#bel thank you for inadvertently giving me the opportunity to write music man au piarles. i love u.

[hourcat]

"You're ridiculous." :))💓

The watch on Pierre's hand feels heavy as he glances at it yet again--the moonlight is the only thing illuminating the footbridge, now, lights from the festival at the gazebo beginning to fade as people start to return to their homes. It's ticking closer and closer to 9, according to his timepiece. He'd told Charles 8:30 and watched the dazed, lovestruck expression on his face as he'd agreed, but...

What if he'd found out, and decided to stay away like any man with good sense should? Pierre has had a terrible feeling that the town is on to him as of late, which means he's likely on borrowed time until he can split for the next train out of town. It's nights like these that he thinks about maybe trying to become legitimate: turn into an actual traveling salesman instead of being a con-man. It has to be easier. Less lies to tell means less lies to get caught in, which means less fear of being pulverized by the small-town idiot mayor.

It's a thought that's never seriously crossed his mind until here and now: Pierre has been doing this for years, selling and running and selling and running before people realize he's not actually trained in any kind of musical arts whatsoever, and he's never regretted it. There's never been a conscience in him to feel guilty over this. But tonight, walking through the woods and chuckling softly at all the couples he'd passed, kissing and dancing and snuggling up together under the cover of darkness, it had occurred to him that these are good people, here in Iowa.

They're good people, and Pierre has been lying to them. To him.

"Pierrot!" Charles' voice bursts through his contemplative thought. He looks up, startled, only to find the librarian standing at the end of the footbridge, eyes sparkling and lit-up in the moonlight as he paces slowly towards where Pierre is trying desperately to not white-knuckle the bridge rail. He looks impossibly handsome, the pink of his collared shirt almost the same shade as the pink of his cheeks.

"Charles," he greets softly, taking a step closer before remembering his manners. Instead, Pierre takes his hand and squeezes it once before releasing him. "I didn't think you would come."

Charles looks aghast at the thought. "You're ridiculous," he half-says, half-gasps. The sound makes Pierre want to laugh. "I would not miss being here with you for the world." He's the one who moves closer, this time, and there are a thousand warning sirens blaring in Pierre's head about all of this: about the townspeople catching them together, about being honest about how he feels, about Charles falling for someone who has been lying to him. He shouldn't be letting this happen, whatever it is.

But he does. He does, because Pierre is nothing if not a thief, and he's too selfish to deny himself this: one last chance with the librarian he's become so fond of over the last few weeks. "I'm glad," he manages a beat too late. "You danced wonderfully out there tonight."

Charles ducks his head, the flush of his cheeks darkening. "You were something, too," he answers back. Steps closer. He's so close that he's within touching distance, and Pierre could just grab the lapels of his jacket and tug him close and give the only real thing he might ever be able to give. "Pierre..."

The cool night air keeps him from indulging, though. "Charles," Pierre says softly, quickly turning his attention to the ripple of the water to avoid Charles getting any closer, lest he...lest they..."I have to leave soon." He hears the sharp inhale that follows but knows he has to plow through. Charles can't be in love with a man like him. It will be easier for him, eventually, to forget about this: to forget about the music man who'd come to town and swept everyone off their feet and then fled. "The mayor, he's been on my case for days, now, and I don't..." he swallows. "I don't have the papers he's asking for, Charles. He could arrest me." It's a sobering thought. He's never gotten this lost in a town before.

But it's not the town, Pierre knows. Not really. When he turns his head, Charles is staring at him with wide, hurt eyes, and Pierre has never wanted to kiss anyone so badly in his life. "You can't leave, Pierre," he whispers. "What about the band? Arthur is so excited about his trumpet, and I have never seen him so happy about anything." There are tears in his eyes. God. "What about..." he trails off, then takes a slow breath and continues, "what about me?"

He's done for. Done. The next town he'll have to give in to the first woman who throws herself at him and pray she'll make him forget this moment, because Charles...he might love Charles, really and truly, with his entire dishonest heart. Con-men aren't supposed to fall like this. "Cheri," he says--barely audible, the confession weighing heavy on his voice. "I am not the man you think I am." It's the most he can say without saying it: I have been lying to you about every aspect of who I am, and I'm in love with you, and you'll hate me if you know the truth. Charles is young and handsome and full of life: he'll have no problem finding a wife and leaving the memory of Pierre behind, and as nauseating as the thought is to him, he knows it's what must happen.

Charles blinks at him slowly, then shakes his head. "Pierre," he begins, and then reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded, battered piece of paper. "I know."

And that...Pierre blinks, shakes his head once out of shock. "You know?"

"I know," Charles repeats, fiddling with the paper again. "Your name is not in the Indiana Conservatory records, Pierre Gasly." He unfolds the paper to reveal a page torn right from what must be the Conservatory records--a copy he'd seen in the library not too long ago. He swallows. "I looked not too long after you came to town, and when I didn't see your name..." He pauses. "I was going to hand this over to the mayor, but when Arthur's instrument came...I couldn't take that joy away from him." Pierre can't stop staring at him: at how beautiful he is with tears shining in his eyes, at how resolute his face looks as he tells Pierre that he...

He knew, all this time, and still let Pierre do as he does.

"And I don't care, Pierre," he continues fiercely, closing the distance between them and grabbing fistfuls of Pierre's jacket. "I do not care that you are not a music man, or that you were just a con-man who landed in our little town. I don't care at all."

Pierre is dizzy with it. "Charles." He's struck speechless for the first time in his life. What is he even supposed to say to this man who just turned his entire life upside down? "What are you saying?"

Charles surges forward and closes the last thread of moonlight between them, kissing Pierre so hard it's a wonder they don't tumble over the bridge's railing altogether. It's fast and a flurry, and he doesn't even have a chance to process it before Charles pulls away again and crumples the Conservatory record sheet in his hand. "I am saying," he murmurs, still leaned close enough that their noses are bumped together, "I love you. I love you as you are."