2. Nash

2

NASH

T he lights dim across the big top, casting long shadows that dance like old friends across the sawdust floor. I adjust my sequined costume, watching Colt stretch his shoulders one last time. His muscles ripple beneath the fabric, and I precisely catalog every movement.

"Ready to give them a show?" I flash my performer's smile, which makes the audience believe I'm just another entertainer chasing applause. If they knew the thoughts that circle my mind while I'm up there, watching them all from above like they’re prey...

"Born ready." Colt rolls his neck, and I notice the slight hesitation in his left side.

My fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to correct, to control. Instead, I channel that energy into securing my rigging. Everything must be perfect. I've checked the equipment three times already, but perfection demands dedication.

The crowd murmurs as Tyson's voice booms through the tent. My pulse doesn't quicken—it never does. While others feel butterflies, I feel only the familiar cold focus settling in my bones.

"Remember," I whisper to Colt as we take our positions, "follow my lead on the third transition. I'll compensate for your shoulder."

He shoots me a look that's equal parts gratitude and defiance. Beautiful. I store that expression away with all I've collected of him over the years.

The spotlight hits us, and I transform. My smile grows wider, and my movements become more fluid. The audience gasps at my apparent joy as I swing through the air, but they don't understand. This height, this control is not about joy. It's about power.

As we launch into our routine, our bodies moving in perfect synchronization, I feel the familiar thrill.

The routine flows through my muscles like muscle memory should. Each flip, catch, and moment of connection with Colt happens without conscious thought. Ten years of practice create that kind of perfection.

I remember the day Tyson brought him in. I'd only been here two months, fresh from another circus and looking for something darker that matched the hollow spaces inside me. Colt showed up with fire in his eyes and demons on his shoulders. Same age as me but carrying different wounds.

We clicked instantly. Two broken pieces that fit together in all the right ways, he became my shadow, my mirror, and my partner in everything that mattered, including the legal and illegal sides of carnival life.

My hands find his in the darkness as we cross paths mid-air. His grip is solid and dependable, like always. The audience gasps below, but I barely hear them. It's just us and the void between earth and sky.

"Third transition," I breathe, and he responds perfectly, compensating for my added force as I take more of his weight to protect that shoulder.

Moments like these highlight a decade of friendship: how we read each other's bodies and anticipate each other's moves. No one else at the carnival understands me like Colt does. No one else sees past my carefully crafted facade to the calculating mind beneath.

We spin through our final sequence, our bodies moving in perfect harmony. The crowd erupts in applause, but I'm already planning tomorrow's practice. We'll need to work on his left side and ensure that shoulder weakness doesn't become a liability.

That's what best friends do—they watch out for each other. They notice every detail, every flaw, every perfect moment. They become essential, like breathing.

The lights dim as we take our final pose. Another flawless performance. Another night of being exactly what we've always been to each other—partners, friends, family.

As we descend from the rigging, I watch Colt's movements with practiced attention. His landing is perfect as it always is, but I catch that slight favor of his right side again.

"Stellar performance," I say, reaching for my water bottle. "Though you nearly gave me a heart attack with that triple."

Colt peels off his costume top, sweat glistening on his chest. "Please. You love it when I improvise."

"I love it when you stick to the choreography." I keep my voice level controlled, though my eyes trace the familiar patterns of his tattoos. "There's beauty in precision."

"There's beauty in surprising people, too." He tosses me a towel, and I catch it without looking.

I begin methodically packing our gear, each piece in its designated spot. The routine soothes me and gives my hands something to do.

"Speaking of surprising people," Colt continues, "did you see Tyson's face during the finale?"

"Saw everything. I always do." I zip up the equipment bag just as Tyson approaches.

"Fucking brilliant, both of you." Tyson claps us each on the shoulder. "That's what I call a show. The crowd ate it up."

"All in a day's work, boss." Colt grins.

I follow Colt back to our trailer, muscles aching in that satisfying way after a perfect performance. The familiar creak of the steps under our feet, the rattle of the door that never quite sits right, is part of the rhythm we've built over the years.

"Grab me one?" Colt calls out, dropping onto our worn leather couch while I head to the mini fridge. The cold beer feels good in my hand as I toss one his way.

"Left side's still bothering you." I settle into my usual spot, noting how he favors his right arm even for something as simple as catching a beer.

"Not starting that again." He flicks on the TV, the blue light casting shadows across his face. The half-eaten pizza from lunch still sits on the coffee table, and he reaches for a slice.

I take a long pull from my beer, watching him from the corner of my eye.

"Pass the remote." I hold out my hand, knowing he'll give me grief about it.

"What, you don't want to watch Monster Trucks?" He smirks but tosses it over anyway.

The familiar drone of some crime documentary fills our trailer as we fall into our post-show routine. It's comfortable, this space we've carved out together. Safe. Even if sometimes the air feels thick with things we never say.

I grab a slice of pizza, cold but still good. The documentary drones on about serial killers—our usual evening entertainment. Colt knows I prefer the analytical side of crime, while he'd rather watch things blow up. But he never complains, just adds his commentary between bites and sips.

"Think they'll ever catch this one?" he asks, gesturing at the screen with his beer.

"They always make mistakes eventually." I lean back, letting my shoulders relax. "Everyone does."

I watch Colt's chest rise and fall as he drifts into a light doze, the TV casting flickering shadows across his face. The documentary's narrator drones on about DNA evidence, but my mind wanders to our performance tonight.

My fingers tap against the beer bottle as I catalog the day's successes: four perfect run-throughs during practice and a flawless performance. The crowd's energy fed into our routine, their gasps and applause hitting all the right beats. Even Tyson's praise felt earned tonight.

Colt shifts in his sleep, and I notice his shoulder position. Whether he admits it or not, he'll need ice on that tomorrow. That's part of my job as his partner—keeping him in peak condition. We can't afford injuries in this line of work, not with the things Tyson has us doing both in and out of the ring.

Today was good. It was the kind of day that reminded me why I chose this life, why I stay: the control, the precision, the perfect execution of carefully laid plans. And having a partner like Colt—someone who matches my dedication, who understands the importance of every detail—makes it all work seamlessly.

The documentary switches to commercials, and I turn down the volume. No need to wake him. He's earned his rest, and I prefer these quiet moments anyway. They give me time to think, plan, and maintain my world's careful order.