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The door clicked behind him and the horseshoe hung above it jingled on impact. He turned, inserting the key into the hole and locking the door. Twice, just as he always did.
One of his shoelaces, the left one, came undone ages ago, he toed it off while reaching to untie the other, leaving the pair of his heavy leather boots by the door. As he saw them next to Janelle's flats, it became apparent just how much he needed to get himself a new pair. They were beat up, scratched up and roughed over by time and wear. Jan's flats were in pristine condition, save for the shoe soles where the balls of her feet would sit, in that area they were worn down to almost the fabric, tears already littering the rubber.
Colm rasped a breath of a laugh, placing his keys in the ceramic tray on the hallway cupboard, glancing at the framed photos. The bad pictures Prism had taken of them on the shift, and the candid ones Alice took off shift, when they all dropped the personas yet still carried those pieces of themselves.
Times weren't rough, quite the opposite. Sure, he started working at the sardine some nights, but it was a side job.
Everything was passing slow and steady, the work load at SDN not as heavy as before. Things just got a bit too slow for his liking sometimes. Besides that, he missed the circus, and the bar hosted all these vaguely circus-themed events every now and again and it brought back a certain sense of the past. Colm didn't want to go back, but he did wish to relive certain parts.
And he wasn't the only one.
Distantly, he could hear the soft melody of an oboe, the oboe at the start of the second act of Swan Lake. Where the prince runs off to the forest, where he sees the swans for the first time, where the french horn brings on the dark sorcerer. Janelle watched the swan lake millions of times by now, dozens of different renditions for both of the endings. She knew the melodies by heart, tapping them out on tables when she zoned out.
The light from where she was sitting poured into the hallway just as the music did. Quiet, subtle but an essential part of the full picture. Colm walked to the living room, through the doorway, and stopped right next to where Janelle was seated, a short, dark gray couch with burgundy throw pillows. She was sunken down into them, her form relaxed despite sitting up right and crossed legged. Clad in a black tank top and briefs, one of those Christmas themed blankets round her waist to keep her warm, one leg kept out to not overheat.
The music continued, the ballet dancers like swans in the forest, dancing to shield the prince. Jannelle's eyes shifted, she saw Colm in her peripheral and noticed him probably ages before he was even passing through the doorway. Her senses were just like that, trained to be sharp. Trained to hear footsteps. Trained to recognise a possible threat before even slightly endangering her.
Colm wished Janelle never had to have learned that. She wished he understood that it was in her past. Yet the past seemed to always be dragging them back to itself one way or another. The past was a strong grip clasped around their ankles, forcing them in place. The claws that left lasting scars on their backs. And yet, the past was also the red string connecting their two lives.
"Oi," his voice was gruff and quiet, coming out breathy, "knives." He says it so fondly, so sweet and she just couldn't help but turn to him like a sunflower to sun. She whispers back and there's gravel in her voice, her words so simple and yet he's so fond of it. "Hi, welcome back.." and the corners of her mouth tilted up just the tiniest bit.
And for a moment he stood there talking to her. They shared a couple words in hushed whispers. Colm told Jan about his shift, about a middle aged woman with fox fur around her neck who came in and asked for a glass of red wine, and left with a lass who had her wrapped round her little finger. How Sonar stopped by to 'meet with his buddy' and then came out of the restrooms with blood shot scleras, wobbling on shaky legs and walking straight into a light pole, the moment he was out. How he is happy to be home.
Colm took her hand, it always looked so fragile compared to him yet her blisters spoke of strength and perseverance greater than what her slim form let on. He turned it to kiss Jan's knuckles, "I'll be back in a jiff love," he whispered into her skin, accent thick and warm.
For a second her eyes had this disappointed glint in them and before he could point it out, it was already gone with the winn. Colm rasped a chuckle and left one more kiss on her wrist as a parting gift of sorts. A promise of return.
When he let go of her hand, he strode over to their bedroom, the ballet's music changing to a marchlike tune as the scene changed to the king's ballroom. He changed out of his clothes and folded them neatly on the dresser before dressing into a more comfortable alternative. Similar to Jan, a black getup of a sleeveless shirt and sweatpants.
Finding clothes for his build was a pain, spending hours behind a sewing machine was better financially but much more burdensome on his back. Yet in the end it was all worth it for well tailored shirts and pants, with little personal details he couldn't get from the store. Embroidered flowers on the collars, buttons of various colours and shapes, it was more personal. More him.
He took the folded clothes from the day with him, tossing them in the hamper as he passed by the opened bathroom door. The trumpets echoing off the walls as the court jester performed at the ball. That part was always a bit boring to him, Colm was more interested in the dark forest scenery and the swarms of swans. As he passed through the threshold of the door he saw how Janelle had her head tilted back just a bit, just so she could see the doorway and him, when he had finally walked in.
So he strutted over, hopping up to sit beside her, snaking his arm around her shoulders, letting her lean on him just a bit, just as much as she was comfortable with. The jester kept on prancing and dancing. The bells on his clothes somehow ringing so loud they were heard over the orchestra. Or maybe he was imagining it. Even after watching it so many times, Colm always noticed something new to pique his interest. He knew he couldn't say the same about Janelle though.
Janelle had the ballet’s entirety memorised since she was a child, it was a catalyst of how she developed, one of her only traits from when her entire life was the mob. She never talked about it, only when she had to. Even Colm knew little about it, but he wasn't one to pry. He knew better than that.
For if he were to ask, her face would grow stoic, her voice colder yet quieter than usual. She would be uncomfortable, yet years of muscle memory would force her to remain as collected as one could. Even when tears would prickle at the corners of her eyes.
And for a moment the world stilted as he got lost in thought. For a moment it's just him and Janelle and they're sitting in their apartment, watching the ballet that he was crying to when they first met. and he remembers how her knives couldn't puncture his skin no matter how accurate her aim was. How she was furious and how the rage slowly subsided and mixed with lust. How she looked at him then and how, over time, her gaze became so much softer when with him.
In the present, he could see how her hair was a dustier gray colour now that it wasn't combed back with gel, how the rose tattoo on her forearm she got to match his own had healed over perfectly. How she had these tiny scars at the side of her nose and at the curve of her left brow from piercings she had to take out. And how her lips were pursed together, tightly. Too tightly.
The rest of her body appeared relaxed but he knew that tic of hers, and it only ever showed up when she was bothered. Just like after Sonar pushed her into the pool on that one dispatch. Her lips would twitch pursed shut around him for days after. Colm leaned forward a bit, attempting to get a better look.
He saw her eyes glazed over, tears gathering at her tear lines as she grit her teeth. Eyes trained on the movements of the guests as they waltzed to the string instruments motet. He ran his thumb down her cheek, a repetitive up and down motion, a silent question. And wasn't just Colm her Achilles' heel.
A part of her, the greater one, was more frustrated with the fact he noticed that something was bothering her in the first place. That she couldn't hide her thoughts as well as she did in the past. But, another part of her melted for it, melted for the subtle gestures, melted for just how well he knew her and that maybe, she wouldn't mind too much if he also knew the half formed thoughts floating round her head at the moment.
She took a steadying breath, "if it wasn't for the mob, I could have been on stage too," she began, and he nodded. "-If it wasn't for the mob, I could have been trained on pointe instead of knives." She pressed the heels of her palm into her eyes, wiping away the unshead tears. "I suppose i just wish.." and she stuttered, hesitated, her voice growing quieter and even more vulnurable "...I wish I had gotten a choice." And it was an uncharacteristically meek admission, almost lost in the soft tone of the oboe as the prince held flowers in his hands.
And for a moment there was silence. And to anyone it would be a comfortable one, one that wrapped them in a blanket, to anyone but her. To Janelle it was her demise, with every second the distant feeling of regret and shame coiling around her ribcage. Instinctively, she curled in on herself a bit, attempting to shield herself from the reaction. And then Colm spoke, accent thick like honey, warming her up.
"I know-" he started, and she thinks that she never felt more understood. "-life don't always pan out the way you'd want it to, but if it always did, where's the fun in that?" Colm glanced at the screen and somehow he thinks that, even though she don't wear those tulle skirts with her uniform no more, he still saw Janelle in all those ballerinas on the stage. With their ruffles and pointe shoes, their precision with each step akin to that of Coupé with her knives on the job.
Oh so gently, he cards his fingers through her short hair and she melts into it. "I know you feel like you've fallen behind but, you got plenty time ahead of ya love," and he says it with so much love in his tone and she just hums in response. Satisfied, serene, at peace.
And Janelle doesn't cry, and Colm doesn't wipe away her tears because there are none shed. The swan lake keeps on playing, the prince dancing with the princess cursed to look like the one he loves and, accompanied by the cry of the violin, the eyes of the pair drift to the ballet once more.
And once more, they talk in hushed whispers of their lives and of mundane things, of the ballet and of their weekend plans, of lunches and possible opera dates. And no matter how hushed, no matter how secretive, to Colm, her voice will never get drowned out by the music of the orchestra and to Janelle, his voice won't get lost in the rhythmic tapping of pointé shoes on the wood of the stage. Knuckles and knives, for without a strong grip, one can't use a knife with confidence.
And as the two elements sit intertwined, so is their past. For all the pointe shoes that remain in pristine condition, that were Janelles to break in in dance studios, gather the same dust as all horseshoes, that were Colm's to bend at carnivals.
They both had their lives slip away from underneath their fingertips, and yet that is what gave them the life they have now. The past a kindled flame that knew not to burn them no more, one that embraced them whole.