Chapter Text
Most people see Clown as the bane of the world. Someone who crawled out of Hell to wreak havoc on everyone else just for his thirst of blood. Someone with a creepy mask and a jester costume; a fighter so cold and maddened that all he thinks of is hatred and vengeance and death.
It’s not surprising, considering Clown’s reputation as a fast, deadly, efficient murderer and assassin.
It’s… not what Branzy sees.
Branzy sees a graceful dancer. An ice skater holding a scythe at his side for balance as he glides along sharp grass blades of open meadows. He sees a fire, roaring and sparkling, growing stronger with every blow, dancing and spreading, twirling in on itself and bursting so deftly; it’s a spectacle to watch Clown fight. It is a spectacle to watch him bring his enemies, those who have wronged him, to their knees; how he himself doesn’t bend to the heat of the sun beating on his back, even dressed in black and red but instead stands tall with pride and spirit.
The heart charms of the jester costume jingle with each step the man takes into the battlefield. Branzy’s own heart thrums with excitement when he watches from the sidelines, when he is infiltrating the enemy team and silently cheering when another of his ‘teammates’ falls to Clown’s blade, where they beg and plead. He cheers even when he himself has fallen to his knees in front of the mask that has crosses for eyes and a ridiculously creepy smile, head held up by the wide, cool blade of the dangerous scythe under his chin. The metal is always so close to his pulse point, he can feel the beat of his own heart reverberating in his throat. And his eyes sparkle violet; they sparkle out of excitement and awe and wonder because what he witnesses each time is a craftmaster at work.
Each time, he watches Clown chisel his name into the world with incredible precision and care that he wants to reach out and touch the carvings, even though spilled blood runs through the deepened lines.
The red that seeps into the black, he finds, is beautiful. It’s beautiful even on the white of the porcelain mask, even on the heart charms that jingle. And when the blade is taken away from his throat, from being so close to slicing through his skin, there is always a hand pulling him up, to help him to his feet, because Branzy never was loyal to the others anyway and Clown knew that.
Then, he usually witnesses another side of Clown, one that no one else has ever seen… and if anyone has, Branzy doubts they stayed alive long enough to gossip about it.
Branzy sees the softness hidden behind harsh actions. He hears Clown laugh, genuinely happy, sharing jokes and talking about whatever. It’s a serene atmosphere, one that had taken them both time to nurture from a strict business relationship with victory on one end and death on the other, and Branzy had found beauty and serenity in it. He thought that Clown had as well but that would be a conversation for another time.
And another time, he is being lifted to his feet and the bloodshed is laughed off.
“Oh my God, that was so stressful”, Branzy falls into Clown’s arms, wrapping his own around the other’s lean yet strong frame. He feels Clown’s chest rock with a chuckle, one of euphoria and adrenaline that Branzy can’t help but share.
“We did it though”
That ‘we’ means a lot to Branzy nowadays. And he can’t stop being filled with awe each time he sees Clown dance in a lake of blood, to swing and twirl and curl with such grace, it would make an Olympics champion falter.
At the end of the day, they return to the Casino and Branzy sees a fighter no more. He sees a normal person with a scary, creepy mask, and a very scary demeanor but he doesn’t see a bloodthirsty monster. He feels safe in the bed they share every now and again -when Branzy doesn’t have to avoid Clown because of another shady backstab plan. He feels safe enough to turn his back and be blind to Clown’s actions.
He thinks it’s loyalty that does it -some part of him sings that it’s trust but that is something so unobtainable in the lifestyle the two lead; surely, it can’t be that.
It doesn’t change his point of view. He doesn’t think his image of Clown could be ruined now that he has learnt everything there is to learn about him.
And that’s what he sees at the end of the day: someone who won’t betray him and someone whom he won’t betray in turn. Someone who can and will protect him with cold, sharp blades, who will fight the world if he has to, and someone whom Branzy will protect with clever traps and tripwires.
That’s what he thinks when he lets his eyes close. When he feels the gloved hands wrap around him and the cold porcelain fit into the curve of his neck so effortlessly, that’s what he thinks:
I’m safe and protected
, and once he places his own hand over the gloved one resting on his stomach, he completes,
So I’ll make sure he is too
.