2.
Constantine wiped at his brow with the back of his hand and then hesitated, his lips touching the cool glass of the bottle in his hand. A moment passed and he took a deep swig of the drink.
Around him, members of the troupe blurred in a flurry of motion, each trying to ready themselves for tonight's performance with less than an hour before the crowd would start filing in. He felt their excitement, their anxiety, but couldn't reciprocate. His own veins hummed with the warm flow of alcohol and, for the time being, he couldn't bring himself to share in their pleasure for this nightly routine.
"Constantine," he felt a heavy hand clap his shoulder and knew at once it was Barnum. "You're not dressed yet."
He gave a hearty snort of derision. "Dressed" was an interesting way to put it – his preparations for the show largely comprised of him getting undressed.
"In a minute," he replied, and lifted the near-empty bottle in his hand. "Must finish supper first."
Barnum walked around to face the young man, already dressed in his own outfit and holding the brim of his hat in his hands. His brow wrinkled at the sight of Constantine, slumped against a barrel with his shirt unbuttoned, hair mussed and the stench of alcohol surrounding him like a poor man's cologne.
"You're a mess," Barnum told him flatly. "You shouldn't perform tonight."
Constantine laughed. "I've performed under worst circumstances."
Barnum was unamused and made a move to grab the bottle from his hand. Usually Constantine's reflexes were much better, and usually he would be able to dodge Barnum's grab and carry on with his merry drink. But tonight he was sloppy and lost the bottle to Barnum.
"Sober up," he said coldly. "And don't make this a habit."
Constantine watched him walk away and felt an ugly resentment bubbling in the middle of his chest. He stood with unsteady legs, garnering much support from the barrel behind him, and managed to somehow make it to where his "outfit" was hanging on a hook against the wall.
He picked up the shorts and the cape, held them in his hands, and not for the first time wondered if perhaps tonight would be the night he slipped out before the show and disappeared into the dark for good.
It was a sad fantasy, yes, but it often brought Constantine a feeling of comfort, knowing here he had the power to simply end his role at the circus once and for all. He was not chained to the stables, like the elephants. He was not bound by any financial obligation, like Barnum who needed to pay back his debt to the bank.
No, Constantine was here because one day he read a flyer on the outside of a bar and wondered if perhaps it were time he used his unsightly body to make himself some money. He was tired of living in brothels, tired of women who flinched when he touched them and grimaced when they had to touch him in return.
So here he was, months later, donning the tightest little pair of shorts Barnum could find and tying a cape around his shoulders like it might make the outfit any less ridiculous.
Sometimes Constantine yearned for his life outside the circus. But what life was that really?
Barnum Museum was not, in fact, much of a museum at all.
As Winnie seated herself in the second row, gathering her dress beneath her bottom and taking in the centre of the arena, she thought perhaps it was more like a theatre production. After all, museums are stiff, cold places with old things you walk past and stare at. Here, it seemed everyone was meant to stare, but the "things" performed for the audience. How could that make it a museum?
The whole place smelled like hay and animals. Winnie wrinkled her nose a bit at this, but she couldn't deny she was intoxicated by the atmosphere. The entire place was positively alive with excitement. She was surrounded by people who were all chattering on about previous shows they'd seen; some even said they had just been there the night before.
The lights suddenly turned off. A single spotlight was directed on the far end of the room where heavy curtains were drawn tightly together. As the audience began to cheer, Winnie held her breath and prepared herself for whatever was about to come bursting through. This is it, she told herself. It was time to see these so-called "monstrosities" mother was so appalled about.
At once the curtains flew open and a mob of movement rushed inside. People were dancing, singing, flying about – Winnie didn't know what to focus on. She was positively speechless.
They were conducting some sort of a musical performance. Each person moved about differently but still remained part of the larger group. She saw a man with hair covering his entire face who tumbled around on the floor, quickly jumping up to his feet again to rejoin the dance; there were two people quite literally flying about the ceiling, catching each other and swinging from ropes; and then there was a caped man, naked all but for a pair of small shorts, who came to a stop right in front of where she sat.
Winnie's breath caught in her throat. It was him, the tattooed man from the paper.
He didn't notice her, of course. She was probably just another face in the crowd. But oh, did she notice him.
He was even more beautiful in person.
Now she could see all of him. His bare torso was lean and muscular, covered with the same sort of inked markings she had seen on his face. He moved with an elegant sort of grace that felt practiced and perfected. She found herself wondering what it would be like to dance with him.
The performance continued, but she hardly took notice. Her eyes trained on the tattooed man, who suddenly dropped to one knee and struck a pose, his hands clasped behind his head and biceps flexed tautly.
She'd never seen this much of any man before. She could feel herself leaning forward, her chin nearly touching the hat of the woman seated in front of her. But it was as if she simply could not get close enough. She wanted to see more, like she couldn't truly be satisfied less she was standing right there in that arena beside him.
Her cheeks colored hotly. What a silly idea. There was nothing extraordinary about her.
The music sounded hollow and distant in Constantine's ears.
He could feel the alcohol surging and powering through his body, warming his limbs and threatening to spill out through his finger tips. He was quite drunk, more drunk than he'd ever been while performing. Yet he still managed to carry on with the show, dancing like a fool for an audience of faceless cheers – the same people who would normally cross the street if they saw him approaching.
He found his mark and stayed on the spot, clapping his hands along to the beat like Barnum had told them to do. Tonight he didn't feel much like singing. They were lucky he was even able to dance, but he feared opening his mouth may welcome the arrival of an ugly upheaval, and so he kept his lips pressed tightly together.
He had his back to the audience, but the lights in the arena were beginning to strain his eyes. So he rotated his body and faced the cheering crowd, not really looking at them but looking through them. His eyes flickered from face to face. They were the same faces he was used to. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about this crowd tonight, as per –
His clapping fell silent. The entire arena fell silent around him. An elephant could have stampeded towards him but at that moment, Constantine would not have noticed.
In the second row, a young woman sat perched on the edge of her seat with eager eyes set directly on him. Her hair was shockingly bright, the color of copper, and fell in ringlets around her pale face. Her eyes were wide and framed by the longest lashes he'd ever seen. She simply did not look real.
Constantine hesitated, missed a few beats in the song, lost his place. He quickly shook his head and looked away from the girl again, attempting to find himself in the music and rejoin the performance. But even as he moved away, he could feel her watching him. This was a different look than he was used to. It wasn't the sick intrigue that painted the faces of the audience. It wasn't revulsion, which he was certainly most accustomed to seeing.
It was happiness, in the simplest sense, like he was the one she'd been waiting all evening to see.
The rest of the show moved like the world had suddenly gained tremendous speed. Constantine resisted looking back at the girl again but she was constantly right there in his mind, a figure he couldn't shake.
Even after it had all ended, he felt himself drawn back into the arena like some invisible force was physically pulling him. He stood between the parted curtains and watched the audience slowly empty from their seats, searching each body for the girl with the copper hair. He was too far away – he couldn't see her.
Had it been the alcohol playing a cruel trick on his mind? Had he simply imagined her there, a conjured figure for him to pine uselessly after?
"Great show tonight," Lettie said, coming up beside him and beaming proudly out at the moving crowd. "I think we've earned ourselves at least three drinks."
Constantine was hardly listening but he nodded absently, still searching the arena. "Sure."
Lettie's smile slowly fell into a curious frown. "Are you alright?"
"I'm just… I'm just looking for someone."
She turned her attention out towards the crowd again and laughed. "I don't think you'll be able to find them from all the way back here. Maybe you should go outside the museum. People usually gather out there for a bit after the show."
Constantine faced her then, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he thought about her suggestion. The last time he'd gone outside on his own, someone had thrown a handful of rotten vegetables at his chest. Perhaps inside the arena he's a performer, but out there he's still a tattooed freak.
"If you want to find her," Lettie continued softly, "you can't stay in here."
He blinked. Had he told her it was a girl he was looking for? Her soft, knowing smile told him no, he didn't have to.
"I'll tell Barnum you had an errand to run," Lettie said, and touched a hand to his arm. She gave it a gentle, encouraging squeeze. "Go find her."
Constantine took a deep, shuddering breath. Perhaps she wasn't even out there. Perhaps she'd gone home right away, and he was walking into an uncontrolled mob of people with absolutely no rational purpose.
But perhaps she was out there, and perhaps she was waiting for him, too.
He steeled himself and gave Lettie one final, grateful nod, before beginning a purposeful stride towards the building's exit.
If she was out there, he was going to find her.