Work Text:
You sigh.
You don’ t get much time off: your boss might be agreeable and all, but it is still a hard work minimum wage job here all the rest you get depends entirely on the amount of clients.
And it is winter time. The amount of clients currently is too many.
However, you do get to hide in the bathroom while your boss is out there making coffee and scroll down social media for a minute or ten before he comes asking for you.
A childhood friend you haven’t seen since high school got a new puppy. The cute little thing is so fluffy you’re certain you could grab him and your hands would get lost in its fur. It doesn’t know what to do with its tongue yet, hanging to the side of its mouth; its perked up ears cross over its head.
Absolutely adorable.
You sigh.
Some life acquaintance you’ve met a handful of times found a box of kittens at the side of the road; he’s giving them away, and your head immediately starts making plans. You could splurge a little in bowls and food and a litter box, but he’s still at the other side of town, and you haven’t got a pet since your parents’ house and you’re not even sure you can.
Should you ask your landlord? You’re still trying to make him check your bathroom sink that takes forever to drain. If he even answers you, he’ll most likely find a loophole to refuse to allow you to bring it home.
Fuck, he already found a way to make you pay for the new water heater somehow. You know how awfully scammy he can be.
You huff. Maybe it’s not the best idea.
You’re still amazed at the fact no one ever notices the tall, unnerving figure at your balcony door every night, knocking on the window with long, sharp talons only to be let in.
Every nosy neighbour seems to be oddly too aware of every move you make, but for that.
Pierrot moves like a shadow, like the nightmare at the corner of your eye, only visible when he wants to be.
Yet he smiles so sweetly at you, he looks for every bit of warmth he can get. He might be a bit… intense, true, but he’s still sweet, well intentioned.
You cannot fault that.
You’re still doing the math as you open the door to your apartment and see him standing at the balcony door already, waving.
He might have gotten there even before you, waiting in the cold for who knows how long. The idea makes you hurry, opening the door for him before closing the front door.
He moves faster than you can follow, closing the apartment door for you and resting his hands on your shoulders to take your dam jacket.The snow caught you on the way home and the contact with the saturated fabric alone makes you shiver.
His smile falters.
“Oh, my Lady, you must not catch a cold! Come, come.” He insists on leading you to the bed, pulling the blankets up to your chin.
You might be tired but far from ready to go to bed.
“Pierrot, wait- I’m not catching a cold, I need to make dinner.” He frowns still, brushing your long auburn hair off of your chest delicately, untangling the knots with his long fingernails, before resting over you.
He’s tall, taller than most, and heavy; however his weight is not unwelcome. It feels a little bit like a heated blanket, or a pet-
The idea feels like a rock at the bottom of your stomach. What wouldn’t you give for a tiny purring kitten, cuddled in the crook of your neck and sleeping soundly against you every night?
Or a sprawled over puppy, wet nose against your chest and pushing back against you every time you move?
He notices quickly; he’s always watching.
“Your heart sounds slower, my Lady, is there something weighing it down?” He tentatively reaches with his index finger, a gloved claw that has felt threatening before but now you’re too used to it to even flinch.
He jumps from freckle to freckle, marking his moves in little dots across the bridge of your nose and over the apples of your cheeks.
It makes you giggle, but the sound feels empty.
“Nothing, don’t you worry.” you try to push it off but he tilts his head, and starts over, counting the freckles out loud. He’s laser focused; it’s quite precious, when you think about it.
You try not to think about it too much.
“It’s silly.” You try to brush it off, but he frowns. He doesn’t like that answer.
“Nothing that makes my love’s heart heavy is silly! You should sing, you should always carry a song in your veins. What must I do to make my Lady happy?”
You could ask him anything you want; you have thought about it often.
For the landlord to listen, and pull the contract in your favour. For the boss to give you a day off.
Fuck, you could ask for the Moon and he would probably find the way to pull it down and into your bedroom with the biggest grin.
But that might take a lot of deaths. Everything might.
You don’t usually ask him for much.
“I keep seeing people getting pets, and I- I don't think I can.” You shrug. “I would love to, though. I haven’t had a little puppy since I was just out of high school.”
It ‘s on you, a little. You didn’t stick to your parent’s house for long; they were the kind of immigrants that teach you hard labour brings reward, but refuse to let you see that reward, to rejoice in it. There’s always one more step, one more career goal, one more competition to win. You can't stay. Not with them talking about your choices, your tastes, your weight as if they were customizable details on a character sheet.
You hardly ever felt like a complete person there. You couldn't care less if you had to take the shittiest job possible in order to leave, and so you did. But it meant leaving all your family pets behind, and, well.
It’s quite hard to have a pet in a shoddy, tiny apartment such as yours, and that’s not even the only thing.
You start rambling before you notice. “It’s not even just because of the room here- it’s the time, and the attention. I would care to train them, and clean after them, and I already spend so much time out of the house. It's stressful only to think about…”
You don’t realize he’s glazing until you take a pause.
“Pierrot?”
“My Lady does not have the time for a filthy street mutt.” He chooses his words slowly, his voice almost trembling. His playful tapping retreats to hold onto your arm instead, a bit too harsh for your comfort. “When would she then care for her Pierrot, and tell all about her day?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t leave you behind! I-” The nails start digging into your skin. Your sleeves feel warmer, stiffer with dried blood. “Pierrot, you’re hurting me.”
The sentence alone pulls him out of what looks like a trance. His eyes start watering immediately, his hands retreating to his face as he pulls away form you.
“Oh. Oh no, my sweet Lady, I-” He looks horrified; you wanna take it back but just moving your arm makes you wince and he flinches as if he could feel the stinging himself. “Oh, I could never- I have failed you! I Have failed you!”
“Pierrot, hold on!”
He moves far too quickly for you, leaving nothing but an open balcony door behind him, flimsy curtains fluttering in the wind.
Ah. The rapid retreat hurts worse than the ridiculous cut, in retrospect. You shouldn’t have said anything.
He would bring you the Moon down, if you asked.
You fall heavily onto your mattress in a huff.
Things just pile up.
You see a meme of thick thighs and holding kittens. It doesn't make you laugh.
It’s so odd, to grieve for something you never had, but if it is the imaginary pet you never picked up or Pierrot’s understanding, you cannot tell.
You flip your long hair back, tying it in a high ponytail to keep it out of the way.
It swishes and balances like the tail of a long haired bloodhound mix you had when you were a child.
You scowl and pull it back up into a bun. Better not to think about it.
Every sign on the street of people giving away their recent litter makes you walk faster; as long as you don’t think much about it, it will be fun. It’s like a weird kind of baby fever: it’s the season, it will pass.
It doesn’t help.
You come back home after work with the bag from the pet shop clutched in your hand, as if you just bought yourself a weapon. Something forbidden.
You know no one in their right mind would allow you to take the step. Your life barely fits yourself in it, much less a whole new pet that has barely begun to experience the world. The feeding, the cleaning, the training… You haven’t made your bed properly in four days, and that takes two minutes. You cannot deal with so much!
The bag skips across your table as you heavily take your shoes and your jacket off. Each piece of clothing feels like it’s made of lead, but peeling them off of you does not make you any less tired.
You don’t bother with dinner plans, or even checking on the dishes left before you left for work today. Fuck that; your mind is running so many scenarios at once that you feel you’re living them all together. It is exhausting.
You fall flat onto your back on the mattress and oyu don’t even get the comfort of the bounce back: the bed is worn, the mattress thin and your patience even thinner.
You hear him come in yet you don’t open your eyes.
“My Lady, you have come so late today!”
“No, Pierrot.” You interrupt his usual monologue. The flattery is nice but right now it will only fall on deaf ears. You can at least save him the trouble of speaking to a wall. “Not tonight. I’m not in the mood.”
You hear him whine but there is nothing you can do; as much as you’d like to have the energy to make him happy, to see him smile, there’s only one thing you can think off and it is not even the empty space in you home, the newly bought leash and collar on a bag with no dog to wear it.
It’s the fact they would be right. Your parents when they knew you wouldn't amount to anything. Your landlord when he knew you wouldn’t defy him for your own right to hot water, much less for a pet.
Yourself. You know you shouldn’t. You can’t.
You’re not ready, no matter what your heart might say. And the disconnect is debilitating.
You turn to your side, holding your knees close to your chest.
“Just go, please.” You can barely hear him moving, not because of his steps but of the things he touches around your apartment. His feet are oddly silent, even when his costume is riddled in bells.
You don’t have the energy to care. He can take or break whatever he wants.
You’re too tired to deal with this.
You hope, at least, for the blessing of a dreamless night.
You jolt awake, after dreaming of drowning.
Well, not really. You tried to call for your family, out in some weird desert with no horizon, and they wouldn't turn. You tried yelling, and your voice wouldn't come out.
You fill up your lungs to try again, and your chest doesn’t move. Suddenly the pressure becomes asphyxiating, as if an anvil was crushing your ribcage, You wave, kick your feet, but they don’t even notice you’re behind.
They don’t remember you.
You open your eyes and a sleepy, golden gaze looks back at you, curious.
Of course you couldn’t fucking breathe, because you cannot. Pierrot somehow had seen you, or moved you on your back and decided to lay on you. As if he wasn’t three times your size.
“Pierrot what are you doing?” You ask with the thread of a voice you can muster. He smiles, chin against your chest.
It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so oddly cute.
“Were you here all night?”
He grins, and still says nothing, Have they changed his rules? Can you just not talk at all?
Can he still speak? The idea that crosses you mind makes your blood freeze in your veins.
Have they hurt him?
“Pierrot, talk to me.” You say, trying to incorporate but his weight pins you down almost completely.
“Woof.” He responds with a wicked playful grin.
“I’m sorry?”
“Woof!” He tries again, louder, as he holds himself up in his hands. The bag that was on your table lays discarded underneath one of your chairs, and hanging from his neck, a pristine, red and gold collar hung loosely, clasped to a matching leash that moves over your blankets like a snake.
You cannot help but laugh.
“My Lady found her smile again!” He says, joyful, and it is so contagious.
“Pierrot, what are you doing?”
“You were so terribly sad for a pet we cannot have, but you do have a pet, My Lady.” He says, as he comes closer to nuzzle your cheek and his silver hair tickles your nose, making you sneeze.
It is actually adorable.
You reach out to pet his head and he seems to melt into your hands, pulling his weight back against your chest to make himself smaller, curl up on your lap as much as possible.
He might have kicked your shin once r twice in the process but you cannot possibly care less.
“So what, I’m not allowed to get a dog cause I got a you already?”
“Woof! A Pierrot is better than any lousy mutt!” His voice is so gleeful and full of energy you cannot contain your smile.
The idea crosses your mind and you dismiss it without a second thought, but it lingers. It presses every time you see him happily cuddling against you, looking for scratches and pets and sweet words.
After all, with the Circus still in town, it cannot be the weirdest thing this neighbourhood has seen, right.
“Hey, Pierrot.”
What’s there to lose, anyways, but the chance?
“Wanna go for a walk?”