A/N: Who missed us? Yes, yes, I know it was an insanely long wait. But we're back now with some Jesse background! If you have not already done so, go back and reread the first chapter. Some small but significant changes were made to it.

Some background information for this chapter was provided by the PBS miniseries "Circus." Androgenius was the one with the great idea, and Cris was the research dork. ;-)

All standard disclaimers apply.

"Mother, mother, make my bed
Make for me a winding sheet.
Wrap me up in a cloak of gold
See if I can sleep." —Child Ballad 155c

See If I Can Sleep

"You don't look like a circus freak."

Taking a big bite of his sandwich, Jesse grins cheekily at the girl with all the freckles despite having his mouth full, bits of tuna showing through the gaps in his teeth that give away his precocious, eight-year-old attitude. Growing up without any parents around has its benefits, but good dining manners aren't one of them.

"That's because I'm not," he boasts, a smug expression flitting across his face before anyone can smack it off of him. "But you shouldn't call them freaks. They're talented. More than most people."

"So what do you do, then?" the girl insists, as though she didn't hear a word he just said. Maybe she didn't, but Jesse stays patient, shrugging, pulling a knee up to just under his chin.

"I dance, act, sing. People find me...pleasant to watch. I get to do what I want, and no one tells me what to do or how to do it. They think I'm talented, and I think they're right."

Humility, tact, bashfulness, hesitancy—these are things Jesse St. James has never in his life been accused of. His father used to try to beat the superiority out of him; it wasn't an appropriate emotion for a dirt-poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks. But Jesse had always been confident about his talent and, perhaps more important, his native cheek. Even if his parents couldn't scrape together the funds to send him to a good school, he was happy here at the circus. They didn't have another mouth to feed, nor did they have a son who disappointed them day in, day out. With all of ten dollars in his pocket, he had hitchhiked to the winter quarters of the Adrenaline Circus, climbed the fence, and promptly made himself at home.

With so much activity going on day and night, even in the off-season, and well over a hundred people living and working on the grounds, it was over a month before anyone even questioned his appearance. Jesse still suspects it was one of the other kids who narked on him—the little nine-year-old daughter of the trapeze artists, who was fifth-generation circus blood and took a superior tone with everyone whose families hadn't been performing that long. She bragged that she was training to be a flier like her parents, and when Jesse insisted that he would be in the ring soon, too—just watch anyone try to stop him—well, the next day the ringmaster caught him by the scruff of the neck just as Jesse was leaving the chow truck, fisting his hand in the ragged material of Jesse's t-shirt collar, and hauled him into his office for a chat.

"Who are you?" Peter asked. There were so many children running around the lot—children of performers and other staff—and it was difficult to keep track of them all. "Who do you belong to?"

"My name is Jesse St. James," Jesse said, sticking a plastic spoon full of chili in his mouth, then holding his hand out to the ringmaster. He had lightning reflexes, especially where food was concerned, and had managed not to drop his lunch during the scuffle. "And I don't belong to anybody."

Peter declined to take the boy's grubby hand. "Why are you hanging around my circus's winter quarters?"

"I'm learning," Jesse said calmly around a mouthful of beans and dubious-quality meat.

Peter quirked an eyebrow, intrigued with the fearless kid in front of him. Any normal child of Jesse's size would be quaking in fear at being discovered by an authority figure, but not this one. The boy was absolutely filthy, but there was a charm to him that was undeniable. "I see," he said. "What, exactly, are you learning?"

Jesse crammed another spoonful of chili in his mouth. "Lots," he said, his big blue eyes sparkling, and he launched into detailed accounts of the circus's daily activities—how the animals were to be cared for, and the steps the ring crew took when they set up the trapeze equipment and rigged the high wire, and he even mimicked the furious ranting of their costume designer almost perfectly.

"Fascinating," Peter said, "but why?"

"I'm talented," Jesse said calmly, licking his spoon. "I want to be a performer."

"Many people say that," Peter said, though few so young had ever done so to him out of the blue. "What makes you so sure you can handle it?"

The little boy's eyes snapped with the challenge. "Oh, I can handle it."

Peter was never able to explain just why he let the boy stay—it was a gut feeling, an instinct he could not ignore. All of the other children lived in RV's with their parents, but he set Jesse up with the ring crew and roustabouts in the "cells"—the long semi-trucks converted into portable bunkhouses, each worker assigned a cubby-like bed that were stacked three-high. The confines were worse than a jail cell, but Jesse didn't breathe a word of complaint. He had been sleeping under a trailer where two clowns lived, and in his opinion this was definitely a step up in the world.

As a safety precaution, Peter housed the eight-year-old boy with two women as his bunkmates rather than leaving him to the men. After showing him his new quarters, the ringmaster took him back to the chow truck and deposited him in front of the cook.

"I have a new apprentice for you," he said. "Wash him thoroughly before you let him touch anything."

"I don't want to cook!" Jesse shrieked in his shrill little-boy treble. "I want to perform!"

"You show me you can do this first," Peter demanded. "And I insist you get your three hours of school in from now on, just like the other kids!"

"Wouldn't you rather be normal?" The redheaded girl squints, hands on her hips as she leans forward, appraising him judgmentally, like most people do.

Jesse has always felt drawn to a higher calling, like he's special; different. Like he belongs on stage, where people watch him. He's never been part of a crowd, always been much more of a leader than anything else. His parents used to scold him for wanting all that attention, but there came a point when he stopped caring and started embracing his own desire to shine. He was talented. Everyone knew it. He reveled in the way people looked at him, turning their condescension into a game for him.

"No," he grins, snide, shoving the rest of his sandwich into his mouth as he shifts his position on the wood stump. "Normal is boring, like you. And I hate boring."

The ginger-haired girl huffs, stomping off in her Mary Janes to probably find her parents to tell on him. Jesse dangles his feet on his perch, smiling in satisfaction.

He was not about to spend any more time than necessary laboring under the cook's supervision, so in his free time he started pestering the performers until they agreed to show him the tricks of their crafts. From the clowns he learned timing, and how to read an audience. The tightrope-walker was from Russia, and she was the first to instill in him a love of and appreciation for classical dance.

"Ballet is life," she told him once, and Jesse believed her. The grace and power, the utter worship of the human form and what it could do—no other dance could compare. Though he learned the others, too—sexy dancing from the grungy, tattooed sideshow girls, who thought he was a scream, and hip-hop from some of the roustabouts who came from the streets. Many of the performers had background in various other arts—one of the circus band members was a conservatory-trained soprano—and they couldn't believe the fierce drive of the cocky little boy with the curly brown hair. They fed him knowledge and he begged for it like a normal child begged for sweets. He was determined to be the best.

Six months after he was caught, they let Jesse have a spot in the sideshow.

It was hardly a normal circus act, but the crowds went wild for his perfect, angelic little treble voice—a welcome change from the sword-swallowers and fire-eaters of the sideshow. Before long, Jesse found himself under the big top, singing as accompaniment for the acrobats and trick riders. He loved the energy of the audience, loved the feeling of holding a microphone and hearing his own voice bounce back to him through the giant speakers. But...it wasn't enough. He was, like the band members, just an accompanist. He wasn't the main attraction, and it rankled.

His complaints were understandable, Peter told him, but there wasn't much they could do about it. Jesse's talents, while considerable, weren't really circus-act material. He could tumble, but he wasn't an acrobat. He was graceful and balanced, but not a trapeze artist or tightrope-walker. He did not have the right temperament to train animals, and he was far, far too serious to ever be a clown.

"Broadway, my boy," the costume designer tells him, holding up a yard of bright green satin to see how it goes with the boy's lovely creamy skin tone. "That's where you want to be."

"What's Broadway?" Jesse asks. He's heard of Hollywood. Hollywood sounds pretty good if you ask him, but he's never heard of Broadway.

The man with the pencil moustache feigns shock, grabbing his chest as if wounded. "Shut up," he says, staggering backward exaggeratedly. "Just shut up! You mean you've never heard of Broadway?" He launches into a loud, dramatic chorus of Give My Regards to Broadway, while Jesse stares at him blankly. "Oh, my dear. My dear, darling, precious child, you come right here and sit down now." He orders Jesse into a metal folding chair, and scoots it right up close to the little TV/VCR combo resting on a table in his workroom. "Get ready," he says, dancing a little as he pulls a videotape out of its cardboard case and slides it into the VCR.

For the next two weeks solid, Jesse is hooked. He demands to view everything the costume designer can show him—musicals from the 1940's and 1950's, tapes of every Rodgers & Hammerstein movie that was ever made, even a six-part PBS documentary about the history of Broadway. He's familiar with some of the songs: There's No Business Like Show Business, and several tunes from The Sound of Music, the iconic title song to Oklahoma, and hell, even Yankee Doodle Dandy was from a musical! The world seems to open up before him at the tender age of ten years as he realizes that this, this is what he wants to do with his life. This is what has always been calling him. The theater. The musical theater.

The costume designer thinks he has found a kindred spirit. He can't be happier that the circus's little mascot of a waif has taken so well to the idea of musical theater.

"You know he's gay, right?" the annoying little acrobat girl, a year older than him still and no less irritating, hisses at Jesse one day in the school trailer. "And now you're all acting like buddies? Are you gay, too?"

"No!" Jesse wrinkles his nose and turns away. To him, gay means swishy. It's the funny way the costume designer acts, and his voice that's almost girlish. He has no idea the word might mean anything else.

"Well, you like those singing movies. Everyone knows that's gay."

Right then and there, Jesse decides he's going to change that. If people think musicals are only for gay people, he's going to prove them wrong.

When Jesse is eleven, the little circus school gets a new teacher. Mr. Foxingham isn't like the bored old lady who used to fall asleep more often than not. He doesn't want to hear from his kids that they don't need an education. He doesn't care that most of them are of circus blood and will follow their parents and grandparents into the ring.

"The circus is a dying business, kiddies," he says, glaring at the annoying little acrobat girl in particular. "Forms of entertainment are born and they die. Vaudeville is gone. Burlesque is gone. Hell, when was the last time any of you played a nice, honest pinball machine?" He eyes the room. "Do you babies even know what pinball is?"

Jesse raises his hand to answer, but Mr. Foxingham ignores him.

"My point, turtledoves, is that you need a backup. You need a real education because there may well come a time that you want it and, if that happens, you'll be fucking sorry you didn't listen to me when you had the chance."

Their new teacher isn't like any other teacher Jesse has ever had. He tells the truth, and he doesn't sugar-coat things. He is coarse, and he swears, but Jesse has been living with roustabouts for several years now, so the foul language is nothing new. His bunkmates—still women—would smack his mouth if they ever heard some of the things Jesse gets away with saying around the men. They like to baby him, and he lets them because it's certainly something his mother never did, and it's a unique experience even though he knows he's getting far too old for it.

But Mr. Foxingham challenges his intelligence, just as the performers and ringmaster have always challenged his talent and his body, and Jesse finds himself rising to the occasion. Suddenly, it's not just theater, music, dance—it's math, science, Latin, history of art—and, most importantly, literature.

As Jesse falls in love with books his performances only improve, becoming more vivid with each word he comes upon in text. When he's not practicing, performing, or learning, he's reading, his schedule suddenly busier than ever before as he fights to absorb everything at once.

Being the best has never felt so important, and though his teachers are strict, above all else, they're fair, and they know when to praise him for the prodigy that he is.

It's not until Jesse turns fourteen that he starts to get it in his head that the establishment he's practically forced himself into by way of charm and luck has been desperately negligent in their teaching.

The words are right there on the page, Jesse's hands trembling as he stares at them, swallowing hard. Finished with his assigned reading for Mr. Foxingham, he'd rummaged in one of his bunkmate's footlockers, looking for a book or magazine he hasn't read yet. What he finds are a stack of tattered paperbacks, the covers all depicting a firm-jawed muscle man holding or kissing or pursuing a scantily-dressed woman. Mr. Foxingham supplies him with Dickens, Voltaire, Greek translations. The most sexually explicit material he's ever come across is the rape trial in To Kill a Mockingbird—a book he savored, loving the simple, poetic narrative—and this sort of book is entirely new to him.

Jesse reads, uncertain whether to devour the words more quickly in effort to get the information in faster, or to slow down, savor each one, try to study it, learn precisely what is making him feel the way he's feeling now, biting his lip to keep the blood from pooling low in his abdomen, making him twitch in his pants even as he swallows.

The woman in the novel is an actress, something Jesse can relate to entirely too well. The difference is that she's trying to make ends meet, making up for lack of funds by taking on a position as a courtesan. The word itself means nothing to Jesse, not until the story continues, and he devours the words with a voracity that surprises even him.

Excitement peaking in the story, it quickly becomes evident that the man she loves-another concept Jesse knows nothing about, his only love for the spotlight-is just as penniless as she is, can't even afford a night with her.

So she gives herself to him, first kissing, slow, desperate, longing—seen, imagined, not understood—Jesse swallowing hard as their kissing reaches a frenzied peak, faster, needier, harder.

He's seen people kiss, but never anything like this; not the way the words on the page are describing it, not at all.

Turning the page with trembling fingers, Jesse feels himself tent harder against his pants, shifting his position against his bunk just slightly in effort to escape the discomfort of the feeling. Straining, wanting. He's never felt so alive.

He doesn't understand, but he wants to.

Bodies, naked, touching, mention of the swell of a woman's breast, the way she feels in his hands, the arch of her back to get more of the man's hand against her private areas, his fingers ghosting down her front to feel that she's wet through her underwear.

Jesse wishes, briefly, that there were illustrations, needing to know what this looks like more intimately, needing to know what he's missing out on. But there's nothing, and all he can do is groan as he palms himself through his pants, rough, closing his eyes for a moment at how good that feels before snapping them open again the next, desperate not to lose his place.

Two fingers inside of her, gentle, careful, then more frenzied; the woman moans, and Jesse feels himself sweating as his eyes fight not to lose focus in their desperate attempt to drink in everything at once, alive with learning, feeling.

When the man replaces his fingers inside the woman with his hardness instead, the final cog falls into place, his hand slipping into his pants to wrap around himself, jerking roughly, once, twice—feels so good-wondering for a hot second whether it feels this good for the woman, the thought cut off only when he comes, limbs trembling viciously as he fights to get his breathing back under control, his vision back into focus.

Does being intimate with a woman feel better than this? Even this is almost too much; he can hardly imagine it feeling better.

Jesse is fairly certain that if love is a physical thing, something you're supposed to feel, then maybe, maybe, this is it.

The next two years are fraught with practice, practice, and more practice, though Jesse always manages to find the time to himself to read, learn, educate himself on the things the adults around him wouldn't. It's a lot easier to focus after masturbating, and Jesse has come to see it as a blessing instead of the curse that some of the books he's read try to make it out to be, most of them religious, pious. It's a word many of the circus folk laugh at. They live their lives outside the boundaries of normalcy, outside the law of what is right and wrong. Jesse was quick to learn that the strange bumping noises he heard through his cell's thin walls late at night, and the stifled moans and hisses and caught breaths, were really evidence of sex. It was going on all around him—all the adults, all the time—and he'd never known. Never realized.

He wonders what it would be like to do it, to touch a girl or woman like that, to know what she looks like under her clothes. He sees them in tight leotards and revealing costumes all the time, but it isn't the same. He has no clue what's lurking under the fabric, only that the thought of it tempts him. Still, he doesn't really make any attempts. The older women are like aunts and mothers to him, and would probably laugh and call him cute if he tried to flirt. The younger girls are just that—little girls, far too young. There really isn't anyone around his age, except the annoying trapeze girl—yep, still annoying—and he isn't about to even think about that. That's more than he's prepared to face, even for the thought of answering his questions.

He knows most of the ring crew, especially the men, have pornography hidden away, but even though he is sixteen now—fully mature enough to handle such things, he thinks—they won't share, and they take great pains to keep their footlockers locked at all times once they know he's curious. They think it's funny. He's their mascot—the little lost waif they took in all those years ago—and they don't want to think about him growing up.

One day, after the show is over, Jesse sees Peter the ringmaster talking to what looks like an audience member who has lingered behind. This is not so unusual, so Jesse makes a note of the man—tight, curly hair, a cleft chin and pleasing smile—and attempts to pass them, wondering if he could sneak a snack from the cook before dinner. Peter's low voice, obviously not wanting to be overheard, stops him, and he slips behind a pile of props, hunkering down and preparing to eavesdrop on the conversation. Eight years have not changed this much—he still learns a great deal by being in the right place at the right time and keeping his ears open.

"He's a good lad, you know." Peter's voice is warm and amused, and Jesse instantly knows they are talking about him. "Very talented. Gifted, even. It's like he was born for this. We've been...very lucky to find such a prodigy. Perfect pitch. He'll pick up an instrument and be able to play it with ease within a week. He's...hardly perfect, of course, seeing as sheet music is something with which he still struggles, but he's very talented. I'd be sorry to see him go, but, well. If there's anyone that could benefit from formal training...let's just say I think it would be worthwhile to your venture. We're happy to have him, naturally, but I've always known we wouldn't be able to keep him long. He's not a clown, after all."

None of this is really a surprise to Jesse. He knows as well as Peter does that the circus won't be his permanent home. He's been grateful, of course, for the training he's received. And when he's not being taught, Jesse practices, whether privately or through performance. He knows that not everyone is as lucky as he's been, but then again, he's willing to put in considerable effort.

Shifting in his crouch, Jesse frowns, trying to figure out what Peter's saying, what's happening, trying to listen in as intently as he possibly can manage, catching the tail end of the response from the curly-haired man.

"Well, Shelby is certainly interested, yes. I have my reservations. We've never taken in a boy so old, and the rest of our troupe is set in their ways."

"I think you and Ms. Corcoran will find, Mr. Schuester, that Jesse St. James is a fast learner. I can't say he's eager to please—he's far too self-assured for that—but he's eager to excel, which is a quality that will serve him much better in his life."

"Shelby is extremely strict with the troupe," Mr. Schuester says, and Jesse strains to hear as several grooms lead a group of horses past. "She insists on discipline. Can he handle that sort of life? The others are used to it. They don't know any different. I've no doubt he's talented, and we could benefit from that just as he can benefit from our training. I'm just worried about the transition. You're rather like gypsies, and he's used to a very nomadic lifestyle."

"Nomadic, yes," Peter says, "but by no means undisciplined. He lives in a little cubby, eats mass-produced slop morning, noon, and night, and divides his time between honing his mind and honing his skill. He has discipline, Mr. Schuester. Don't doubt that."

Jesse feels warmed by his ringmaster's praise, but at the same time he's a little irked by Mr. Schuester's continued questions. He was disciplined! He was studious and focused, and when he set a goal, he damn well reached it. If this guy was going to doubt that about him, Jesse wasn't at all sure he wanted to agree to whatever they were planning. At least at the Adrenaline Circus, they trusted him. They knew what he was capable of, and they respected him for it.

But then Mr. Schuester says the only words that could ever change his mind.

"Still, a wandering, gypsy life is very different from New York. Very different from one theater—one building on Broadway."

Broadway. Theater—real theater. Musical theater, maybe, even. For the chance to go to that Mecca of performing arts, Jesse would do anything. Agree to anything. He wants to rush the men now, jump up from his hiding spot and tell them he's in. Just barely, he resists. He wants to know what else they might say.

"Shelby and I will have to talk about this again before we make a final offer," Mr. Schuester says, sighing slightly. "She's the boss, though, and she wants him, so you might want to prepare him. If you think he'll come."

"He needs more than we can give him here," the ringmaster says, opening his arms to gesture at the big top and the small armada of semis and trailers sprawled behind it. "We're just a circus, sir, and Jesse's ready for the big leagues."

"I spoke to a Shelby Corcoran the other day," he's told two days later, Jesse leaning back in the seat, arm splayed out over the top, the other propped up to support his chin as he regards Peter quietly in silent question, just as precocious and cocky at sixteen as he was at eight.

"She'd like you to join her troupe." Jesse cocks an eyebrow. "She's the best in the country. You'd be surrounded by young protégés. She knows how talented you are. You'd be at the top in seconds, there to showcase your skills in front of audiences much larger than what we can offer here, Jesse. She's...really very good, from what I hear. Tough, but good."

"I can do tough."

"I know that. I would never have spoken to her about this arrangement if I hadn't thought that you were capable of being her student."

"I'm not a student anymore, I'm a performer."

"You'll be a student for the rest of your life," his ringmaster reminds him, and he huffs, shrugging. "If you're willing to relocate and join them, it would be a marvelous opportunity for you. She won't pay you, but then, neither do we. It will be a very similar arrangement—room and board, all the training you can handle. According to her associate, Mr. Schuester, maybe even more than you can handle."

Jesse grins. They haven't invented the sort of training he can't handle. "I'm in."

"I'm not sure if this is such a good idea. He's...not like the others; he's been allowed freedoms that the others haven't been, exposed to things they...definitely haven't. And he's older. Two years older. I don't think it's safe."

"He's talented," Shelby responds coolly, throwing Will a glare, as though he should know her methods by now. "And if you kept a stronger hand on your boys, this wouldn't be a problem. Rachel needs a good male lead to sing with. Finn can't keep up with her for much longer at the rate she's improving. She deserves someone who can match her completely, where she doesn't have to try to dim down her shine just because the others just aren't good enough. I would know how unfair that is to ask of Rachel. I keep telling her to fix it and blend in more, but it's the others that need to step up their game. And Jesse might just be good enough to match that. I'm not losing that opportunity just because you can't control your group."

"They're boys! Aren't your girls even curious? Don't they ask questions? Because even if they're not brave enough to ask, I can see it in their eyes, Shelby. I know they're thinking it. And I think you know that, too. We can't hide them away from the world forever."

"If we don't teach them, they won't know. It's as simple as that. I refuse to have this kind of talk in this theater. They're not learning about this. I'm not going to sit here and let you give them ideas to ruin their future."

Will takes a deep breath, trying not to lose his temper, lips pressing together into a thin line of irritation as he crosses his arms over his chest, shaking his head. "I think you're making a big mistake, Shelby. These kids' bodies don't run on your clock. You can't just expect them to adjust to your needs. They're going to start getting curious. They're going to start touching themselves. And that is something you're going to have to adjust to."

"I just want them to stay children for a little longer," Shelby sighs, smoothing down the front of her pants as she shakes her head, standing. "That shouldn't be too much to ask." With a stern sigh, she stops with the hand on her door, shoulders tense. "Have Jesse introduced and prepared for our first rehearsal. We'll start in an hour."

A/N: Next up: the first meeting! Leave us some love (or tell us we're crazy, that works too). ;-)