Chapter Text
Clown… Clown knows of his reputation. He knows that he is perceived as a monster, as a bloodthirsty creature, as someone who has no heart.
He knows… and he can’t say those who tell those tales are completely wrong.
The blade at his side bleeds the blood of his enemies. The hilt is always warm in his grasp, a sharp contrast to the chilling, deadly metal. He is bloodthirsty, a natural killer, born to maim and slaughter and he likes it. He likes the adrenaline that comes with the chase -be it him running for his life or someone else. He loves it; he loves when those who have wronged him are on their knees, begging for mercy which he only entertains for a second before he swings the scythe.
The heads he collects are trophies, each heart is another battle won.
And he has bled himself. Many were the times that he received the same abuse he handed out, in duels and in fights, until he became strong enough to hold up his own; strong enough to begin winning. Strong enough for the blood painting him to not be his own anymore; strong enough to be both feared and sought after.
In a way, he supposed, he was training the world the same way it had trained him. Funny how that works.
He’s lost count of how many he’s killed through his years and his heart, he deems, is cold enough to forget.
On the battlefield, he deems himself a painter. The green is splashed over with splotches of red, thin liquid and arranges a portrait of his world; of grudges and chaos and cold-blooded murder. He’s never deemed himself sentimental or emotional and he never buries the dead; he lets them rot until their bodies have dissolved into smoke, until he can kill them again and again until they turn to ashes for the final time.
But his blade always strays in the light of shining violet. A colour reserved for royalty, yet handed to the weakest of people. Branzy has always been a weakness yet a thorn on any side he’s played on. A delicate rose the colour of the beginnings of dawn and the fluffy clouds and Clown is fond of it. The blade never cuts through pale skin, never snips at the silver and white tufts of hair but only brushes a hand through them, and the violet lights up and sparkles.
The cold around his heart always melts away.
When everyone is dead, bodies decaying around their feet; it’s just them and the world is silent. Clown knows that he has no weaknesses -or he tries to convince himself, at least, because if he did, they’d be exploited in an instant. Regardless, he finds himself embracing a sunrise each time they’re alone. It’s moments like those that show Clown another side of exhilaration, of serenity, of peace and finally, quiet.
Mentally and physically, Branzy makes him feel another sort of alive; a sort that doesn’t require him to kill and spill blood. He feels human in those moments; vulnerable, penetrable, another piece of the life cycle.
It’s… nice. Branzy has grown, even with how human he is every hour of the day. He is an easy target; smart but weak, easily overpowered in a world that demands strength over brains. He’s a weakness, and Clown knows and he hates it , because Branzy is a weakness to him too.
Regardless of that fact, he still goes after the man. He feels like a sailor in the ocean, lost, and Branzy sings and he follows; he swims with all his might, desperate not to drown and resting his heart in the hands of a traitor. That’s another issue. Branzy, the trapper, the prankster, the well-known traitor of every side, introducing his allies to fire and letting them be burnt.
It’s the sort of exhilaration that has Clown high on euphoria: gambling; betting his life; to know that at any moment, Branzy could turn on him and reap the fruits of their hard work. He could strike him when he’s asleep, when he’s lowered his guard as he always does when it’s just them, sharing the same space and-
And Clown wouldn’t harm him. He wouldn’t so much as lay a finger on Branzy, stab him back nor hold a grudge (even though Branzy thinks the opposite).
(It’s good, he thinks, because Clown is fond of the relationship they’ve both nourished; he doesn’t want it to end like that -so poetically. While he likes poetry, he doesn’t desire the irony that will be written in the dedicated verses).
In short, he’d forgive. Perhaps, it’s the only time he’d forgive a betrayal against him, and then they’d… He thinks in that scenario, that they’d go their separate ways… split up and never speak of it again.
But Branzy, as much as it bewilders Clown, has him wrapped around his finger.
Clown usually thinks of himself as a wild wolf, lone and ready to pounce on the first hint of blood that he smells. Branzy has tamed him and now he protects the man of his own free will. He has put his own heart on the line for the weakness that he has to make up for and he will continue to do so; he will continue to swing and cut and claw until Branzy is safe in his arms (he knows that Branzy will do the same if he’s in trouble -or try to if he doesn’t succeed
Regardless of the thorns, he embraces a sunrise in the darkness of night. He lets himself be pricked as he wraps his arm around the stem, to fall deeper into whatever their relationship is. He feels a hand on his own and something in his chest flutters and he buries his face (mask) in white and silver-streaked hair.
He’ll fight the world for- for whatever it is they have. For the comfort, the starlight and the high heavens that is Branzy; he could fight the world, he could pull the tides from the full moon’s hold, even if those feats will tear him apart.
He wants to see violets bloom and flourish and let wounds heal. He wants to hold the weakness that he has with all its thorns pricking him.
Clown will make sure their lives don’t break. He’s Branzy’s armor in battle, his weapon and his threats. Branzy is Clown’s armor too, although indirectly, and he is more than just a weapon.
He sighs into Branzy’s nape and relaxes. The hand on his own squeezes and he feels reassured -and he thinks,
I wouldn’t have it any other way.