#so das dat . me long lost space boi - if he's even a space engineer still - i would not know .

[encomiium]

Prodigal Son, Come Home 04 March 2017 Charles

i.

Charles stretched out, pushing his wrists as far away from his body as he could before falling limp, the applause just beyond the curtain dying away as gentle, mystic music flooded the playing space. He took in a deep breath, his chest expanding as he reached for the tallest point in the tent and held his breath, every muscle taut before he relaxed completely and allowed the music to flood into him, to sink into his skin and send him somewhere far away from the sickly sweet smell of kettle corn and the stickiness of cotton candy in the air.

“‘Scuse me, Pavel,” said a small voice next to him. A short, stout stagehand snuck around Charles to switch on the fog machine. The engine whirred to life and began pumping wispy white smoke onto the ring while the little man chewed on his cigar and held his back, straightening himself with a long groan. He barely stood as tall as Charles’s thigh.

“No luck at the exhibit tonight, Tony?” Charles asked with a little smile, his voice soft as he pulled his arm across his chest.

“Ach, no one believes in elves no more. Even ‘da little ones! ‘Mommy, ‘dat’s just a midget with fake ears on!’ Bah, little assholes widd’ no imaginations. It’s ‘dem iPads, I’m tellin’ ya!” Tony spat to punctuate his displeasure. He began to wobble away, sighing discontentedly and patting Charles’s thigh, “But you kill ‘em out ‘dere tonight, kiddo.”

“Thanks,” he said, dropping his arm and stepping aside as a few other stagehands cleared the stage past Charles, wheeling large metal circles through the wings.

A voice beyond the curtains began to lull the audience, its tone dancing with the rises and falls in the melodies as Charles squared his shoulders and closed his eyes. “And now, please, everyone, help me to give a very warm welcome to our next performer, the shining star of our humble production. He has been training for most of his life, dedicating himself to this beautiful craft. His work with the silk is unparalleled, bordering on ethereal, the man himself, a gift from the heavens.”

Charles scoffed, rolling his shoulders back as he pulled the curtain back and watched his stormy gray silks rise up into the darkness of the hightop, swaying softly in the misty blue lights, waiting for him.

“Please, sit back, and enjoy the tantalizing ministrations of our Russian angel, Pavel Tolstobrov.”

With a breath, Charles stepped out into the dim lights, every contour on his rigid body accentuated when he moved. Shadows stretched across his back and arms as he reached up to the silk, his body long and lean as he wrapped a single fist in one half of the silks and was hoisted into the air, his head down. The air left the room, every person absolutely silent as he pulled himself up on one hand and turned his body over to wrap his leg on the taut fabric. Untangling his hand, he stretched his body out, suspended by his knee as he waited for the music to start, hanging limp and nearly lifeless, a marvel above the heads of hundreds of audience members, all watching him.

And really, no one would ever admit it, but his act was never about his acrobatic ability or his grace. Sure, his flawless choreography and incredible strength of movement made his ten minutes of showtime much easier to watch, but everyone was really watching for the moment when Charles lost his grip. People crave vulnerability from performers; in a crazy, sadistic way, people like to see other people split open, fragile. Eventually, something would have to give and, without a net, what’s more vulnerable than Charles’s life literally hanging in the balance.

Which is why he starts with unraveling his leg completely and falling.

The silks billow out and his body succumbs to gravity, falling for what feels like eternity, his eyes trained on the fast-approaching ground beneath him. People scream around him, gasps echo through the tent and in the last moment, he catches the edge of the gray silks and swings over head, his body arching back up into the air as it follows the momentum of his fall and he’s able to twine his legs back into the fabric and begin his dance of intricate twists and tangles, all to display his beauty. His vulnerability. They cheer, louder than they have all night. The audience never wants an angel. They want the forsaken. No one in Greece was interested in watching Icarus soar, happy and free, they languished in the song of a broken man, falling into the roaring waves.

And every night Charles’s fingers twitched, his body ready should he decide that the unforgiving ocean, the endless night that would come at the end of a fall, was better than flying.

--

ii.

“Ooh, boy, you gon’ give me a heart attack some day!”

Charles laughed pulling Mama Chike into his chest in a tight hug, “Aw, you’ve seen me perform for how many years and you’re still worried about me!” Charles paused before humming, “You smell nice. New jojoba?” Mama slapped him lightly, pointing a dark, bony finger at him.

“Don’t you be tryin’ to get out of a scolding by bein’ so handsome!” she said, reaching up and tucking a stray curl behind his ear. He grinned as she put her hands on his cheeks, pursing her lips as she looked him over, shaking her head, “When are you gonna’ get away from this life, sugar?”

Charles opened his mouth to lie to the poor old woman when a voice boomed across the field, unfriendly and coarse, completely different when not accompanied by soothing soundtracks and the allure of profitable showtime.

“Pavel!”

Mama made a face, her eyes narrowing in the direction of the voice, “That man is gonna get what’s comin’ to him. Whatever it is, Cha--”

“Pavel, Mama.” Charles corrected gently, already beginning to walk away.

“Sure, honey. Fortune teller that’s never been wrong in her entire life, except about your name, but that’s my problem isn’t it?” Mama turned, walking away as she muttered something else under her breath and adjusted the soft scarf wrapped tightly around her head.

Charles turned, slipping around a striped caravan before stopping for a few hustling stagehands waving at him as they passed with a setpiece. He waved with a smile before approaching his ringleader, the commanding voice in the darkness. Crossing his arms across his chest, he stood in the light of Matthew’s office, a polished trailer with more space than any of the performers or crew members could ever dream of. He waited, silent, jaw clenched as the cold night wind whistled, sweeping across the long, muscular planes of his body.

“Good show tonight,” the man said, not looking up from the papers on his desk. Charles nodded, silent. “You could say ‘thank you’ to the man who feeds you and clothes you--has fed and clothed you since you were a bastard child--and even goes so far as to give you spending money when you have time off,” the large man said, dropping his pen on his desk and turning in his chair to face look down at his top-billed performer.

Charles looked at him, cold. “Thank you.”

Matthew stood, towering in his trailer. He stepped down a few of the stairs until he eclipsed Charles in the doorway, his massive shadow drowning Charles in complete darkness. He stood there, watching Charles for a long while, his eyes creeping along Charles’s exposed form and he couldn’t do much but to shrink into himself a bit, his eyes trained on Tony to the right of them, smoking another cigar near the water tanks.

Before Charles could flinch away, Matt grabbed his jaw in his fingers and forced him to look up at him, his teeth grinding audibly in his mouth as he growled, “Look at me when you thank me, boy.”

“Thank you!” Charles choked out, his hands pushing at Matt’s chest as he struggled to free himself, panic rising quickly in his chest.

“That’s better,” Matt purred, dropping Charles and straightening his waistcoat, “You have a visitor. A fan. I sent him to your trailer. As a treat.” Charles held his cheek, licking the raw throbbing place on his lip he’d bit in his surprise and panic.

“Thank you,” Charles spat, pushing past Matt to be anywhere else. His body jerked, a sharp pain shooting up his arm as the ringleader yanked him back, his fingers like a vice grip on Charles’s bicep. Matt pulled Charles hard and pressed their lips together, hard, their teeth clacking with harsh dissonance in the icy kiss. Charles pulled away as soon as Matt released him, instinctively pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he pulled his arm away and walked quickly towards his trailer.

He stood in front of his door, the light on inside. He watched his hand tremble before wiping his lips against his wrist and taking in a deep breath. He looked up at the night sky, a few stars blinking from behind the clouds, their lights swirling in the pooling wetness at Charles’s lashes. As a child, there were nights he’d thank God for sending Matt to take him away. Charles would look to heaven and pray. Pray to God, pray to Grandpa Pavel that an angel would come and take him away.

He rubbed his eyes quickly before sighing, rolling his shoulders back and shaking away all the dread and self-loathing, foregoing the prayers for a promising fuck in his trailer.

Charles opened his door with a little smile and a man stood, nearly knocking his head on the roof. “Woah, watch out,” he laughed a little, his heart thumping hard in his chest as he looked the man over again, his hand beginning to shake again before he could calm himself down, rationalizing over and over that it wasn’t Matthew, it couldn’t be, even if by some mind-fucking, disgusting party trick.

No, it couldn’t be Matt. This man, his eyes were so incredibly kind and they longed for something, earnest and sweet. His lips seemed like they’d never said anything evil in all of his existence. The gold of the stranger’s hair was bright and lively, like they’d soaked in all of the sun and glowed just for him, not like the dull yellow strands tied back tight on Matt’s forehead. Charles turned to his small dresser, running his fingers through his hair and dusting some red dirt off his shoulders. He glanced over at the man behind him, standing awkwardly in the mirror. Most of Matt’s treats were more inclined to flirting at the very least, wooing him with shallow compliments and wandering hands, but this one, for all his height, couldn’t do much but fidget with his tight, golden bun and stare. Charles opened his mouth to joke with him, do anything to get him to put his hands on Charles and make him forget the traces of the dirtiness on his skin.

“Charles?”

Charles stopped, his hands hovering over his face cleansing wipes, his chest feeling hollow and tight before he laughed. “Sorry, don’t know anyone by that name.” He turned around, leaning against the dresser and sticking his hand out, the trailer so small he could nearly grab the man by his jean loops, “I’m Pavel.”

The man pulled at his bun a few more times, the blues of his eyes like the darkest points in Jacob’s Well, deep and dangerous and incredibly lonely.

“I-- No, please, Charles, please,” he said, looking at Charles more deeply than he’d ever felt in a long time, like he really, truly knew. “Please, Charles. It’s me. It’s Robert.”

Charles’s heart plummeted to his feet.

He stared, his eyes wide as shook his head and as if the stranger knew the exact moment Charles could see the small blonde boy with rosy, sun-kissed cheeks trapped in the frame of a giant, Robert rushed forward and wrapped his huge arms tight around Charles’s body, pulling him into the soft safety of his large chest.

“Oh, my god!” Robert laughed, his breath warm on Charles’s ear, “Oh, my god I can’t believe you’re alive! When you walked out, I just, I knew. I knew it was you and I thought maybe I was wrong but I felt it in my gut it was you, I’m so fucking happy to see you, Charles!” Robert pulled away and Charles stood there, stunned, staring at this huge man and all he could think of was their last day on a beach together, playing in the waves and building huge sand forts. He hadn’t thought of the beach in years. Robert was smiling. He had little wrinkles next to his eyes now.

“We never stopped looking for you,” he said quietly, holding Charles’s shoulders.

“No,” Charles gasped. He looked Robert in the eyes and pushed him off, finally taking in a breath after feeling empty for so long. Something burst inside of him, a leaking dam that had been patched up with scotch tape and denial as his eyes filled with tears and a warm hand cupped his cheek.

“No, no, Charles don’t cry. No, please. I’m taking you home, you’re okay,” Robert whispered, trying to close the gap between them after being shoved against the other end of the trailer. Charles flinched, slapping Robert’s hand away, trying to convince himself it wasn’t the same hand that made pinky-swears with him and filled the spaces between his fingers perfectly all those years ago.

“You’re mistaken, I’m sorry, I don’t know who Charles is,” Charles ground out, cold and hard. He pressed a hand to Robert’s back and forced him towards the door, “You need to leave before I call the police.”

“No, I--! Wait, please!” Rob begged as he stumbled down the steps to the ground outside of Charles’s trailer. “Please, you disappeared so long ago, we didn’t know what happened to you,” he pleaded with one last desperate reach towards the trailer.

Charles stopped, biting his lip as the tears in his eyes finally fell, running down his cheeks.

“Sounds like your friend is a dead kid,” he said, lifeless, as he slammed the door.

#d:charles thomson #gen:drabble #WELP #I HATE IT BUT HERE YOU GO