Melt

The best thing about the Winter's Charade Circus is the mystery involved. It's never clear when it's coming to town, and it's never certain how long it'll stay. One has to rely on their intuitions and the whisperings of the winter wind to guess the times.

Robert swirls along the ice rink, wind whistling through his ears, smiling at the crowd. Sometimes he believes that he enjoys this job for the attention; usually, he's focused on the ice. And Anya.

She twirls around him, mirroring his movements, looking like she's having the time of her life. Her long, light brown hair flutters behind her, eyes glinting in the winter light, curves outlined by her costume.

In shows like this one, the more feminine skater is usually the center of attention. Robert often feels like a prop, a piece of furniture whenever he's got to do a duet with Anya. He does, however, understand why. He isn't flexible enough to do any of the fancy spins and poses that she can, isn't curvy enough to be eye catching. He's handsome, yes, but there's a certain something missing in Robert, something that only really shows up in him when he smiles.

Robert grins at a little girl standing near the edge of the rink, and she waves to him. He deviates a little from the choreography to make her a little figure eight, and she claps happily.

And then, after his brief moment of shining, Robert returns to being a dull prop for Anya to spill light on. It's alright by him; he'd basically signed up for it, after all. But, something always seems to be missing.

After his act, he changes back into his street clothes, kisses Anya on the cheek, and goes for a walk. Where, he doesn't know, but he hopes it might help him fill the usual post-performance void inside of him.

There's a small clearing in the forest, guarded by trees in a sort of oblong. Robert wanders toward the ring of warmth, of color. He can hear voices cheering, burly, rough voices that have no qualms about the cold. Robert edges a bit closer, puffs of air solidifying themselves at clouds around him. He gets just close enough to peer into the clearing, and a small, wonderful gasp escapes him unbidden.

A person flashes through the circle, a dancer, no doubt, tumbling and roaring along the edges of the crowd. The figure has short, dark hair with unruly curls, long, cinnamon kissed limbs, veiled by crimson fabric, hips and wrists decorated with bells-- not the jingling sort, but church bells, the kind that make you want to worship somebody.

There's a moment in which the figure almost seems still. Then, the person is engulfed in flames, still twirling and leaping, bouncing about erratically. It's unlike any dancing that Robert has experienced before, and he stands in awe. The crowd gets a little louder, and Robert slips in between two trees to see better.

The dancer is grinning, and Robert spots the wandering lines of tattoos through the fire. He suddenly realizes that he's clutching a frostbitten tree in the winter in the middle of a forest. With no gloves on. Among a large number of strangers whose temperaments he can't get a read on.

He thinks that he should go back home, back to Anya, back to the circus, that familiarly icy place, when the dancer makes eye contact. A cinnamon spice warmth floods Robert's chest, and he remembers why he came so close in the first place. He settles against the tree, locking eyes with the dancer until Robert is certain that yes, that wink was sent his way.

Eventually, before Robert has really registered it, the show is over. The clearing feels colder as the artist bows, giving everyone a nod and a smile, before walking out of the clearing. The person is heading directly for Robert, and Robert panics a little.

He smooths his hair, then ruffles it, because he doesn't want to look handsome, he wants to look interesting. He untucks his shirt, pops the top two buttons open, and shoves the sleeves up to reveal his forearms. The dancer approaches, leans lazily against a slender tree.