Chapter Text
Trobbio was a master. Of Stage! Of Brush! Of Voice! Of anything he set his mind to, really.
He told himself this every time the seats remained empty, with only a few bugs who awkwardly left when they realized the show was beginning and nobody else had come. Plebs. They just didn’t recognize true art. But when he got his recognition, oh, they’d regret not supporting him before.
He just needed a chance.
Another failed show. Another empty audience. His wings folded sadly behind him as Trobbio began the nightly ritual of snuffing lamps and closing up early. His handpainted backdrops disappeared into darkness as he closed the stage curtain. He slept here as well, but he needed time away from these empty seats. Moodily, he closed up and began to stalk the streets in search of some distraction.
He heard them before he saw them, the sounds of music, murmurs of laughter and applause. They called to him like a siren, all the things he wanted and was denied.
In an empty lot and surrounded by unused building material sat a tent oozing red light loomed from the darkness. Several smaller ones clustered around it where curious bugs wandered. That was new. As was the crowds. A sign had been set up, directing people toward the main entrance.
The Grimm Troupe. Troupe. Performers, like him? Now Trobbio was particularly interested. He had never heard of this troupe before, but somehow they had attracted what sounded like full seats. Trobbio crept closer, until a small bug arrested his attention and pointed at another sign, nearer the main tent.
Five rosary beads to purchase a ticket. Trobbio had none. He’d spent the last of his money plus promises to pay off the rest on renting his theater. Which he’d have to empty out if he didn’t get any interest tomorrow, something he didn’t even want to entertain the thought of. Tomorrow was tomorrow Trobbio’s problem. Today Trobbio had to get inside.
With an apology and an offering of empty hands, he retreated from the entrance and those beautiful sounds of awe and wonderment pouring out. He wouldn’t be deterred by his lack of funds. Luckily, he knew his way around a performance. There had to be a back way into the tent, and everyone had such a similar color scheme to him, he was sure they wouldn’t even bat an eye. Things were looking much better than they had only half an hour ago.
Easily, he passed strange little creatures bustling back and forth behind the scenes, until he was beneath the bleachers that were, as he’d suspected, absolutely packed. His red eyes narrowed as he paced, trying to find a place to actually see the action. Puffs, thumps, foreign words that produced gasps and claps. They tantalized him, and he needed to know who was center stage. Who had such command of the audience, without any publicity or reputation, when he couldn’t get even one bug to make it through the first act?
There! Between the long legs of a stickbug. Lights leapt around the ring as bugs bounced, swung, spun all in a frenzy with fire and smoke. Chaotic but synchronous, not a single performer out of step or stumbling. And, in the middle of it all, like the eye of a hurricane as he twisted and danced and orchestrated this madness – Trobbio’s breath caught.
Tall. Taller than many bugs, and thin as a whip. Fire bloomed on his fingertips, slid salaciously down red chest plate and long, black thighs. And those eyes! So large as to envelop his entire mask, outlined in thick black with dramatic stripes cutting through. They throbbed with heat in time to Trobbio’s heart in his throat. Though he was hidden, he felt the ringmaster was staring directly into him, burning him alive with his intensity.
This felt obscene. With a conviction that would have terrified him normally, Trobbio was sure this performance was meant for him alone. He understood this ringmaster’s gestures more intimately than any of these normal bugs who had no fire in their souls so they had to cluster close to this dazzling flame. Unappreciative. Though they clapped and called as bugs entered and left view, and he stayed like the fulcrum around which everything turned, they couldn’t recognize what they saw.
“Mhrm,” a voice said behind Trobbio. He leapt, hitting his head on the bench above him and smushing an antenna painfully. Slowly, knowing he’d been caught, he turned to face the bug who would deny him this performance. Broad and short, so unlike the ringmaster’s beauty, but sharing his black-striped mask.
“Yes?” Trobbio asked haughtily, as though he hadn’t been crouching in the dirt and now had a tender, crumpled antenna. “Can I help you?”
The bug stepped to the side and pointed to the shadowy entrance Trobbio had used. How it ached to turn his back to the ringmaster and miss his performance. “No free shows.”
“Ah, you misunderstand,” Trobbio said, thinking on the spot, even as the bug led him away from the bleachers and into cooler, dimmer halls. “I am not here for the show. I am here to speak to your ringmaster. He is expecting me. I had simply arrived earlier than intended, and got lost.”
The bug stared at him, and how Trobbio wished he could see through the blank, black eyes of his mask. “You’re here to see the Master?”
It was working? Trobbio hadn’t actually expected that. He bowed, before straightening importantly with a dramatic flourish. “I am, indeed! I am Trobbio, master, myself, of many arts. Perhaps you have heard of me?”
“No.”
“Oh.” A fumble while simultaneously a stab at his pride in such a simple word. No, he could carry this. “Well, my stocky friend, that shall be changing soon. I am here to discuss a new act for your charming little show! I dare say, it could use some more liveliness,” he added, scanning the bug pointedly. He had absolutely no stage presence, all stiff and dull. Likely one of the stagehands, not even worth Trobbio’s time if not that he was keeping him from the ringmaster. “I think your master will be delighted to have my assistance.”
“Mhrm. This way.”
A titter of laughter escaped as the bug turned and led Trobbio down the halls (really, there were a surprising amount of halls for a tent). Hah! He was such an actor. And when he got to have a private audience with the ringmaster, Trobbio would amaze him with his skills.
The bug held aside a length of curtain and waved him through.
“Thank you, my good man. I will be sure to tell him of your assistance,” Trobbio said as he stepped through, touching two fingers to his forehead in salute of the stagehand.
The curtain fell closed behind him, and Trobbio turned to regard his new settings.
He was standing outside.
“Excuse me!” he squawked, turning back to the tent. He pawed at the wall, trying to find the seam to get back in. Where was it? Had it been laced up or something? He yanked harder, and made it no further, as even the bottom was pegged taut to the ground.
After several more moments futilely scratching at the fabric, Trobbio had to admit defeat. For now.
With one last rude gesture, he turned from the tent and the muffled praise within that Trobbio wanted so badly he could taste it.
This was his last show. After that, he’d be out of money, out of a stage and a home, and back to busking the streets. He could do this. He had to. This was it for him, if not.
Trobbio had crept back to the Grimm Troupe and littered the ground with his own flyers shamefully in the hopes of stealing a few confused audience members, and it seemed to have worked. Not a full house, but ten bugs that he could see from where he hid on the edge of the stage.
He’d slept terribly backstage in a hammock slung up above his costumes and props. His mind was caught up in thin black fingers and glowing red eyes in that half-awake state, and he had some embarrassingly indulgent fantasies of the stage. Just the two of them. Spotlights focused. Him impressing the ringmaster with the grace and ease of a seasoned artist, their tête-à-tête turning into a much more intimate performance.
Trobbio had awoken in a fervor, possessed with a brilliant new idea that could not wait until the morning. There were sets to design and modifications to be made, anything he could get together before his last show. Reds – he had plenty of those already – and heat and passion. It would be a show unlike any other!
He’d only just managed to do one rehearsal before the audience came in and he had to clean up the confetti and detritus to make room for more. But he felt confident, moreso than he had in days.
Curtains pulled back. Spotlight on a fiery red backdrop, painted frenetically over a cathedral’s mighty arches. Smoke-like mist billowed across the floor, then – boom! Trobbio appeared in the middle in a shower of confetti.
Brilliant wings, more confetti, steam tinted red with the lights across the stage as Trobbio took his place where he belonged: at the center of attention.
With the lights in his eyes, he couldn’t see his audience very well, but he didn’t need to to know that he was captivating them. Dazzling them as he leapt and called out his lines in a loud, clear voice.
Then, it was over. He’d done it. Chest heaving from exertion, Trobbio stepped forward from behind the lights to greet his adoring audience.
The seats were empty. Trobbio’s wings, proudly displayed, dipped down.
When someone began clapping, Trobbio about jumped right out of his shell. He squinted out into the darkness, scanning the seats. There! In the middle – how had he missed him? – was the ringmaster.
The only bug who had remained, and who now was clapping enthusiastically. Trobbio stuttered into a bow, one lacking his usual flourish as he reeled in disbelief. He was here. He’d seen Trobbio’s performance and stayed. Trobbio couldn’t even feel bad about the ones who had left, when he hadn’t.
He straightened, eyes locked impolitely on the ringmaster as he stood and slipped from the rows of seats to the aisle. The show was over, surely he would leave now. Trobbio didn’t want him to leave, but his voice was caught in his throat.
The ringmaster walked toward him. Tall, composed, cloak wrapped tightly around his slim figure. Trobbio scoured him horn to claw in a more blatant fashion than was probably polite, taking in everything from the way he moved to the minute changes of intensity in his bright, glowing eyes.
Even when he had invited himself onto the stage and stood before Trobbio, he had trouble focusing on more than the fact that the ringmaster was here. Here! Within reach!
“Trobbio, was it?” he asked, voice surprisingly low in a way that sent a thrill of danger down Trobbio’s back. All he could do was nod. “I am Grimm, master of the Grimm Troupe – though I suspect you already knew that.” The grin he sent Trobbio made the butterfly shiver, in delight or terror, Trobbio wasn’t sure. There were a lot of teeth in that smile.
He knew Trobbio’s name. And he’d introduced himself. Breathe. Be calm. Don’t make some embarrassing noise that could be described as a wheezy little squeal.
Trobbio made an embarrassing noise that could be described as a wheezy little squeal.
Grimm laughed like distant thunder, low and rolling, and it settled very nicely in Trobbio’s stomach. “It was quite an interesting show you put on, my dear,” he said, slinking forward to close the distance between them. He was warm. And that was saying something, as Pharloom was a very hot place in general. “They do say imitation is the highest form of flattery.”
“Your stagehand kicked me out before I could share with you,” Trobbio groused, like he hadn’t just thrown this together hours after seeing Grimm perform. It was not imitation. It was… inspired.
“Oh, Brumm? He’s no stagehand.” Grimm shook his head fondly, and Trobbio desperately wanted him to speak about Trobbio that way. “Though he did tell me of your visit. And then I found one of these mixed in with our own fliers.” He held out Trobbio’s own flier.
“Ah, how curious,” Trobbio blustered, taking it from Grimm. Grimm had touched this. He would never let it go. “I have no idea how that happened. Perhaps one of my patrons had dropped it?”
With a flourish that made Trobbio’s antennae curl in begrudging delight, Grimm produced more of his fliers. “I’m sorry, did I say one?”
Trobbio had nothing to say to that, so simply laughed awkwardly. Had he offended Grimm? He would be insulted if another performer tried to steal his audience.
But Grimm was still smiling in a very good-natured sort of way. He let the other flies burn up in scarlet flames and scattered their ash across the stage as he leaned in to touch Trobbio on his arm, leaving a smear of grey and residual heat. “Nobody appreciates the arts these days, do they, my friend?”
Oh, he did understand Trobbio. As only another performer of his caliber could. “You cannot imagine my relief to hear you say that. The state of things!” he bemoaned instantly, covering Grimm’s hand with his own. “It’s a tragedy! I have been working my craft for years, and not once am I given the accolades I deserve! When I am mentioned at all in the papers, it is only to compare to some popular trash. Me, Trobbio! Treated as less than those talentless hacks!”
Grimm’s other hand caught Trobbio’s flailing one and, like the lead in a dance, drew him in close. His voice lowered, and Trobbio’s wings fluttered nervously as he was caught in that scarlet gaze. “I never bother with that world, myself. Nothing but gossip and posturing and money changing hands, isn’t it? Such a waste. I find myself thinking, though, that it’s not a fit for you, either. That’s why you came to me, was it not?”
His heat made Trobbio’s head spin, or simply his proximity. Was this what it was like to be in love? Trobbio had loved nothing more than his own self all his life, but this felt like all those stories and plays he read. A heady rush, a whirlwind, a perfect storm of need and obsession and passion. Did Grimm feel it too? Grimm came to him. Grimm knew him. Trobbio had never felt so seen before in his life. He clung to Grimm’s cloak, tattered and faded, simple in design, but still somehow more elegant than any preening butterfly’s haute couture with the way it sat on his tall, thin frame.
“I love you.”
“I know, my dear.”
They fucked on the stage before an audience of empty seats. Trobbio had never had sex before, a secret he’d take to the grave, but Grimm was a gentle and thoughtful lover, leading with small pressures and tiny shifts so Trobbio never felt out of step or clumsy.
It should have been uncomfortable and awkward on the hard shellwood. Trobbio should have felt shame to so easily spread his legs, when he scoffed at those who did to get funds or praise or whatever else they whored themselves out for. He was better than that. He was better than them all, and that was why Grimm had chosen him.
Thin fingers, tips hot as fire, stroked along his shell, loosening the red ruff he’d put together last night and exposing him to the cold air and Grimm’s warm body. He shivered beneath Grimm as cloak tips (since when did cloaks move like that) slithered between him and the floorboards, offering some cushioning as Grimm nibbled delicately on Trobbio’s antennae and rocked teasingly against him.
“Please, Grimm,” he gasped, wet and hard and pathetically needy. He’d imagined havings sex before, with all those bugs who laughed at him but looked so beautiful and had such charisma, but Trobbio had been content with his own company until now. And Grimm hadn’t even done anything yet.
Laughter, low and rumbling, as Grimm bent to nuzzle his face. “Slowly, my friend. We want to warm up before the performance, do we not?”
“Yes – gods – “ Be calm, Trobbio. What Grimm must think, with him mewling like some grub with a crush!
Grimm seemed determined to undermine his calm, though. Trobbio tried not to writhe and gasp uselessly, lest Grimm realize he had no idea what he was doing, but it was so difficult when clearly Grimm had far more experience.
Fingers pushed inside, finally, and Trobbio’s hips bucked up, only for limbs – not Grimm’s legs, and not his hands either – to catch on his thighs and push him back down. Gently, Grimm worked him open and slid wet fingers along his cock until Trobbio was trembling.
He pulled away, and when Trobbio tried to follow, he found his arms and legs firmly wrapped in the ends of Grimm’s cloak. As a performer and as his own manager, set designer, and everything in between, Trobbio was accustomed to a certain amount of control, which Grimm had stripped away with barely any effort. The only indication that he wasn’t completely calm was a faint, glowing flush on his white cheeks which was almost drowned out by the flames in his large, wide eyes. Trobbio felt like he was about to burn away to ash beneath that gaze.
At Grimm’s first thrust, slow and shallow, Trobbio gasped and arched up against his bindings. Every ridge sent tingling pleasure up his spine as he rocked back and forth, steadily increasing the depth each time. The cloak tendrils loosened, and Trobbio immediately latched onto Grimm with arms and legs, nonsensically terrified that he would simply vanish into smoke or one of Trobbio’s more lurid dreams.
“Wonderful, my friend, you’re doing marvelously,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around Trobbio to hold him close while the other slipped between the two of them to pump Trobbio’s cock with teasingly light movements.
Several more thrusts, and Trobbio was arching up against him shamefully fast. Desperate, but how could he not be with Grimm’s heat and warm, heavy scent swirling all around? With his fist now milking every drop of cum from Trobbio’s cock?
No derisive laughter came. No laughter at all, in fact, as Grimm simply licked and nipped along Trobbio’s throat and jaw, fucking him leisurely to his own completion while Trobbio trembled and undulated against him. Slowly, the aftereffects faded, and Trobbio could simply enjoy the gentleness of Grimm’s movements and explore his shell with tentative claws.
When Grimm came, it was with a purring sigh of Trobbio’s name that had him shivering anew, even as warmth filled him and spread from antennae to toe-claws.
Then he stayed. Trobbio thought he would leave once the glow faded, because it was impossible to think this was real, much less that Grimm would want to remain. But he didn’t. Instead, he simply curled up around Trobbio, lanky and tall but unbothered by the hard shellwood of the stage.
His cloak wrapped like a living thing around the two of them, and with Trobbio pressed up underneath his chin, he could hear a deep rumbling purr from Grimm. Claws kneaded his fluff, and Trobbio felt both very secure and in some vague danger. Trobbio wanted to do something in return, stroke his shell or curl his proboscis along his neck or something, but he couldn’t bring himself to break the warm silence.
“You did so well,” Grimm said, finally, nuzzling one of Trobbio’s antennae. “Might I extend an invitation?”
Trobbio muddled through the words. Had this been… some kind of test? He wanted to be offended, but found it hard to muster the indignation. “Invitation?”
Grimm’s claws explored and teased, and his voice was rough and warm. “To join my troupe, my dear. You are wasted here.”
“I am?” Trobbio asked stupidly, because of course he was. Nobody appreciated him. But he’d also never been sought out for his skills. Even feeling as good as he was, he couldn’t let Grimm think he was desperate or anything. “I– I suppose I could consider the offer.”
“Would you like to consider it there?” Grimm asked, pulling away. His warmth instantly dissipated, replaced by cold, stale air, and Trobbio wanted to drag him back down, to make this dream last a little longer. “No obligation to join, of course. But you only saw a fraction of our performance last time.”
“I have to – my stage –” Trobbio fought to put together any word that wasn’t an embarrassingly enthusiastic yes. But there were practical things to consider. Payments due (that he couldn’t pay), props and equipment to whisk away before they were thrown in the alley and ruined or stolen.
With a flourish of his hand, Grimm produced several strings of rosaries. Then they were gone in a flicker of flame. “I will be stealing your precious time, my dear. Allow me to compensate you for it. My kin will see to your debts.”
Trobbio fluffed up a little at this. A patron! And a fellow performer, at that, who recognized his talent and rewarded it. “Well I cannot turn down such a request, then, can I?” he asked, hoping the quiver of excitement wasn’t that noticeable.
Grimm climbed to his feet and knelt to offer Trobbio a hand – two hands – up. They clasped around his own claws, holding him in place as though he would ever run from Grimm, as Grimm waved his other hands vaguely toward the backstage area. Trobbio followed, expecting to be led out the back entrance into the alley. But instead, they stepped through curtains and into a room bustling with life and activity.
Trobbio whirled around, all but dancing with Grimm who simply lifted their joined hands so he could spin. These reds, these creatures milling about. They were in Grimm’s own tent. That wasn’t some sleight of hand or trickery. That was real, genuine magic that tingled on Trobbio’s wingscales and antennae and coaxed out emotions that sat strangely in his chest.
“How –”
“A magician does not reveal his secrets so lightly,” Grimm said with a laugh. “But you are here now, so shall we continue?”
“Yes,” Trobbio sighed more than spoke. Grimm was something far more than mere bug. He captivated and transported. He burned hot. And he wanted Trobbio.
He was led past that little stagehand – musician, Brumm, Grimm introduced with a fondness and gentle touch to his mask that made Trobbio instantly jealous – to quieter, more private places. Grimm’s musk was heavy and warm, incense and perfumes that drew forth memories and feelings of places Trobbio had never been but knew deep in his soul. Dark, cozy spaces where intimate words were shared, where claws wandered, and memories became dreams.
Grimm sank down into a pile of cushions and invited Trobbio to join him, practically in his lap. “Shall we talk?” Grimm asked, voice a husky rumble right against Trobbio’s earhole. “About joining my troupe, that is.”
Trobbio nodded weakly.
“We have no realm of our own, and I am afraid that I must ask of you, if you choose to accompany us, to forsake your own land, your people, yourself.”
More nodding, then he paused. “Myself?” Some pretty metaphor, most likely, but he was rather fond of himself.
“It is far too much to ask of anyone, I know,” Grimm said, claws stroking Trobbio’s antennae. “So I will understand if you decline.”
“But what about… us?” Was that too presumptuous, to assume there even was an ‘us’? Trobbio loved Grimm more than he loved himself, he was sure.
“I will be simply a pleasant dream for you, if you decline, and fade away as all dreams do.”
No. Instantly, dramatically, he’d fallen, and it was like all the plays he’d read and performed, all the desires and desperate wants he’d had, come to life in Grimm. To lose such a thing! Trobbio could not bear to think it.
“If you stay, you will be mine,” Grimm continued, then when Trobbio tried to agree to that, silenced him with a finger to his mouth. “What I ask is not something that should be so easily gifted, but it is also something that I cannot change. My kind can be cruel by our nature, and I would eat away at all that makes you you if you gave me the chance, until nothing remained.”
Trobbio wanted very, very badly to be Grimm’s. But what he described was starting to sound less a metaphor and more a literal offering of – of something indelibly his own self. To lose himself, to have who he was lost and forgotten, was a thought too terrible to bear.
“I am sorry, my love,” he said very solemnly, taking Grimm’s hand in his smaller ones. “The world still needs Trobbio, Master of the Stage! I cannot be bound to one soul, when there are so many audiences whose lives I can touch, whose very fates I can change the course of with one word or a simple flourish! It would be cruel to deny them. Alas, Grimm, what you ask is simply too much. Like star-crossed lovers, we were not meant to be. I am sorry to have led you on, but I pray we can part ways amicably.”
Grimm’s long fingers curled around Trobbio’s, eyes wide and clearly glittering with unshed tears like sparks and flames. “Are you…. Breaking up with me?” he asked in disbelief.
“I am sorry it must be this way, my love.”
“Oh, no, no, that’s quite alright –”
“I know you must be distraught, but please don’t do anything rash.” Trobbio clung tighter to Grimm, pressing his hand to Trobbio’s chest. Tears splashed down on Grimm’s wrist as he tried to pull back, too overcome for such an intimate gesture.
“Please let go of my hand, Trobbio.”
Grimm tugged again, and with a twist of his wrist managed to break Trobbio’s hold on him.
“Promise me you will do nothing rash?” Trobbio asked, though he couldn’t deny the dramatic appeal of Grimm putting on some display of grief. So long as it wasn’t anything too painful or scary.
Grimm patted his face. “I will be fine, my dear,” he said. “And I quite enjoyed our time together. I shall remember it fondly, even when you no longer do. Brumm will show you out.”
Well that wasn’t the rending of cloth Trobbio had hoped for, but the stagehand had entered again and was ushering him out. Before he could get shoved out of the tent entirely, he turned to him. “Brumm, was it? Keep an eye on him. I fear he is hiding how distraught he is.”
“Hrrm,” Brumm said, then shoved him through. Very rude.