive at the circus. someone special welcomes you personally.

✰.

"Inside every adult there's still a child that lingers. We're happiness merchants—giving people the opportunity to dream like children."

-Guy Laliberte, co-founder of Cirque du Soleil

The circus is coming. For you.

✰.

The knock on your door is five minutes late. It raps with firm rapidness, demanding a sense of urgency. You scramble to stand from your seat, dishes clattering against the table when you bump it with your knee, and scurry to greet your guest. He looks unamused when you tug the door open, eyes barely darting over unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing—maybe because he looks the same. You don’t bother with greetings, instead informing him that you’ll open the garage.

You kick the door closed as you start down the hall. The floorboards squeak under quick steps, feet threatening to slip from the softness of your socks. They’re struck with a chill on the soles when they land on bare concrete, carrying you along the wall to press the button on its surface.

Light slowly floods your workspace, trickling in from the bottom as the shutter lifts from the ground. Green grass and grey pavement fill the frame, soon joined by the red brick of neighboring buildings. The chilly air of February rushes in, prickling your uncovered arms with goosebumps. Grating sounds soak the air, rusted joints running along the frame of the large garage door.

The man is still by your front door, typing rapidly on his phone, when you step out onto the driveway.

“Qui!” You wave him over.

It successfully grabs his attention, pulling his head up and starting towards you. He looks annoyed.

“I don’t know Italian.”

You blink in realization. “Oh,” you say, preparing your brain to switch to English. “Sorry, I was telling you to wait by the garage.”

He nods curtly, eyes moving from you to the mannequin near the center of the room. He slips his hand into his pocket, digging out a key. “I’ll back up the van.”

You use the time to wheel your work to the edge of your studio. Tender fingers carefully grasp the waist of the wool figure—now draped in layers of delicate fabric and feathers—as you press your foot against the latch of the wheels, unlocking them. The mannequin gently rolls forward with your guidance until you step on the lock again. You look fondly at the gown, recounting the many transformations it went through to get here. Sleepless nights, panicked phone calls, trial and error. Despite the vexation this dress throttled you with for the past few months, a tremor waves through your heart knowing that you’ll part with it soon.

You turn to retrieve three other items. The first is a massive headpiece, delicate and jarring as you walk the display head to sit next to its counterpart. The other two are boxes, one filled with extra fabric and feathers, folds and wispy tufts spilling from the rough cardboard, smaller containers of beads and faux jewels shaking within. Another is a carefully organized plastic bin: your essential tools, the only orderly part of your process.

The man stops the van just before the garage door, right as you set the box behind your mannequin. He moves to open the metal doors, the click of the latch and squeaking hinges welcoming you into the dark space. There’s an assortment of cardboard boxes coating the floor—makeshift cushions, so the mannequin won’t slide en route. You unlock the wheels of the figure once again as the driver pulls out the ramp. Once it rests steadily on the ground, you push forward carefully.

You pause at the sound of rustling behind you. Turning to see the man lifting the box of fabric, you relax at the sight and continue your journey onwards. You nudge boxes with your foot, still bare of shoes, and slip the support of the mannequin between them. When it’s far enough inside to put you at ease, you hurry back down the ramp to retrieve the headpiece.

Once your supplies and costume pieces are secured in place, the driver looks at you expectantly from outside the van. You shake your head as you walk down the ramp.

“I’ll sit back there with it,” you tell him, unwilling to take the smallest chances. He nods unbothered. “I’ll just be a minute.”

You head back through the garage and into the hall, pulling your socks off and strewing them across the ground. You quickly gather your essentials and slip on a new change of clothes—wrinkled and sloppy, but warm enough to withstand the chilly air. You step haphazardly into your shoes and inhale the remainder of your breakfast before returning to the garage. You smack the button on the wall, dash to the closing door, and then step over the sensor while crouching under the door in time to leave. The driver is still waiting, eyes passing over you when you scurry into the back.

He pauses before closing the door, metal slamming against itself with a clang. You are shrouded in darkness, eyes fuzzy as they slowly adjust. You catch the silhouette of bundled feathers, the curve of fabric wrinkled around the waist of your model. A sliver of light peeks through the corners of the van, enough to vaguely illuminate the royal red of your gown. You carefully slip your legs under the cage of the skirt, holding the support stand between your calves while your feet press against the top of the pedal. The dress is still warm from your garage, warmer than the cold bench you’re seated on. You grasp the neck of the display head at your side, holding it sturdy as the engine thrums to life. The first lurch of the car has your heart pausing in anticipation, body clenched to keep everything steady, but you relax when the vehicle presses forward smoothly.

Once you confirm the steadiness of your hold and the driving, you fumble for your phone. The time reads just a quarter past noon—you’re moving faster than expected. You open your messages and send a one-handed text that you just left your apartment. The response is immediate: ‘See you soon!!’

You cradle your projects for nearly half an hour. Despite the darkness, you can follow the journey of the van from the sensations of the drive alone—the turns from one road to another, the oscillation between smooth pavement and bumpy cobblestone paths. You know this route from the western outskirts of Milan into the Cerchia dei Navigli, a bustling center of ornate gothic structures, rich opera history, and lines of designer boutiques. The essence of fresh pasta dishes and red wine wafts through the openings of the van. The storefront of your favorite osteria runs through your mind, spilling clusters of tables and chairs into the street, along with clinking glasses and the ting of silverware.

You relax, imagining the comforts of your regular places. Their distant visuals soften the thumping in your chest.

It’ll be fine. You know your client will like your work, you know the gown functions as it needs to, and you know your craftsmanship. Your work is good. You know this. The only variable left is transportation, which has nearly come to an end. You feel the van stop, the engine quieting with it.

Your legs relax and loosen their hold on the mannequin. Clanging erupts from the back of the aluminum cage, the driver pulling the doors open. You’re momentarily blinded by a burst of sunlight, reflecting off the white and red fabric you are parked before—stretched canvas taught against the framed structure beneath. You waste no time standing and shoving boxes out of the way, unlocking the mannequin wheels to walk it down the ramp. The driver watches closely, but waits silently as you reenter to get the headpiece.

You hear a shout as you walk down the ramp. It comes from a soft voice, sounding almost nervous. “Aizawa-san!” It calls, a stream of Japanese following. The driver turns his head at the sound. You realize it must be his name, recognizing the honorific.

When you step down onto the plaza, you catch sight of the owner of the voice: a man with striking green curls, some sticking against his forehead and cheeks. He wears a tight-fitted top that reads “practice shirt” and a pair of athletic shorts. He converses with who you assume is Aizawa, and you realize he must be one of the acrobats.

His eyes dart to you, then the mannequin head. His eyes brighten, almost shine, and suddenly you are bombarded with a slew of questions, spoken in heavily accented English.

“Wow! You must be the artist Kendou commissioned! Is that Momo’s costume? It’s incredible! It reminds me of Carnival in Asakusa—”

The rest of the words pass through you, a jumble you can hardly understand—both from the speed of his rambling and his accent. But you smile brightly at the compliment. The mention of Asakusa Samba with its feathers and accessories, patterns blending traditions from across the globe, was exactly the vision. Yours takes a much more modest approach, but the influence is clear—at least for someone who knows their Carnival. You appreciate someone who can trace those lines of inspiration, pick apart your brain and your thought process. It strikes you with a special sort of pride.

Before you can respond, the man you’ve decided is Aizawa interjects. “Midoriya.”

The mumbling halts and now the curly man is blushing, waving his arms around. “Gah! Sorry... I—”

Aizawa cuts him off, saying something in Japanese and gesturing to the van. To get your boxes, you think. He turns to you. “Which one should I carry?”

Your stomach clenches. You don’t like the idea of either being out of your control, but the answer is obvious. You hand him the mannequin head, watching as he grasps it by the neck and then immediately turns to walk away. You hold the waist of your mannequin and follow him slowly. The eagerness in your heart, the prospect of being so close to finished, calls you to sprint forward, to see this through. But you force yourself to walk slower than normal, to let this final moment stretch on a little longer. You know when you return home later, to a studio empty of its recent fixation, you’ll feel hollow inside.

As you wheel the dress along the giant tent, your eyes drift up its shaped canvas cover, stark against the blue sky. Yesterday this piazza was empty, holding its usual clusters of tourists and performers and lingerers. Overnight, a structure large enough to hold a stage and an audience was erected. People knew the circus was coming—Hoshi no Sākasu, Circus of the Stars—and yet as per usual, it appeared in an instant. Impossibly.

You feel giddy, brimming with curiosities about the magic these people can conjure. How does an auditorium simply appear? And in the middle of one of Milan’s most notorious attractions, now fenced along the edges. But Hoshi no Sākasu is notorious for these sorts of stunts. You’re familiar with the circus, having been a fan of costumes and impossibilities since a child, but you’ve never known magic like this.

Your eye catches a gap in the fabric, a flap gently brushed open. You can see the stage setup at the front, the congregation of various athletes on their props. You yank your head forward, away from the tempting preview of the show to come. You don’t like to spoil these events for yourself, too invested in viewing the delivery of a performance as an unsuspecting spectator—a blank slate for a story to unfold.

You hear a huff beside you: Midoriya, having caught up somehow carrying both boxes—your plastic bin awkwardly small under the larger cardboard box. You feel some unease at his determination to make one trip, but your watchful eyes don’t catch any real problems with his method.

“It’s okay to have a look,” he says somewhat breathless. “Knowing what happens behind the scenes can make the performance more enriching!”

“And ruin the surprise?” you ask. “I’ve never seen a Hoshi no Sakasu performance. I want my first time to leave me blown away.”

He gapes. “You’ve never seen one? I thought circus costuming was one of your biggest inspirations. You said you’ve seen nearly a dozen of Cirque du Soleil’s shows, and you’re familiar with most other major circus productions.”

A wave of embarrassment rolls over you. The feeling festers in your shoulders, making you want to hide behind your mannequin. It’s one thing for people to know your work, mostly opera gowns and period dresses. It’s another to meet someone who’s read you, articles and interviews you couldn’t force yourself to relive. Not that you made any particular fumbles, but you never do well under spotlight. You prefer the shadows of the costume rooms, creating opulent or kitschy regalia for others to flaunt.

“It is. I have,” you respond. “But your circus has only toured in Asia. And I can’t watch online performances before the real thing.”

Midoriya makes a thoughtful noise beside you. You worry that he’s going to launch into another tirade of mumbling when you see Aizawa enter the next flap of the tent. You decide to speed your walking to a normal pace.

“Is this the wardrobe?” you ask.

Midoriya brightens, switching gears with ease. “Yes! Kendou and Momo are there now. These tents are such interesting spaces—”

You see it for yourself when you enter, carefully pulling the loose canvas aside to roll the mannequin along. The room is large with awkward corners, the chord of a circle. You catch the section of the wall with the stage entrance where the performers are currently congregated behind, separated only by a curtain. Chattering and clattering waft through the opening, the ambiance of their practice. There are props strewn about backstage, scatterings of belongings laying on tables with giant mirrors, and an array of costumes hanging on moveable coat racks. Your hands grip the waist of your lay figure, itching to sift through the final designs for the show.

You stop yourself when you catch fiery orange hair. “Kendou,” you say excitedly.

She leaps to you, away from Aizawa and the headpiece, and gasps, eyes twinkling with excitement as she calls your name in return.

“Wow,” she says, running a hand slowly over the dress. She gently lifts the base of the first layered skirt ruffles, threading her fingers along the wrinkles, the transition of red to white beneath. “You dyed it perfectly. And the details... just wow. I knew you were perfect for the job.”

That sensation of pride creeps back up your body, pulling you to stand straight with a grin. This piece was one from your roots—reaching back to your early works of parade dresses and costumes based on the birds of your home. You consider yourself an expert on the matter, emulating silhouettes and movements of macaws, toucans, hummingbirds. Even the mythical creature you were challenged to emulate for this dress, the mighty phoenix, you knew was well within your wheelhouse.

The process, admittedly, was the most challenging part. Rather than starting with fabrics and textures, design for this production began with a clear goal: the phoenix, and the mechanics of the gown in the illusion that would unfold. You started with white fabric and a silhouette, working with the proportions of Momo’s body and the creature in your objective. Then you iterated through textures, round after round of cutting fabric edges, stitching, adjusting, deciphering the best method of wrapping the fabric on Momo’s body. Afterwards came sizing, which involved a plane ride from Musutafu to Milan, for Momo to try on the prototype, finalize the details of the fit, and test how the fabric and headpiece would move during the choreography. Once you knew her patterns, it was time to dye and cut and stitch, a grind to complete the final work in just two weeks. You finished the base of the dress in two days, the headpiece in two, and spent five grueling over details—sewing in stones and feathers, and making additional fabric details to fix in place. You gave yourself a few days to stop thinking about it as best you could, before spending the past days fine-tuning the details.

Momo approaches, eyes glassy with awe. “It’s incredibly beautiful. We were right to trust you. I can’t believe this is the result.”

You appreciate them, their trust. The gown was just a swath of white fabric when they visited, still rough around the edges. Enough to understand how it would move and appear in silhouette, but requiring an active imagination to see it as a finished piece.

But enough praise. You want to see it on.

“Shall we?” you ask.

The energy shifts immediately. Kendou is behind you, taking in your instructions for the best process to get the gown from the mannequin to Momo. You first unlatch the crinoline from the waist of your figure, gently pulling it down. Kendou has to help you remove the figure from the support so you can free the hoop skirt and hand it to Momo. While she steps out of her outer clothes and brings the frame in place, you notice neither of the men have left. Aizawa watches blankly while Midoriya averts his eyes, choosing instead to stare at the headpiece on the table.

Once the support is secured, you remove the dress from the mannequin. You make a show of where the zipper starts and how far it runs for Kendou to reference. You lift the sleeves upwards, Kendo’s sturdy hands assisting you, and Midoriya steps in to help, carefully grabbing the bunched fabric of the skirt. It lifts easily over Momo, lowering in time for her to slip her arms through the sleeves. Once her hands appear from cinched wrists, you immediately begin to adjust, picking at the fabric around her waist to smooth out any twisting. Kendou traces along the neckline to straighten it. You look at Midoriya, the way he awkwardly tries to fluff the fabric over the hoop skirt. You swoop in to help, fingers confident as they unpin the bundle of chiffon at the back, letting it spill vibrant orange—hot magma, you think—onto the ground, protected by a sheet.

You hear Midoriya squeak as your hands skirt past his, essentially smacking them aside.

“Sorry!” he squeaks. “The other costume crew are out right now. I don’t normally get to help.”

You huff with a smile. “It’s fine. You like being on wardrobe duty?”

“Yes!” he says immediately. “It’s interesting to think about what types of fabric or shapes suit the acrobats and their acts. It really brings the characters alive, and yet not something I’ve had many chances to explore!”

You hum in agreement as you turn to the table with the headpiece. You gently work the elastic off, gripping at the hard plastic further up. Once secure in your grasp, you turn to hold it over Momo’s head, her hands meeting yours to catch the edges. It sits snug and straight despite the asymmetrical display of feathers. They fan to your right and sway gently with her movement. You let Kendou fuss with the details, ensuring it sits comfortably while you take a step back to admire the costume in full.

Even in the backroom, the costume has a magnifying presence. It commands attention. You let your eyes scan down Momo’s figure, the details of the feathered top that transitions into the mask, swirls of wire and mesh covering the top of Momo’s face, pointed dramatically at the ends in a sharp beak. Delicate pieces of wire frame her like a halo, tipped with feathers and sparkling gold jewels. They bounce softly with the slightest turn of her head, twinkling under the lights.

Her collarbones are framed by a heart-shaped neckline coated in sheer ruffles. They match the fabric of the shoulders and arms, cinched and falling in a classic bishop sleeve, sporting additional ruffling at the wrists. The chiffon is a bright red, tipped with the pop of orange. The bust of the dress is a contrasting dark maroon, coated with your signature detailing—intricately sewed jewels, beads, and buttons in abstract swirling patterns. The detailing trails down the waist, and fades into the front of the skirt. The fabric below the hips is generously layered, appearing dark and red as it sits upon itself and runs an inch on the floor. The transparent ribbons of orange lay elegantly on the ground, wrinkled carefully to retain volume. One of the bottommost layers of fabric is embroidered with the cursive swoops of your artist’s name: Verde, meaning green in both Italian and Spanish.

When the outfit is secure, Momo takes a few steps as a test. The fabric flutters over her arms and swishes around her waist. She experimentally spins, only about a quarter turn, and your breath hitches. The layered skirt lifts perfectly, exposing the bright white fabric below. You can imagine the act with full clarity, what will unfold on the stage.

“Ugh,” Kendou groans with delight. “It really... It's perfect. I couldn’t have dreamed of anything better. It’ll be the center of the show, like we wanted.”

Your heart swells further at the compliment. This is what those sleepless nights and raw fingertips were for, what they amount to. Not the praise, but the fulfillment of a vision—a dream finally coming to life.

Midoriya breaks you from your trance. “This is incredible! The costume crew and Momo have kept the rest of us in the dark the whole time. The others are going to be blown away when they see it.” He traces a gentle hand along one of the layers of the skirt. “Is it silk and chiffon? I’m trying to learn more about fabrics.”

You nod. “Chiffon for the sheer fabric, but a silk alternative for the skirt and bust. I’ve been experimenting with different alternative fabrics, and your team agreed to let me use plant lyocell after looking at my other pieces and how they’ve aged. It’ll be fine since Momo’s act isn’t demanding on the costume.”

Midoriya’s eyes shimmer, but Momo chimes in before he can respond. “I hope my performance can live up to the extravagance of this dress. I’m sure you have a critical eye for opera with your line of work.”

You roll your eyes. “You and your voice are stunning. It’ll be the best performance I’ve ever seen,” you reply honestly. “I’ve never been to an opera with an entire circus backing it up. Besides, I’m tired of standard gowns.” It pays well, with old money and prestige, but you inch closer to losing your sanity everytime you make another sleek, dark gown. You want flare and drama and the room to be eccentric. This commission was heaven sent, for giving you something you’ve been craving.

“Ever think about circus costume?” Kendou asks. “Full time, full commitment?”

You freeze. Your eyes blink rapidly, your heart following its pace. You tread carefully, unsure if this is a job offer or a thought experiment. “In my dreams. Never thought it was possible, though.”

You see Momo’s eyes widen at the admission. Kendou continues, “It is, for you. You should consider it.”

Your fingers tingle, body thrumming with anticipation. You think you might be sick. You look at her pleadingly. “Kendou, I have orders through June—”

She shakes her head. “Afterwards. Our traveling season ends in September. October is when we start preparations in Japan.”

There’s a lump in your throat you can’t swallow. You try to calm your expression, knowing you look like a deer in headlights, but your mind races with possibility. Then it fills with logistical questions—your home, your studio, the language barrier. You try to blink them away as you look into Kendou’s teal eyes. They’re strong, intense. One eyebrow is quirked, challenging you. For a moment you see the bright blue of the sea in her irises, waving against the black sand of her pupils.

She speaks before you do. “Just think about it, yeah? You have time. We can talk it over.”

All you manage is a nod, afraid of the noise you might make if you speak. Your eyes move to the others in the room, Momo’s curious gaze and Midoriya’s shining expression. Aizawa still looks bored, unbothered, and you find comfort in his nonchalance.

You clear your throat, ready to change the topic. “Okay. Is there anything else we need to run through? Adjustments? Final touches?”

Kendou waves her hand, turning back to Momo. “You should go, take the day off. You know I won’t botch your work. It’s perfect anyways.”

Despite your hammering heart wanting to run yourself out of the tent, your mind whirs at the potential work to do. “Are you sure?” you ask. You trust Kendou and her skillful touch, but this was your baby for months. Your stomach clenches knowing it’s no longer in your hands.

“Go,” she says, then turns to Midoriya. “You too, you should get lunch together. We need to get the dress on the stage, and we don’t need you pulling a muscle last minute again.”

His freckled face flushes, eyes widening comically. You see the start of a protest form on his lips before you interject. “You get to have real Italian pizza yet?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes trailing to you.

“C’mon, I’ll treat you,” you say. You would rather run out of here alone, to call your friend Chiara and hyperventilate over Kendo’s offer. But you’re drawn to circus people, those who get paid to make a spectacle of themselves. You can postpone your breakdown to indulge in time with a professional clown.

He flushes a shade darker, before stuttering through an, “O-okay!”

Kendo’s mouth smirks in your periphery while she examines the details of the dress, fussing over the ruffles on the shoulder. “Change into something warm,” she instructs.

The tumble of syllables that fall from his mouth are incoherent—you can’t tell if they’re Japanese or gibberish, maybe both. He scurries to the tables where bags and clothes are gathered, pulling out a square yellow pack. He grabs for a pile of fabric and then rushes into one of the changing stalls.

You pull out your phone, glancing at the time before opening your messages. You send a slew to your friend, getting the main point across that you need to talk later. Desperately. You notice a recent message from your sister and quickly swipe it away without reading it.

Aizawa’s voice pulls your attention back. “Do you need a ride?”

You turn to him, shaking your head. “No, we’ll be in the area. I can take the mannequin back with me on the metro later.” You pause before adding, “Thanks for driving. I can’t stand packing costumes. And sorry for the awkward first meeting... Aizawa?”

He nods, affirming the name. “It’s fine, it wasn’t any issue. It’ll have to be packed when we’re on the road, but Kendou will manage fine.”

“Aizawa’s one of the producers,” Momo says.

Your eyes widen, heart stumbling to your stomach. A producer? You recount the way you hurried him along just an hour earlier. Maybe he was nonchalant about Kendo’s job proposal because he was planning to make her rescind it. He laughs dryly at your expression.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a dark mirth. “I know how you costume people get, especially close to showing.”

You are saved by the return of Midoriya, dressed in a silhouette you think is quite stylish, but you have to suppress a grin at the clash between the garments. Bright dotted yellow lays against patterned maroon, flush against saturated cobalt painted with white details. Primary colors. You like this guy.

You tell Kendou that you’ll be back after lunch, at the very least to retrieve your lay figure. She and Momo wave you off with smiles. Midoriya leads you out of the tent and into the brightness of the day. Cool air nips your face and hands, but it calms you, brings ease into your body.

You look around the piazza. The paved square is fenced, littered with guards outside the perimeter. Over the top of the large tent is the pointed roof of the Duomo di Milano.

“How do you do it?”

“Huh?”

“The tent,” you clarify, turning to meet his eyes. “How does it just… appear? Without warning—without anyone seeing.”

A cheeky grin crawls along the side of his face. “Can't say,” he answers vaguely with a hum, before diverting his eyes.

You huff, turning back to the blue of the sky. Is that the sort of thing you would get to learn about, to understand intricately, if you joined them? You want to whine in annoyance, but the tufts of clouds leisurely drifting above catch your attention. You think you can make out a rabbit, hopping to an apple twice its size. You’re about to point it out when Midoriya speaks.

“I don’t know where we’re going... ” he trails off, his smile now embarrassed.

“I do. Can we exit from the north?”

He nods. You start walking left of the duomo’s face, towards one of the restaurants you frequent when you’re in town. Midoriya trails behind you, easily falling into conversation with his questions.

“Will you be coming to the opening night?” he asks.

You grin sharply, side-eyeing him. “Of course, and with impossible expectations.”

You expect him to flush like earlier, but a determined smile crosses his face, the acceptance of a challenge. “It’ll ruin any other performance for you.”

Your face lifts in surprise at the declaration, teeth sinking into the smile you try to fight. You believe him, having heard nothing but genuine and limitless praise from anyone who’s seen a Hoshi no Sākasu production. They’re known for intricate plotlines that unfold through deliberate acts, ones that overlap seamlessly. This show in particular, Gōyoku, has garnered immense hype leading up to its first performance, only a couple nights from now. It seeks to blend their usual rich use of Japanese culture and aesthetics with Italian influence, specifically through the addition of an opera performance. The eve of the first show will mark the start of a festival in the piazza. They’ll perform for five nights, ending the day before the Ambrosia Carnival begins, bringing four more days of festivities.

You’re somehow lucky enough to exist at the perfect intersection of opera gowns, bird costuming, and Italian residency—the exact background the costuming team sought. You nearly leaped out of your skin when you saw the email, ready to shelve any and all projects out of the way for this opportunity.

“I don’t doubt it,” you tell Midoriya honestly. You’re not hard to entertain when it comes to the circus, awed at performers in general—especially when they’re pushing the boundaries of their bodies. You had naive dreams for yourself at one point, visions of swinging through the air or twisting yourself in knots, but it didn’t take long for you to realize your heart was in the creation of the gowns instead.

You converse with Midoriya easily. He likes to talk about designers, asking your opinion on gowns or looks that have been circulating lately. By the time you reach the trattoria, sunken between the walls of the adjacent establishments and coated with ivy, you’ve managed to switch the conversation onto him: what pulled him to be a circus freak.

He’s as talkative when he’s the one answering questions, mumbling as he recounts an old figure in a notorious Japanese circus who inspired him.

“Toshinori Yagi was big in Japan for a long time. His range was incredible—he would perform up to seven acts during a show.” You let your eyes linger on Midoriya’s turtleneck while he talks, the bright yellow stark against the creamy beige of the wall behind him. Primary colors, you think again, like the notorious Yagi—or All Might, his stage name.

“Yeah. And then got Houdini-ed out of showbiz,” you add with an amused grin. You remember the news, when another performer asked if it was true he could withstand punches to the gut, landing one on him before he could prepare. He only lasted two more shows before his body gave out on stage from the abdominal trauma. Luckily unlike Houdini, Yagi survived the incident, but could no longer perform like he used to. “Only to turn around and become a legend in costuming.”

Midoriya beams. “Of course you’d be familiar! He’s one of my mentors. I met him as a kid, and he encouraged me to train and audition despite having a late start.”

You hum, curious. You look out the window to your side, people strolling down the cobblestone in long coats and scarves. You wonder how late a start can be, to still have time to make it in the industry. You were lucky as a kid, to have been exposed to your line of work so early—to be given these tools and connections before you even entered high school. You wonder what your life would have looked like if you tried to barrel down a different path, one that wasn’t reaching for you so tightly.

“So what’s your stage name, Midoriya?” You say his name with uncertainty, unsure if you heard it right.

He grimaces bashfully. “Sorry, I never introduced myself. On stage I’m Deku, but Midoriya is fine.”

You hum, and return the introduction. “Though it seems like you knew all that,” you say.

He nods across from you. A waiter interrupts his would-be response, asking what you’d like to order. You ask Midoriya if he has any food restrictions, receiving a shake of the head, before naming a few different dishes to the service. They nod and gather the menus before hurrying off.

“I got classics, don’t worry,” you say with amusement. “This place is a good baseline for the rest of your time here. You like Italian food?”

“As much as the typical person,” he says. “But we don’t eat it much in Musutafu.”

You hum. “The Japanese food here is pretty hit or miss, but I can recommend a ramen place if you get desperate.”

He looks at you curiously. You return the expression.

“Would... you really consider it?” he asks. “Coming to Japan for us?”

You blink, not expecting him to ask, then sigh. “I’d love to,” you say honestly. “But it’s a big change, And I have a network here. I could ride my career until the end.”

It’s true, you’d be comfortable in Milan. There’s always work, always opportunity for you. You have friends here, communities you’ve become a part of.

Your gut churns. But it’s the circus.

“But it’s the circus,” Midoriya says. You widen your eyes. “Your interviews always talk about how much you love the circus.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Hey, I’m not famous enough to have people memorizing articles written about me.”

Midoriya’s jaw clenches, eyes widening. “Sorry!” He waves his hands energetically—very Japanese.

He averts his eyes. You think he looks guilty.

You laugh.

When the food is served, you insist that Midoriya eats as much as wants, whatever he wants. He reaches first for the pasta, eyes brightening as he shovels arrabiata into his mouth.

You nod at the reaction. “You have to admit that good Italian food makes a difference.”

His hum and eager eating is approval enough. You make a show of cutting the pizza and nudge a few slices his way. In return, he pushes the pasta forwards for you to have a bite.

By the time you finish—using your language advantage to ensure Midoriya doesn’t foot the bill, before strolling out into the cool air—nearly an hour has passed. Midoriya starts a series of rambling as you return to the tent, happily bragging about his friends.

“I’m so excited for you to see Momo’s performance, she has such an incredible voice. And the act that she put together with Hagakure and Mirio is spectacular. Based on your interests, I think you’ll really like Sero and Tokoyami’s act. And Keigo too! Kacchan has one of the most intense, so he’s a typical audience favorite. We have an incredible build team that has been working on our special effects, and they really went all out for him. Kaminari and Tetsu have maybe the coolest—”

It continues all the way back to the dressing room, and even when you open the flap to step inside. You blink in surprise at the new faces sharing the room with Momo and Kendou. The singer is out of costume, dress hung at the front of a coat rack, and she calls your name. You wave as you walk over.

Momo introduces you swiftly—to a princely man and two smaller women—before clutching your hands. “No issues! We went through the choreo and it was perfect.”

You smile, an unexpected relief wafting through you. “I’m so glad. I can’t wait to see you in action.”

You take a long look in her eyes, pools of darkness with a shimmer. You realize—for the first time with full force—that this production has its own intricate meaning to Momo, likely more than whatever it could mean to you as an outsider. You grasp her hand in return, memory flooding with countless conversations to brainstorm ideas, random calls despite the seven hour time difference to ask for an opinion or show your progress. You think about the first call you had with her, just to get to know her.

You think the costume is an ode to how you’ve learned to understand Momo: the way she moves, the curves of her body. But it’s just as much an ode to how much she’s letting you in, giving you full reign to share everything you’ve ever known and loved about creating costumes.

There are words resting on the tip of your tongue, one’s that feel like a closure you aren’t ready for. It’s too soon and you’re not willing to do this with an audience, to taint your farewell with the prying eyes of those who don’t understand.

You think Momo feels the same. She says gently in effortless Italian, “I’ll see you in two days minimum, right?” The night the festival opens, the night before the first showing.

“Of course.”

She leans in for a hug. It’s a short and gentle embrace, but its essence is layered. Complicated.

“We’re all about to head out for a break.” She nods to the others gathering their things at the tables. “I wish we had time for you to meet them properly. You’ll stay after the show, right?”

“You could not pay me to stay away.”

She laughs quietly, then slips you a gentle smile. “Perfect. See you soon.”

You nod and watch as she turns away to join the others. Your eyes linger for a moment before you begin towards your mannequin. You take a few steps, ready to rush home and frantically call Chiara. As you scurry over, your eye catches a book resting on one of the dressing tables. It’s small, but looks familiar. You stop in your tracks when you catch the title: Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda.

If We Stretch Stars Like Silk

Your breath catches at the sight. It’s your childhood favorite, one you keep at your bedside after all these years—one with yellowed paper and a peeling cover, worn and faded with love. Nearly every page has a faint crease in the corner, where you’ve folded it over to mark your spot or make a note to come back to. The copy in front of you is old, with vintage font on the front and a blotch of water damage seeping through the top half. You catch the edge of a receipt peeking through, just a quarter into the volume: a bookmark, for someone who started recently.

You can’t help the twitch of your lips as you step closer, the lull of your childhood dreamspace drawing you in. You brush a finger along the dark edge, slipping where the receipt is wedged and taking a glimpse at the pages. You blink in surprise at the neat script in the margins, hiragana and the occasional kanji. Your eyes run over the markings, wondering what they say, until they drop lower and land on a line of Spanish written with a similar diligence.

You pull your hand away, letting the book close.

“¿Hablas Español?”

Do you speak Spanish?

You snap your head to the voice, deep and a little rough. You catch two different eye colors—Todoroki, you recall from Momo’s quick introduction.

“A little,” you say in English, betraying your mother tongue. You don’t know why the lie slips from you, especially when your eyes land on Midoriya lingering with the others. Your early life is easily accessible information—one quick search would surface the real answer.

“I love this book,” you add, as if offering truths will balance your dishonesty.

Todoroki hums in agreement. “It is quite beautiful.” His English flows easily, and with a nearly flawless American accent. “Another performer is reading it with me right now. He and I have similar taste, and I’ve been working on my Spanish.”

It makes sense, the book being targeted towards children with simple vocabulary and a whimsical plot. You longed to be part of the story when you first read it—a tale of two boys in different worlds. They came to know each other when they stumbled across a pond, seeing each other instead of their own reflection, the water a portal to bridge opposing universes. They could only ever cross through at night, by grasping at the stars twinkling in the reflection. They thinned out like ribbons of thread, and could be woven into a rope to climb through. On cloudy nights they could only look at each other with longing.

In your adolescence, you imagined living in a third world, one where you could reach through the water and grasp them both, to be together forever. With you.

It planted dreams of weaving your own fabrics from scratch, like your grandmother did. But eventually you learned to sew.

Based on the bookmark, you think Todoroki has only just learned of the pond, the one Santi nearly falls into when he lands eyes on Marco for the first time. There’s a tug at your heart, calling to reach for your copy. You miss your boys, your adventures together.

“Your thoughts so far?” you ask.

You watch as Todoroki’s eyes narrow lightly with thought. You are struck by how beautiful he is, the soft skin of his face against sharp features. Your eyes trace his scar, curious towards the story behind it. You think he’d look striking wrapped in deep blue fabric—loose linens breezing against his body. With a high collar, maybe.

“It is a book that allows people to dream,” he eventually says.

Your smile is uncontainable. “Wait ‘til the actual magic happens.”

Midoriya’s voice breaks the conversation, calling for Todoroki. The taller man responds in Japanese, before translating for you.

“Sorry, but we are leaving now,” he says. “We can walk out together.”

You nod and abandon the table for your lay figure. You reattach the mannequin head before unlocking the wheels of the body. You crouch to grab the handle of your tool bin. Todoroki moves to help, but you shake your head. You’ll have to take it on the metro yourself anyways.

The others wait as you cross the room to the entrance, wheeling your figure along. They similarly try to help, but you smack away their hands. Kendou rolls her eyes, but then offers you three tickets and a plastic card. You let go of your mannequin to take it, reading your name across the top of the ID and the words “Costume Crew”.

“In case you run into issues with security,” she explains. “But you shouldn’t.”

You nod, shoveling the card away before continuing to roll the dummy along. The cast members walk with you to the station, at the northern edge of the piazza, before saying their goodbyes.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay taking your stuff back alone?” Midoriya asks.

You nod with amusement. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Deku.”

He flushes.

You say your farewells, and receive particularly meaningful waves from Momo and Kendou, before walking towards the elevator. Taking the metro home is annoying, as it normally is when you have to transport your mannequin. But it’s routine, and you manage well enough. The afternoon is unhurried, offering abundant space in the train car, escaping glares that would have pointed your way if it were the end of the workday. While you wait for your stop, you check for a response from Chiara. She messaged you an hour ago, a simple, When and where?

You respond, My place in 30?

The transfer is easy enough, rolling from one train to the next. When you finally rise back to ground level and walk through your neighborhood, you’re nearly skipping. You have to reign your energy in to not look like an idiot. When you finally reach your building, you wrestle with your keys and fling the door open at lightning speed. Once your mannequin is locked in place and your tools are safely on the ground, you inelegantly crumple onto the floor.

You bury your head in your hands as you recount the day and all that passed: your mortifying introduction to the producer, the final passing of your precious gown to its new owner, the tension of potentially being offered a job, how you forced one of the performers (with the help of Kendou, admittedly) to get lunch with you, running into your childhood friend—that precious book you want to spend the night cradling with a flashlight under your covers.

Chiara storms in minutes later, the clack of her heels sharp on your floor. You hear her yelp at the sight of you before grabbing ahold of your arm and yanking you up. You look at her defeated.

“I’m tired of your cryptic bullshit,” she grumbles in sharp Italian, dragging you to the couch. Your legs weakly oblige. “Spill. What the hell happened? Did the gown get ruined? Do I need to call Davide?”

You look at her helplessly, shaking your head. You inhale. “I think they offered me a job.”

Her flawless face holds irritation for one more moment before her jaw drops. “What!?” she shrieks, grabbing your bicep tightly. Manicured nails dig into your skin.

You nod silently, slowly.

She gives you a few hard shakes. “What did you say? Holy fuck, are you accepting? You have to accept this, right? Oh my god. … Tucano—this is incredible.” Her voice softens by the end, the usual effect of the nickname.

“Chia,” you plead. She frowns at the tone. “I don’t—I don’t know? I’ve been in Milan for a while, it’s home to me. I can’t just leave my friends and my clients, and—” you pause, thinking of your late grandmother, your abuela, the reason you came here in the first place. When she fell ill and you needed money to take care of her, later taking her with you to a country with a higher success rate for her surgery, where you hoped to extend her life just a little longer, selfishly. You already uprooted yourself and your family, only for it to be abuela’s end. What would it mean to leave again, to keep running?

Part of you knows you’re kidding yourself. You may have left home to support your family, but now you stay gone to avoid seeing them, to avoid confrontation.

“I just… I can’t just leave.”

You watch her face, the way it falls sadly. “Tucano… you can do whatever you want. I thought… I thought this was your dream, the costumes. And for a circus. Not an opera or a show, but those freaky acrobats you fawn over.”

You glare as the last words leave her lips. Your eyes bore into her brown ones, her thick lashes. They match the darkness of her hair: perfect swooping waves that end above her shoulders.

“I know, I know,” she says with a sigh. “What? Do you need help processing? Brainstorming? Pro and cons list?”

You huff, not sure yourself. Her sharp eyes watch you closely.

“Well…” she tries. “If you got a job offer, then the dress was a success, yeah? Wanna debrief me on that?”

You groan as your mind reminds you of your faux pas with Aizawa this morning. “I totally offended one of their producers. I thought they were sending some random stage guy to give me a ride and…”

A dark brow lifts in curious delight. Her mouth quirks as you relay your demise. You’re about to scowl when she laughs. “Okay, but the dress. The dress made it?”

Your shoulders drop. “It’s perfect. They loved it.”

A sharp grin splits her face. Your heart squeezes when you recognize pride, for you. “As we knew they would! And that calls for celebration.”

You smile at the sentiment, your nervous heart relaxing slightly. Chiara reads you easily by now, like fluency in a language just by watching from the outside. Despite the scoffing and bullying, all her comments and faces are expressions of love. She reminds you of your sister: observant because she cares, but also to maximize her fuel for making fun of you. All the while knowing when to soften the edges, when to remind you that you’ve done a good job.

Momo in your finished gown flashes in your mind, and you agree that you deserve to have a moment of celebration. But you can’t escape the hollowness that follows, the emptiness of an undressed form. The lack of something to fixate on, to obsess over, to give your life purpose.

“Hey, you’re gonna see your costume again in a couple days. You can’t get your post-commission depression now. You can mope when they leave, okay?”

(Reading you like a poem—seeing meaning between the lines, meaning in mere fragments.)

You huff and nod, sulking. Chiara laughs at your grumpiness.

Her presence soothes your nerves from the day, ones you pushed aside in favor of parading the streets with Midoriya. Your conversation continues, stretching through the afternoon as you cover the rest of your day. You ignore her suggestive looks as you talk about your time with Midoriya and the embarrassing feeling of knowing someone researched you so thoroughly.

You don’t mention seeing the book. You think she’d talk about fate and signs if you let it slip, and then you’d be back to terrifying career talk.

Eventually you flip the conversation to her and her day, the clients she saw. She spent her morning at the studio, her usual dolling up of models for their shoots. It’s how you met, in your early days after arriving in Milan—you dressing up performers while she touched up their faces. She stayed with the company while you left for freelancing, preferring to have more say over your projects. Part of you envies Chia’s regular schedule, what you had to give up to keep yourself afloat. But part of you knows this is the dance you have to do with your craft: the hectic oscillation between losing yourself in a project and the following period of nothingness to recover.

You talk until the sky darkens, the creeping beginnings of evening during the winter. The clock has hardly reached six, but you want to whip up a lazy dinner and retire for the evening. The call of Si Estiramos Estrellas Como Seda is still prevalent. You have a yearning for nostalgia.

So you boot Chiara out of your place—with a promise to see her for the first night of the festival—and claw through your freezer for some pre-prepared meal to heat. You find a crinkly package of stew that brings another round of longing through your heart, reminding you of abuela’s cooking. You know your decision, succumbing easily to a night of swaddling yourself in childhood comforts.

And you do. Half an hour later you are curled on your couch, your fluffiest blanket strewn over your shoulders. You sink into its plushness, the tickles of its fibers brushing your arms and neck. Hot stew rests in your lap while the book rests atop the arm of the sofa, spine worn enough that it rests flat without the assistance of your hand. You soak in the story of Santi's life, his home in Colombia. The simple but beautiful prose paints pictures of beaches and mountains, of boisterous streets striped in vibrant warm hues. You lovingly run your hand against the paper, smoothed and worn, some of the words fading. You take your time, smiling when you imagine the way Santi trips and nearly falls into the massive pond, how it flawlessly reflects the night sky onto the ground.

You set the book down after he and Marco finish their chat through the mirror of the water, the portal crossing worlds—universes. You find your eyes heavy, falling like Santi’s when he rolls along the grass, laying on his back to soak in the stars above.

In the morning you find that your dreams are hazy, not an uncommon occurrence. You frown as you close your eyes again, struggling to recall the scenes you danced through. You were laying in the grass, on the edge of the lake. There were beautiful stars, the kind you only see when you’ve taken trips north to the Alps.

But there was someone with you. A boy, a similar age as your dream self, as Santi and Marco—ten at the oldest. He watched you closely, purposefully. All you can remember were his hair and his eyes: dark. So dark they felt like a void, or a portal. Darker than the night sky.

The earth spins twice and you are preparing for the opening of the festival. It’s a collaboration with the local scene, vendors and entertainers from the city popping up their own tents. Hoshi no Sākasu has a few of their own near the large auditorium top, decorated with streamers and lanterns, selling traditional Japanese desserts and street food. The circus will wander north and then west on its journey through Europe and the Americas. With each stop they’ll invite the festival cultures of each country to meet their own.

You prepare at Chiara’s, her apartment deeper in the city and therefore closer to the Duomo. You begrudgingly pull your costume from the rack in the garage and sleeve it into the garment bag. You roll the length gently before placing it into a box, the soft protective cover scraping against the cardboard. You pull the matching mask and headpiece from their shelves and rest them on top.

The air is chilly when you make your way outside, biting at your exposed forearms. Perfect weather for your costume, and a night of dancing.

You let yourself into Chiara’s, calling out into the warm space. The only response is the ambiance—the thrumming of the heater. You set your box by the door and pull out your costume to hang on the rack, then invite yourself into the hall. Faint rustling sounds from the bathroom, the click of a plastic case, the tap of brushes rolling against each other. You grin and tug on the door.

The sight is not unusual: your friend with a handful of palettes—awkwardly shoved between each finger—and shoveling through her drawer of liners, lipsticks, and brushes. Her organization is as absent as yours, a nightmare to anyone who’s had to work with you both. But it means the two of you understand the chaos of each other’s systems, their inexplicable order.

She grins sharply at you. “Ready to transform?”

“Always.”

You’re dressing as your classic tonight, the guacamaya verde, or the green macaw. Birds are your specialty to begin with, a fixation passed from abuela to you. While she spent most of her time dyeing their silhouettes and features onto hand-woven fabrics, you ode to them in the shapes and details of your costumes. Feathers and beaks and fluttering fabrics like wings always make an appearance on your body during a festival or parade—but the vibrant green is your signature, the reason you chose Verde.

Chiara sits you in the kitchen to get to work. The makeup is simple, familiar: sparkling green across your eyelids and glitter along your temples.

She watches you closely as she presses powder against your eyes, the soft edge of the brush drawing the green to reach your temple. Her eyes are wide and her mouth parts, like she has something to say, to ask. You think it’s about the job offer, any new developments on what you think you’ll do with your life moving forward. You don’t implore, and neither does she.

She finishes quickly and leaves to do her own makeup in the bathroom. In her living room you pull the costume from its bag and step out of your clothes. The pants slide on first—long and loose with a cinch above the ankle. The fabric is soft where it brushes your skin, and the brightness of green brings a smile to your face. You slip the top on next, careful to avoid smudging Chiara’s work. Your arms come through the long sleeves slowly, careful not to grab the wrong piece, and shrug your shoulders to settle the garment in place. It’s your favorite part of the outfit, more than the headpiece. Layered fabric runs down your shoulders and arms to your back, expanding like wings when you lift your elbows from your waist. Their pieces flutter against you, like a cape. Tufts of feathers spring from your shoulders to match the headpiece.

You wait until Chiara emerges in her own red version of your costume to put the mask and headpiece on, fixing the wire frame over your face before sliding on the band, unrolling layers of fabric and feathers down the back of your head.

The two of you stroll confidently down the street, the swaying of your feathers and fabric catching the eyes of passersby. You walk along cobblestone paths, warming your body in the cold. The feeling of the soft fabric sliding across your skin, the sway of material cascading through your hair, is almost euphoric. You could skip, swing your arms and twirl, even. But Chiara is stern beside you, raising eyebrows at the giddiness on your face.

You start in defense, “I just—”

“I know,” she cuts you off. “But let's make a fool out of ourselves once we’re around other fools, yeah?”

You want to say that everyone in Milan is a fool. But you walk faster, and you ask about her upcoming clients to distract yourself.

The conversation halts when you reach the entrance of the piazza, eyes gleaming under the lights. Hoshi no Sākasu’s giant tent stands tall on the northern edge, with rows of square stalls spread along the southern half. The sun set a couple hours prior, the blackness of the sky now cradling the illuminated lanterns and string lights. You breathe in the ambiance of the fair, the sounds of vendors talking with customers and squeals of children running along the market rows. You can hear faint live music, the strumming of a guitar and the long notes of the standup bass.

You squeeze your fists tightly in excitement, calming yourself to keep from sprinting your way to the entrance.

There is no admission fee, just a few guards to glance at Chiara's bag. You can’t help yourself once you’re inside, and pace through the first line of tents. You stop once you’re fully swept into the sounds, blinking happily as you take in the venue. You don’t know where to start, eyes trailing along the options to make a decision. Most of the vendors are local, but you spot the stall closest to the stage tent, carp lanterns catching your attention. Before you can take a step closer, a hand clutches your wrist.

It’s Chiara, panting. “Shit, you’re like an unleashed dog.”

You grin and let your wrist slip in her grasp to clutch her hand. Then you march along, tugging her behind you. She doesn’t complain, happily following your lead.

Your heart sings as you gravitate towards the carps blowing through the air. You compliment other costumes and you notice, and flourish under the praise you receive for your own. This is what you love, you think. This is why you’re still here in Milan even after abuela passed. The ambiance and the community, the noisiness of vendors and live music streaming through the night.

And admittedly, sometimes you like to indulge in the fantasy of being a performer, for others to look at you and assume you’d be on the stage.

You spot Kendou—your first sighting of any crew members—just before you make it to their tents. Her hair is what catches your attention, the fiery orange, but your eyes dart to her outfit next. She wears a deep teal dress that resembles a cheongsam, only with longer sleeves that fan out towards the ends. It’s layered with a black laced corset that bursts black feathers from the back, trailing down her dress like a tail. Her face sports a simple mask, the texture twinning her corset, with additional feathers sprouting from the edges and bunching behind her head.

She smiles when she sees you, running to gather you in a hug. You let go of Chiara to return it, and then swiftly introduce them.

“I love your costume,” you tell her. The blend of the Italian corset with the traditional Eastern dress is striking, and a thoughtful bridge between the origins of the circus and their first stop in Milan.

Her eyes shine as she compliments you in return. Chiara watches in amusement as you two ramble about the intent behind your designs, the methodical details. Kendou asks about your strategy for layering the fabric of your wings, while you ask about her process for the feather detailing.

A shout from the tent pulls her attention away, a slew of rough Japanese. She looks at you apologetically. “Sorry, Satou needs me to play messenger. I’ll see you in a bit, yeah?”

You nod. “Any recommendations?” You ask, tilting your head to the stall.

She walks over with you. “Get some noodles, yakisoba or okonomiyaki. Then come back for some taiyaki. Satou’s desserts are the best.”

You take her advice, getting one of each and awkwardly shovel the noodles in your mouths as you stroll along the vendors. You spot other performers and crew, realizing their costumes are all an interesting mix of traditional Japanese styles with European circus garb. You recognize the two smaller women you met after your lunch with Midoriya and wave to them across the crowd. They’re dressed in conventional clown outfits, but softened in pinks and green. The smaller one has a frog mask tied to the side of her head, while the other sports a conical farm hat to contrast pink frills.

After circling back to the stall for taiyaki, your heart starts to pull towards the music. You look at Chiara knowingly.

“Itching to dance?” she asks.

You nod.

“I’ll be fine,” she tells you. “But I’ll probably leave soon—there’s a bar nearby I haven’t been to yet. Text me if you need anything? And stay at mine if the train isn’t running.”

You squeeze her hand before the two of you part, and then rush towards the music.

The musicians are gathered by the end of the market line, filling the piazza with melodies near the entrance point. People are gathered by the adjacent seating, individuals and couples and families. The windy notes of the accordion settle into your shoulders, moving experimentally to feel out the rhythm. You take another glance around the area and notice nobody is dancing.

Except for a young girl, maybe four or five. She wears a frilly green dress and a plastic Hyottoko mask, the ones sold at the circus’ stall. she jumps excitedly with the sound of the tambourine and flails her arms. You smile at the sight and skip over to her, giving your body a twirl when you’re just a few steps away. She shrieks with giggles, pointing at the faux wings settling down your back. You laugh at her reaction and reach for her hand to guide her through a spin. Your eyes scan the area, looking for her parents, and you wave when you see them.

The camaraderie of your small dance partner is what gives you the confidence to dance freely. Even after living in Milan for years, you still don’t have a grasp on their dance styles. The large, swooping movements are foreign to you, your hips instead naturally searching for the faster patterns of latin rhythms. The girl erupts into another fit of giggles at your movements. She tucks her hands behind her back and kicks her feet forwards in traditional Italian style. You smile and mirror her, the wide fabric of your pants billowing with each drive of your foot.

Eventually the song comes to an end and you stop to take deep breaths. Your body thrums with heat and energy, the beauty of movement. You squat in front of your new friend and raise a hand for her to clap. She does with a grin, and you tell her, “Grazie.”

She runs to her family, squealing as she grabs her father by his leg. He waves before standing, moving to leave. You sigh and twirl yourself again as another song starts, reaching within you to sustain the confidence for a round of dancing alone. You look up as your body slows, taking in the dark, starless sky. Your arm bumps someone and you jolt, “Scusa” already on your tongue.

It dies at the sight before you: another Hoshi no Sākasu member. Aizawa, you think for an instant when you catch dark hair and eyes, scruff along the jaw and lip. But his eyes are wider, sucking you into them with a gravity you’ve never felt before. He’s a little taller and leaner, with a crooked grin you can’t tear your eyes from. He’s charming, in a rough way—an charm of honesty, authenticity.

Your first thought is that he would look breathtaking draped in silken black fabric, the perfect coupling to the air of mystery that sits about him. Instead he wears a long jesters hat, black and splattered with yellow stars and crescent moons—shapes you just felt yourself missing from the clouded night. He has a Hyottoko mask of his own tied against the side of his head, cheeks puffed and winking. His top reminds you of a kimono, but tucked into harem pants. You smile at the clash of shapes. You love this circus.

“Sorry,” you say instead. The sound is breathless.

His eyebrows raise while his grin widens. You can’t look away. When he speaks you think you can hear the edges of an accent—a familiar one that blurs your vowels together, one that blankets your own English. “Would you like a partner?”

A smile pulls at your cheeks, one you can’t suppress. “Absolutely.”

You receive an equally large grin in return. It’s cheeky, with a glint of impish whimsy. Your heart races at the touch against your hand, a searing heat that catches you off guard. He steps back, offering a space between you.

“Sorry in advance,” he says. “I’m not so familiar with Italian dances.”

With the accent on his tongue and how he holds your hand in front of him, your mind immediately thinks: salsa. He gives you a mischievous look before pulling you close, slotting his leg between yours. A hand comes to your waist, fiery heat gently pushing along as he takes two quick steps to the side. Your eyebrows jump in amusement, and you can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out of you. Bachata, of course, you think as you raise your free arm to his shoulder.

The current song is faster than the previous, but still not suitable for the rhythm of your dance. You don’t care, relishing in the feeling of your quick steps and the sway of your hips. He must have noticed your roots when you danced with your small friend. You wonder how the two of you must look, a vibrant exotic bird paired with a clown of three origins. His body moves fluidly with yours, hips and torso and arms gliding like the smooth curve of a wave. You fall into the feeling of him, his hands as they carefully trace under the fabric of your wings to rest by your shoulder blades. They’re so warm, solid fire tracing your skin. You take the signal, throwing your head back in a swoop that he supports. You thank your lifelong experience of costuming when you lift your head and both the headpiece and mask are still attached.

He grins sharply before his eyes narrow in a playful challenge. You feel his hand drag yours upwards, preparing to spin, and you follow his lead, twirling in three full circles. The flowing fabric of your costume billows around you, trailing your movements like an afterimage. As his hand lowers, it cradles your neck before returning to your waist, holding you close against him as you continue to step in tandem, bodies nearly molded into one another.

The song lets your body flow freely, following his guidance. You think you’re somewhere you’ve never been before, high in the clouds, between stars. It isn’t until the song ends and his dancing halts that you realize the world has momentarily faded away—only to remember that you are still on earth. Your chest heaves gently, catching your breath as you stare intently at your dance partner. His face is flushed, and a meaningful smile is plastered across it. His eyes are shining, longing for something. He almost looks nervous, the opposite of his confidence when he asked you to dance.

He’s about to speak when a shout breaks his eyes from yours, looking past you. You turn to the sound, letting your body part from him, to see another crewmember: a blonde waving your way. With disappointment in your heart you step back, giving him his opening to leave. The hand on yours clutches tighter when you start to slip away. Your stomach tightens.

He turns to you, eyes sharp as they stare into yours. A wave of conflict rushes over his face. Confusion sweeps through you. You’re sad to part too, but he looks almost desperate. You don’t know why.

His hold loosens, moving to press his palm against the back of your hand, tracing the front with his thumb. He slips the one on your waist to meet your palm, now holding your hand over his chest as if in prayer. His touch is soft, a little clammy. His eyes linger on your fingertips thoughtfully before coming to your face. They stare deeply, curiously. You start to feel embarrassed under his gaze, at how he seems to know something you don’t. Your body buzzes with a feeling you can’t describe.

“Thank you,” he finally says. A sad smile spreads across his lips.

You blink in confusion at his words, but ultimately nod. “Of course. Thank you, too.”

He drops your hand and starts to turn away. He pauses and looks back with his mouth ajar, like he’s going to add something. But he stops, then furrows his eyebrows as he looks down to the pavement. You aren’t sure what’s going on, or if you should ask. You decide to say something, in hopes to ease him.

“I’ll see you around,” you add.

He blinks in surprise, eyes jumping back to you. A small smile spreads across his face, releasing tension in your chest you didn’t know was resting there.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

Your eyes trail the long points of his hat, watching curiously as the blond meets him halfway. You sigh and turn to the musicians, their cluster near the market tent. You resist the urge to look back, to see the man who held you so passionately. You listen for a few moments as the song floats by, the steady rhythm of the tambourine.

But now that you’re alone, you have no motivation to dance.

thank you for reading! any feedback or love is appreciated <3

i've done quite a bit of research into the cirque process/behind the scenes and i can't find much on costuming, so a lot of this is based on my own experience (not in costumes but very adjacent). every production/company has their own way of doing things though so it would probably vary.

the word "sākasu" is pronounced "sah-kah-soo" or more commonly: "sah-kah-s" since the "u" in "su" is often dropped. this also can be read as the word "circus" with a japanese accent, which is literally just how katakana works. it's not essential to the story, but i just felt like it might be important to mention.

#jiso.fics #All these stars - bnha circus AU #sero x reader #sero hanta #bnha

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mrsines · 3 months ago

Text

Destinée Ensorcelée

Chapitre 3 : Bienvenue sur la route

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

La pièce était enveloppée d'une atmosphère chargée d'anticipation. Les murs, couverts de livres anciens et de symboles mystiques, semblaient vibrer au rythme des pensées d'Ivana. Elle faisait les cent pas, ses pieds glissant légèrement sur le sol en bois poli, tandis qu'Agatha l'observait avec un mélange de bienveillance et d'amusement.

« Ivana, arrête de marcher comme ça, » lança Agatha en s'approchant. « On dirait un enfant de quatre ans qui attend Noël. »

Ivana s'arrêta brusquement, levant les yeux vers Agatha. Son visage trahissait une lutte entre l'anxiété et l'envie de rire. Elle haussait les épaules, un geste à la fois de désespoir et de résignation.

« Je sais, mais c'est quand même stressant comme situation. On attend toutes les autres sorcières, et si quelque chose ne se passe pas comme prévu ? »

Agatha s'approcha un peu plus, une lueur de compréhension dans ses yeux. « Écoute, » répondit Agatha avec fermeté, « chaque sorcière ici a ses propres raisons de vouloir faire partie du coven ne t'en fais pas elle vont venir . »

Ivana hocha lentement la tête, commençant à se détendre sous le regard apaisant de son amie. « D'accord, d'accord.»

La pièce était éclairée par la lumière dorée du soleil couchant qui filtrait à travers les rideaux légers, projetant des motifs délicats sur le sol en bois. Agatha, avec ses cheveux châtains tombant en boucles autour de son visage, se tenait là, les bras croisés, un sourire espiègle sur les lèvres. Elle observait Ivana, qui était assise sur le canapé, ses jambes croisées, trahissant son agitation.

« De toute façon, tu as toujours été impatiente, » lança Agatha, son ton léger, presque taquin.

Ivana lâcha un rire nerveux, une note d'irritation dans sa voix. Elle leva les yeux vers Agatha, ses pupilles sombres reflétant une lueur de défi.

« Comme si tu avais été présente dans ma vie pour le savoir, » rétorqua-t-elle, un sourire amer se dessinant sur ses lèvres.

Agatha, toujours confiante, haussait les épaules, ses yeux pétillants d'une malice familière. « Oui, j'ai été présente durant une partie de ta vie, » affirma-t-elle, sa voix pleine de conviction.

Ivana, se redressant légèrement, plissa les lèvres, une ombre de tristesse traversant son visage. « Tu ne peux pas juger, vu que tu n'es pas restée longtemps dans ma vie, » dit-elle, sa voix tremblant légèrement.

Agatha, ne se laissant pas abattre, répliqua avec un éclat de rire. « C'est parceque ta très cher mère m'a jeté un sort. »

Ivana, les poings serrés, sentit une vague de frustration l'envahir. « Ça n'a rien à voir ! Wanda t'a jeté le sort de rester la voisine gentille mais envahissante, donc tu aurait très bien pu continuer à prendre des nouvelles de moi. »

Un silence pesant s'installa alors, rempli de non-dits. Ivana, bien qu'elle ne le formulât pas, se sentait abandonnée par Agatha. La douleur de la solitude s'insinuait en elle, lui rappelant que, malgré les rires et les souvenirs partagés, une distance invisible s'était creusée entre elles. Les souvenirs d'anciens éclats de rire résonnaient dans sa tête, mais la réalité de leur situation actuelle lui pesait lourdement sur le cœur.

Agatha ouvrit la bouche pour répondre à l'accusation d'Ivana, mais avant qu'elle puisse articuler une réponse, la porte du salon s'ouvrit avec fracas. Un groupe de sorcières entra, apportant avec elles une vague d'énergie et d'excitation. La pièce, déjà baignée de lumière dorée, sembla s’illuminer davantage à leur arrivée.

« Désolées pour le retard ! » s'exclama Jen, sa voix résonnant joyeusement dans l’espace.

« On a failli être en retard à la réunion, » ajouta Alice, une sorcière à la chevelure noire comme l'ébène, qui s'avança avec assurance. « Mais nous sommes là maintenant, et c’est tout ce qui compte ! »

Ivana, voyant Lucillia entrer dans le groupe, ne put s'empêcher de sourire. La jeune sorcière, bien plus jeune qu'Agatha et les autres, avait un air pétillant et une énergie contagieuse. Elle se tenait un peu en retrait, mais son regard brillant trahissait son enthousiasme.

☆○o。　　。o○☆

Le coven passa le portail scintillant, un frisson d'excitation parcourant l'air. Ils se retrouvèrent soudain dans une forêt enchantée, baignée de lumière dorée. Les arbres, aux troncs tordus et aux feuilles multicolores, semblaient chuchoter des secrets anciens. Des fleurs luminescentes parsemaient le sol, illuminant le chemin de couleurs vives, et des petites créatures aux plumages éclatants voletaient entre les branches, ajoutant à l'atmosphère féerique.

« Regardez cette beauté ! » s'exclama Alice, ses yeux pétillants d'émerveillement alors qu'elle levait les bras comme pour embrasser la magie qui les entourait.

« Oui sublime. Aller nous devons commencer à marcher. »Dit alors Agatha

À ces mots, le groupe se mit en mouvement, leurs pas résonnant doucement sur le tapis de feuilles croustillantes. Lucillia et Ivana se retrouvèrent en tête, avançant avec curiosité sur le chemin sinueux qui s'étendait devant elles. Le doux parfum des fleurs et le chant des oiseaux créaient une mélodie apaisante. Alors qu'elles avançaient, Lucillia aperçut un détail fascinant.

« Attends, Ivana, » dit-elle, fascinée, en désignant le cou d'Ivana. « Ton tatouage, cette petite colombe, elle est super belle ! »

Ivana se tourna, un sourire timide illuminant son visage, ses yeux brillants de fierté. « Merci, Lucillia. C'est un symbole de purté pour moi. J'aime l'idée qu'elle me rappelle de rester honnête même dans les moments difficiles et de ne pas faire les même erreur que ma mère »

À quelques pas derrière, Agatha et Lilia observaient la scène avec une expression moins enthousiaste. Agatha plissa les yeux, un frisson d'inquiétude traversant son esprit.

« Je n'aime pas ça, » murmura-t-elle à Lilia, sa voix teintée de méfiance. « Elles semblent trop proches, comme si elles oubliaient pourquoi nous sommes ici dit à ta protégé de ne pas s'approcher d'Ivana. »

Lilia hocha la tête, ses pensées s'égarant dans les implications de cette nouvelle amitié. « Ma protégé ? Non mais je rêve. Retiens toi Agatha tu vas finir verte comme la sorcière de l'ouest. » répondit-elle, scrutant les alentours, comme si elle pouvait sentir une présence invisible.

Lilia se tenait légèrement en retrait, observant la dynamique qui se tissait entre Ivana et Lucillia. Bien qu'elle n'ait pas verbalement exprimé son accord avec les inquiétudes d'Agatha, une partie d'elle-même ressentait la même chose. Une tension subtile flottait dans l'air, comme si la forêt elle-même retenait son souffle, attentive à leurs émotions.

Lucillia, avec son sourire radieux et son énergie contagieuse, semblait incarner une lumière qui attirait Lilia. Chaque éclat de rire et chaque geste gracieux de Lucillia éveillaient en elle une curiosité et un désir d'approfondir leur lien. Lilia se sentait attirée par cette connexion inexplicable, comme si elles partageaient un secret que seules elles pouvaient comprendre.

Lilia, ne pouvait s'empêcher de ressentir une affinité grandissante pour Lucillia, une complice potentielle dans cette aventure magique.

Les couleurs vibrantes de la forêt semblaient refléter son dilemme intérieur. Les feuilles scintillantes dansaient au gré d'une brise légère, et les fleurs luminescentes éclairaient le chemin, tout en symbolisant la beauté et la fragilité des relations. Lilia se demandait si elle pourrait vraiment se permettre de laisser cette connexion avec Lucillia s'évanouir.

Elle se tourna vers Lucillia, qui était en train de ramasser une fleur éclatante, ses yeux brillants d'enthousiasme. Lilia sentit son cœur se serrer à l'idée de perdre cette opportunité. Elle voulait s'ouvrir à cette nouvelle amitié, mais les choses étaient compliqué.

Dans ce moment suspendu, Lilia prit une profonde inspiration, se promettant de trouver un moyen d'équilibrer ses sentiments. Elle se rendit compte que, même si elle n'avait pas encore trouvé les mots pour exprimer son accord avec Agatha, elle ne pouvait ignorer la magie qui se tissait avec Lucillia. La forêt, avec ses mystères et ses merveilles, devenait le témoin silencieux de ce combat intérieur, une toile de fond pour un choix qui pourrait changer le cours de leur aventure.

Agatha se tenait à l'écart, ses yeux rivés sur Ivana, qui riait avec Lucillia au loin. Une vague de mécontentement l'envahit, et elle ne pouvait s'empêcher de ressentir une pointe de jalousie. Leurs rires résonnaient dans l'air, mais pour Agatha, chaque éclat de joie de Lucillia était comme une flèche, transperçant le lien fragile qu'elle partageait avec Ivana.

Elle se remémora son enfance, lorsque le monde semblait plus simple. À l'époque où elle était encore 'Agnes', Agatha avait passé d'innombrables heures avec Ivana, tissant des souvenirs indélébiles.

Maintenant, en voyant Ivana s'épanouir en tant qu'adulte, Agatha ressentait une lutte intérieure. D'un côté, elle voulait voir Ivana heureuse, mais de l'autre, l'idée que quelqu'un d'autre puisse se rapprocher d'elle la dérangeait profondément. C'était comme si Lucillia menaçait de lui voler une part de ce qu'elle considéré comme précieux.

Agatha se questionnait sur ses véritables sentiments. Était-ce une simple possessivité, un écho de son attachement d'antan, ou bien une envie plus profonde de garder Ivana pour elle seule ? Cette ambivalence la tourmentait, et elle se sentait tiraillée entre le désir de protéger leur amitié et la peur de perdre Ivana au profit de Lucillia.

Elle observa chaque geste de Lucillia, chaque sourire échangé, et un sentiment d'inquiétude grandissait en elle. Agatha se demandait si elle pouvait vraiment faire confiance à cette nouvelle présence dans la vie d'Ivana. La forêt, témoin silencieux de cette lutte émotionnelle, semblait vibrer autour d'elle, accentuant la tension qui régnait dans son cœur.

☆○o。　　。o○☆

La forêt n'était pas vide, loin de là. Une ambiance mystérieuse flottait dans l'air, presque palpable. À l'autre bout de la forêt, un homme se tenait là, silhouette énigmatique au milieu des arbres imposants. Il était vêtu de cuir, une tenue qui épousait parfaitement son corps, lui donnant un air à la fois dangereux et séduisant.

Son manteau noir, long et usé, flottait légèrement autour de lui, comme s'il était en harmonie avec le souffle du vent. Les coutures étaient délicates, ornées de motifs subtils qui semblaient raconter une histoire ancienne. Sous ce manteau, il portait une chemise sombre, et ses pantalons en cuir étaient ajustés, accentuant sa stature imposante.

Son visage était partiellement caché par une ombre, mais ses yeux brillaient d'une lueur malicieuse, presque hypnotique. Il avait des cheveux sombres, légèrement ondulés, qui tombaient sur son front, ajoutant à son allure mystérieuse. La forêt, avec ses bruits de feuilles et ses murmures de créatures, semblait se taire en sa présence, comme si même la nature reconnaissait la puissance qui émanait de lui.

L'homme mystérieux se tenait au milieu de la forêt dense, entouré de grands arbres aux troncs noueux, leurs feuilles bruissant doucement sous le souffle du vent. Soudain, il sentit une présence, une énergie sombre et familière qui envahissait l'air. Les sorcières approchaient, et leur aura maléfique perturbait l'harmonie de la nature autour de lui.

Il ferma les yeux, cherchant à se concentrer, imaginant un accueil horrible à leur donner, une confrontation qui pourrait faire trembler même les plus courageux. Dans son esprit, il voyait des ombres se mouvoir, des rires sinistres résonner dans la nuit.

Tout à coup, il ressentit une chaleur intense dans sa main. Sa dague, toujours à ses côtés, commença à s'illuminer d'une lueur éclatante, projetant des reflets argentés sur son visage marqué par l'angoisse. Le métal scintillait comme s'il était animé d'une vie propre, réagissant à la menace qui approchait.

"Non, c'est impossible..." murmura-t-il, sa voix tremblante trahissant son choc. Il ouvrit les yeux, fixant la dague avec une intensité renouvelée, réalisant que cet éclat n'était pas simplement un phénomène. Cela signifiait quelque chose, une connexion avec les sorcières, un appel à l'action.

Il se redressa, le cœur battant, prêt à affronter ce qui allait venir. L'atmosphère était chargée de tension, et il savait que le moment de la confrontation était proche. Les sorcières, avec leurs rituels et leurs pouvoirs, n'étaient pas là pour négocier. Il devait se préparer à défendre son domaine, à utiliser la force de la dague illuminée pour contrer leur magie.

☆○o。　　。o○☆

Le coven avançait prudemment sur le chemin qui leur avait été indiqué, l’atmosphère chargée d’une tension palpable. Les arbres, sombres et tordus, semblaient chuchoter des secrets alors qu’elles progressaient, sans vraiment savoir où cette route les mènerait. Soudain, au loin, une silhouette se dessina : une maison isolée, ses fenêtres sombres comme des yeux vides.

« Il faudrait qu’on entre pour voir ce qui se passe, » proposa Alice, sa voix brisant le silence pesant. Elle se tourna vers ses compagnes, déterminée mais visiblement nerveuse.

Lucillia, les sourcils froncés, n’était pas rassurée par l’idée. « Et si c’est un piège ? » murmura-t-elle, ses yeux scrutant les ombres autour d’elles.

Mais alors, elle croisa le regard de Lilia, qui lui offrit un sourire apaisant. Ce simple échange lui redonna un peu de courage.Ivana, un peu en retrait, observa Agatha. Leurs yeux se rencontrèrent, et dans cette connexion silencieuse, une compréhension mutuelle s’établit. Agatha, avec un soupçon de bravoure, s’avança vers la porte. Elle prit une profonde inspiration, puis, avec une main ferme, elle saisit la poignée et l’ouvrit lentement. Le grincement de la porte résonna dans l’air frais du crépuscule, ajoutant une note de mystère à leur aventure.

Lorsque les femmes franchirent le seuil de la maison, une atmosphère étrange et fascinante les enveloppa. L’air semblait vibrer autour d’elles, chargé d’une énergie mystérieuse. À peine avaient-elles posé le pied à l’intérieur qu’un éclair de lumière éblouissant jaillit, les enveloppant dans un halo scintillant.

En un instant, leurs vêtements de tous les jours se transformèrent. Les robes colorées et les jupes légères se métamorphosèrent en armures brillantes, ajustées et ornées de motifs guerriers. Les cuirs et les métaux scintillaient sous la lumière, et chaque femme se retrouva vêtue d’une tenue qui évoquait la force et la bravoure.

Ivana :

Lucillia :

Le regard d'Agatha se posa immédiatement sur Ivana, captivé par sa présence. La pièce était baignée d'une lumière dorée, et chaque rayon semblait mettre en valeur la beauté d'Ivana. Son visage, délicatement sculpté, affichait un sourire qui illuminait son regard.

Ses cheveux, longs et ondulés, tombaient en cascade sur ses épaules, capturant la lumière et créant un halo autour d'elle. À chaque mouvement, ils semblaient danser, attirant encore plus l'attention d'Agatha.

À cette vue, un sourire involontaire se dessina sur les lèvres d'Agatha. Elle ressentit une montée d'admiration, une chaleur douce qui s'empara de son cœur. Ivana était non seulement belle, mais elle dégageait une sensualité naturelle, une confiance en soi qui la rendait encore plus séduisante. Cependant, cette pensée fit frémir Agatha. Elle secoua la tête, comme pour chasser cette idée de son esprit, consciente que ces sentiments pourraient compliquer leur liens. Son esprit était en émoi, tiraillé entre admiration et la crainte de franchir une ligne qu'elle ne voulait pas dépasser.

Lilia se tenait là, absorbée par la silhouette de Lucillia. Sa tenue de guerrière, faite de cuir et de métal, épousait parfaitement ses formes, accentuant sa beauté naturelle. Les détails de son armure, avec ses ornements délicats et ses inscriptions anciennes, racontaient une histoire de bravoure et de force. Chaque pièce semblait conçue non seulement pour la protéger, mais aussi pour mettre en valeur sa grâce.

Les épaules de Lucillia étaient recouvertes d'épaulières finement travaillées, qui brillaient sous la lumière ambiante, tandis que sa ceinture, ornée de runes mystérieuses, marquait sa taille avec élégance. Lilia ne pouvait s'empêcher de remarquer la façon dont les cheveux de Lucillia, tressés avec soin, tombaient en cascade sur son dos, ajoutant une touche de féminité à sa présence guerrière.

Alors qu'elle observait chaque détail, Lilia ressentit une montée d'émotions qu'elle n'avait pas anticipée. Son cœur battait plus vite et son esprit commença à vagabonder vers des pensées plus intimes, des scénarios qui la faisaient rougir. Elle se reprit rapidement, consciente du chemin que prenaient ses pensées.

Pour détourner son attention, Lilia s'éclaircit la voix et, avec une légèreté feinte, demanda :

"On doit s'attendre à quoi ?" Cette question, bien qu'anodine, était une tentative de ramener la conversation sur un terrain plus sûr, tout en cachant le tumulte qui régnait dans son esprit.

Alice se tenait au milieu du groupe, ses yeux scrutant les visages des autres, son esprit en proie à l'incertitude. Elle prit une profonde inspiration avant de s'adresser à ses amis.

"Je ne sais pas du tout," avoua-t-elle, sa voix trahissant une légère tremblement.

Elle se sentait perdue, comme si les réponses qu'elle cherchait se cachaient dans l'ombre des arbres qui les entouraient.Jen, qui se tenait à côté d'elle, tourna la tête vers Agatha, une lueur d'espoir dans ses yeux.

"Tu devrais savoir, Agatha," dit-elle avec une certaine impatience. "Tu as déjà fait la route, non ?"

Agatha, les bras croisés, baissa légèrement le regard, semblant peser ses mots.

"Oui, mais la route change en fonction du Coven," expliqua-t-elle, la voix empreinte de sérieux. "Je ne peux pas vraiment dire ce qui va se passer. Chaque fois, c'est différent."

Les autres échangèrent des regards inquiets, l'atmosphère devenant de plus en plus tendue. Alice sentit son cœur s'accélérer, l'angoisse s'installant dans son estomac.

"Et si on se perdait ?" demanda-t-elle, la peur transparaissant dans sa voix.

Jen hocha la tête, cherchant à apaiser l'atmosphère. "On va trouver notre chemin, ensemble," ajouta-t-elle avec un sourire encourageant, même si elle-même n'était pas si sûre.

Lucillia avançait lentement vers les étagères poussiéreuses, ses doigts glissant sur les couvertures des livres anciens. L'air était chargé d'une odeur de vieux papier et de cuir, et chaque pas qu'elle faisait semblait résonner dans le silence oppressant de la maison. Elle se pencha pour examiner un tome relié en cuir, ses pages jaunies par le temps, espérant y trouver une solution pour échapper à cet endroit mystérieux.

Pendant ce temps, Ivana, attirée par un objet ancien qui brillait faiblement dans un coin de la pièce, s'approcha avec curiosité. Elle découvrit un couteau au manche délicatement sculpté, dont la lame semblait scintiller sous la lumière tamisée. Elle le prit en main, fascinée par sa beauté.

"Regardez ça," dit-elle en se tournant vers les autres femmes, un sourire émerveillé sur le visage.

Mais à cet instant précis, un grondement sourd résonna à travers les murs de la maison, et le sol commença à trembler sous leurs pieds. Alice, surprise, leva les yeux vers Ivana, l'inquiétude se lisant sur son visage.

"Qu'est-ce que tu as fait ?" demanda Alice sa voix trahissant une panique grandissante.

Ivana, un peu déconcertée, secoua la tête. "Rien, j'ai juste pris ça," répondit-elle, levant le couteau pour le montrer, comme si cela pouvait apaiser la situation.

Les murs semblaient vibrer, et des livres tombèrent des étagères, créant un bruit assourdissant.

"Tu es sûre que ça ne vient pas de ce couteau ?" s'exclama Lucillia, ses yeux écarquillés par la peur.

"Je ne sais pas ! Peut-être que c'est un symbole ou quelque chose comme ça," répondit Ivana, son enthousiasme initial se transformant en nervosité.

Alice, qui observait la scène, intervint. "Mettez-le de côté, Ivana ! Peut-être que c'est dangereux," suggéra-t-elle, sa voix ferme mais teintée d'inquiétude.

Alors que Lucillia, Ivana et Alice reprenaient leur souffle après le tremblement, une lumière éclatante illumina la pièce. Subitement, une femme apparut, ses yeux flamboyants et son visage marqué par une détermination féroce. Elle leva les bras, et une flamme jaillit de sa bouche, illuminant la pièce d'une lueur inquiétante.

"Rendez-moi ce couteau !" cria-t-elle, sa voix résonnant comme un écho dans l'obscurité.

Les sorcières, terrifiées, échangèrent des regards paniqués avant de se précipiter vers une porte au fond de la pièce.

"Vite ! Dans la chambre !" s'exclama Lucillia,

Le coven se précipitèrent à l'intérieur, fermant la porte derrière elles juste à temps pour entendre le souffle de feu frapper le bois.

"C'est ce couteau qu'elle veut !" s'écria Lilia, les yeux brillants d'une détermination nouvelle. "C'est avec ça qu'il faut la battre !"

Ivana, le cœur battant, se tourna vers ses amies. "Dans se cas j'y vais !" déclara-t-elle, sa voix pleine de courage.

Agatha, la plus sage du groupe, s'approcha d'Ivana, posant une main apaisante sur son épaule.

"Non, attends ! Ce n'est pas une simple bataille. Nous devons réfléchir," tenta-t-elle de la dissuader, son regard sérieux. "Cette femme est puissante. Nous devons trouver un moyen de la neutraliser sans la provoquer davantage tu n'a pas de pouvoir.."

Ivana sentit son cœur se gonfler à ces mots. Elle savait qu'Agatha tenait à elle, mais elle ne voulait pas l'admettre. Elle plongea son regard dans celui d'Agatha, cherchant à déceler la profondeur de ses émotions. Les yeux d'Agatha brillaient d'une lueur protectrice, et Ivana ne pouvait s'empêcher de sourire, même si elle essayait de rester sérieuse.

"Attention, Agatha," commença Ivana, un ton taquin dans la voix. "Si je ne te connaissais pas, je dirais que tu t'inquiètes pour moi." Elle lui fit un clin d'œil espiègle, un éclat de malice illuminant son visage.

vana poussa la porte avec détermination, les gonds grincèrent légèrement, brisant le silence pesant de la pièce. Devant elles se tenait une femme au visage marqué.

"On ne vous a jamais dit que ce n'était pas bon de fumer ?" lança Ivana, sa voix pleine de défi, tandis qu'elle scrutait la femme avec une intensité qui ne laissait pas de place au doute.

La femme, visiblement irritée par le commentaire, esquissa un sourire sinistre avant de cracher une gerbe de feu, une flamme vive qui jaillit de sa bouche comme un dragon en colère.

Ivana, réagissant rapidement, brandit un couteau au-dessus de sa tête, le métal brillant à la lumière vacillante. Un mur de protection avec la lame, un éclat d'acier qui semblait défier les flammes.

À côté d'elle, Lilia tira Lucillia vers elle, l’enveloppant dans un geste protecteur. Elle avait besoin de sentir sa présence, de la savoir à ses côtés face à cette menace.

"Reste près de moi, Lucillia," murmura-t-elle, sa voix tremblante trahissant son anxiété.

Lucillia, bien que légèrement hésitante, hocha la tête, cherchant du réconfort dans la chaleur de Lilia.Agatha, en retrait, observait la scène avec une angoisse palpable. Ses yeux s'écarquillèrent alors qu'elle voyait les flammes danser, et son cœur battait la chamade. Elle savait que la situation devenait de plus en plus dangereuse, et chaque instant comptait.

La tension était à son comble, et le combat entre le feu et le métal semblait figé dans le temps, chaque personnage jouant son rôle dans ce drame inattendu.

☆○o。　　。o○☆

L'épreuve était enfin terminée, et les sorcières se rassemblaient autour d'un feu de camp crépitant, la lumière dansant sur leurs visages fatigués. Les ombres des arbres environnants semblaient s'étirer et se contorsionner, comme si elles écoutaient attentivement les murmures des sorcières. La chaleur du feu contrastait avec l'air frais de la nuit, apportant un certain réconfort après les épreuves qu'elles venaient de traverser.

Ivana, assise légèrement à l'écart, fixait les flammes avec une intensité troublante. Ses pensées étaient en désordre, un tourbillon d'émotions qu'elle ne parvenait pas à mettre en mots. Les événements récents la hantaient : l'épreuve dans le labyrinthe de flammes, les visions troublantes qu'elle avait rencontrées, et surtout, la réapparition d'Agatha. Pourquoi maintenant ? Pourquoi ici ? Ces questions tourbillonnaient dans son esprit, la laissant perplexe et anxieuse.

Les autres sorcières discutaient à voix basse, partageant des histoires et des rires pour alléger l'atmosphère, mais Ivana se sentait déconnectée. Chaque rire semblait résonner comme un écho lointain, tandis qu'elle se débattait avec ses propres pensées. Elle se rappelait les moments passés avec Agatha, les secrets qu'elles avaient partagés, et la trahison qui avait suivi. La voir à nouveau, vivante et pleine de vie, était à la fois un soulagement et une source de confusion.

Dans son cœur, une question persistait : comment pouvait-elle faire confiance à Agatha après tout ce qui s'était passé ? La réponse lui échappait, et alors qu'elle regardait les étoiles scintiller dans le ciel, elle savait qu'elle devait trouver une solution, non seulement pour elle-même, mais aussi pour le groupe qui comptait sur elle.

Agatha s'approcha d'Ivana, ses pas légers sur le sol recouvert de feuilles mortes, le crépitement du feu de camp en arrière-plan. Elle observa le visage d'Ivana, marqué par l'inquiétude et la fatigue. Les flammes dansaient, projetant des ombres sur son visage, accentuant l'air préoccupé qui l'entourait. Agatha sentit une boule d'inquiétude se former dans sa poitrine.

Elle s'accroupit près d'Ivana, se penchant légèrement pour lui chuchoter doucement à l'oreille :

"Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas ?" Sa voix était douce, presque un murmure, comme si elle craignait de briser le fragile silence de la nuit.

Ivana tourna lentement la tête vers elle, ses yeux reflétant une lueur de gratitude mêlée à de la tristesse.

"Je suis juste fatiguée," répondit-elle, sa voix à peine audible, mais suffisamment claire pour qu'Agatha l'entende.

Elle lui offrit un fin sourire, un geste qui semblait cacher des montagnes d'émotions non exprimées.Agatha ne pouvait s'empêcher de ressentir une profonde empathie. Elle savait que la fatigue d'Ivana n'était pas seulement physique, mais aussi émotionnelle, le poids des événements récents pesant lourdement sur ses épaules.

"Je vais me coucher," dit Ivana en se dirigeant vers un coin plus tranquille, où elle pourrait réfléchir sans être dérangée.

Agatha la regarda s'éloigner, un mélange de préoccupation et de détermination dans son cœur. Elle savait que la nuit serait longue pour Ivana, mais elle espérait qu'avec le temps, elle trouverait la force de partager ses pensées.

Lucillia était assise près de Lilia, le crépitement du feu de camp illuminant leurs visages. Les flammes dansaient, projetant des ombres dansantes autour d'elles, créant une atmosphère chaleureuse malgré la fraîcheur de la nuit. Lucillia tourna la tête vers Lilia, ses yeux brillants de gratitude.

"Merci d'avoir veillé sur moi pendant l'épreuve," dit-elle, sa voix douce mais pleine d'émotion.

Les mots flottaient dans l'air comme des étoiles, et Lilia sentit son cœur se réchauffer à cette reconnaissance.Lilia, touchée par les remerciements de Lucillia, se pencha légèrement en avant. Elle posa une main réconfortante sur le genou de Lucillia, un geste simple mais chargé de sens.

"C'est normal," répondit-elle avec un sourire chaleureux. "Je veillerai toujours sur toi."

Lucillia leva les yeux, un mélange d'incrédulité et de soulagement sur son visage. "Vraiment ?" demanda-t-elle, sa voix trahissant une vulnérabilité qui la rendait encore plus touchante.

"Tu as ma parole," affirma Lilia, sa voix ferme et pleine de promesse.

Elle savait que leur amitié était un lien précieux, et elle était prête à tout pour protéger Lucillia. Le feu continuait de crépiter, mais pour elles, ce moment était tout aussi lumineux que les flammes qui les entouraient.

‿︵‿︵ʚɞ『FIN』ʚɞ‿︵‿︵

Merci à tous d'avoir pris le temps de lire ce chapitre. Si vous avez des idée pour le prochain je prend !

#agatha all along #agatha harkness x reader #lilia calderu x reader

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