Work Text:
The air in the carnival was a lot of things, but it was never pleasant. On most days, if you could call them days, it was just hot and dry. Properly lifesucking. On the occasional exciting day, the weather would tilt towards a bit humid. Elsewhere, this change would earn a slight acknowledgement, if anything at all. But this was dirty, dusty, fairground hell, and it was reasonable to raise an eyebrow at the fact that limbo felt a little closer to the equator than yesterday. There wasn’t much better to do.
All this to say, no one liked being outside for too long. Sure, Czolgosz had taken to napping behind the bottle toss counter, and the bumper cars had enough shade for Moore’s target practice, but at the end of the day, everyone migrated back to the bar, drawn by a cold drink and the weathered, squeaky fan in the corner. The only ones who dared spend any lengthy period of time under the hellish sun were The Proprietor, who seemed to either not feel the heat, or enjoy it immensely, and The Balladeer.
Now, The Balladeer didn’t know how it was for The Proprietor, but the weather was always a bit nicer for him. The temperature was always pleasantly mild, the air not too sticky, and a light breeze always found him at just the right time. Many times, he wondered if the assassins noticed the way his hair ever so slightly blew in a seemingly non-existent wind, and he wondered if it was yet another thing they hated him for. Either way, they glared at him all the same. Yet another reason to be out in the sun, where they don’t stay long.
On one particular day, this day, The Balladeer found himself walking the length of the carnival again, banjo case strapped to his back, and a breeze keeping him going. It wasn’t a terrible day, if he was being honest. Though, no day was ever truly terrible in his eyes. His brand of optimism was less of an unrelenting mix of ideology and delusion, like that of Guiteau, but was rather a physical inability to feel true hopelessness. But, he had to admit, not being threatened by at least a couple murderers today was something anyone could be happy about. Even Booth had thankfully chosen to not engage with him today, preferring to talk in his usual, dramatically quiet tone to The Proprietor across the bar, only looking over to shoot him a strange look.
As The Balladeer kept walking, he started humming. What tune, he didn’t know. Might not exist yet, might’ve existed for far too long. It was hard to tell.
As the notes faded out in what he had to assume was the end of the song, he froze. Nothing around him was remarkable, just a ring toss booth to his right, and a couple hoop shooting games to his left. The same ones that had always been there. No one was there either, and nothing remotely new had touched this part of the carnival since… probably ever. Something just felt… wrong.
It was as if the heat of the inside of an oven had barreled into him at full force. He felt his lungs start to work overtime as the air became thicker, painfully aware of every breath causing a burning sensation in his throat. The rest of his body prickled as if cold, but the air starting to suffocate his skin was anything but. Reaching up to brunch his hair away from his eyes, The Balladeer found himself staring at several beads of sweat on his fingers. Strange black and bright spots appeared in his vision, and the place where his banjo case met his back was unbearably uncomfortable, as if it had been rubbed raw. Strange tasting saliva filled his mouth and nausea started to overtake him.
Ultimately deciding that standing around was doing nothing for his health, he quickly rolled over the counter of the ring toss booth- something he regretted immediately, as it only made his head spin faster- and let himself lie there, face half pressed against old wood and half against dry, cracked earth. His banjo case slid to the other end of the small space, and in any other scenario, he would've been very worried about it. The striped awning above him thankfully offered some relief from the direct sun, and lying down did quell a bit of the dizziness, but the slow, burning breaths he kept taking wouldn’t let him notice any of it.
The Balladeer lay there in agony for a period of time that surely felt longer than it was, before he registered the footsteps approaching. He expected them to just thump right through and fade into the distance, but whoever it was came right up to the ring toss counter and peered over the edge.
“Dear God, you look terrible.”
The Proprietor’s voice was neither a shock to The Balladeer, nor a joy to hear. He didn’t need the man’s gleeful, jeering tone assaulting his eardrums along with everything else going on.
“You’re observant.” He snapped back, utterly hating the bitter sarcasm in his voice. It sounded unlike him in the worst possible way. The Proprietor only chuckled and leaned on the wooden counter, casually crossing his arms to prop himself up. “Thought you didn't feel the heat, Bally.” The words came out like a laugh, putting emphasis on the nickname.
The Balladeer rolled over, scowling, to look the other man in the eye, fully aware of the dirt clinging to his cheek. “I don’t. Proprietor, I swear if you did-”
“I didn’t do anything, pal. Don’t jump to conclusions!” The Proprietor wagged a finger at him and made a soft tsk tsk noise, that only infuriated The Balladeer more. Rolling back over to face the back of the stall, he pulled his knees up to his face and glared at the wall of dusty prizes without really looking at it at all. He could feel The Proprietor staring at him in smug silence as his eyes focused and unfocused and refocused on a worn white teddy bear. After an agonizing amount of time, the other man’s smooth, deep voice piped up again, not with another mocking comment, but with a tune. The same tune The Balladeer was humming earlier, The Proprietor now hummed the same. Only he didn’t finish. He paused halfway and though The Balladeer couldn’t see him, he felt the eyes boring into his back.
“You don’t know that song, do you, pal?” There was a grin behind the words, he could hear it.
The Balladeer's response was muffled by his face being pressed against his legs. “No. I guess I don’t.” He certainly recognized it. But it suddenly occurred to him just how strange it was that he didn’t know the song. He expected The Proprietor to say something about it, but he only made a small ‘huh’ and continued.
“You’ll know it soon enough, I’m sure. I know you can’t stand not knowing shit you not supposed to kno-”
“Would you fuck off!?” The Balladeer sat up again, his head spinning ten times the speed it was before, starring daggers at the Proprietor. Every bone in his body wanted to slap the smug little grin off that pencil mushtashed face. The burning in the air and the thickness in his lungs and the spinning in his head all came together for a split second to fuel him and send him standing up to face the man, before crashing down on him once again. He leaned over the counter, catching his breath, and feeling his legs wobble beneath him. Grabbing one of the posts holding the stand up, he placed his forehead briefly against it, hoping it would somehow be cooler than its environment. The Proprietor seemed unfazed by all of this, and just stared at The Balladeer in mock sympathy. “Language, Balladeer. Didn’t know you had that in you.” The last few words morphed into a light chuckle.
To be honest, The Balladeer didn’t know that either. Once again, the words had felt foreign in his mouth, leaving a bittersweet taste on his tongue, almost like soda.
The Proprietor continued. “Anyway, the sun’s going down soon, and you need a drink. I’m not leaving you here to die.”
The Balladeer leaned his whole body against the wooden pillar, wrapping one arm around it as well. “I… I can’t die. Not any more than you can, Props.” He attempted his usual cheery tone, but it just sounded painful when coupled with the gasps of air he had to force himself to take.
The Proprietor just smiled smugly, like he always did, lightly amused by everything The Balladeer said. “You don’t know that, really. You thought you couldn’t be affected by the heat. Look at you now! You thought you knew every damn song in the country. Clearly you were wrong about that, pal. I’d say your chances of death right now are higher than you’d like to think. There’s a first time for everything.” He straightened up and extended a hand to help The Balladeer over the counter. “C’mon.”
Sighing, The Balladeer grabbed his banjo off the ground and slung it over his shoulder once more, and took The Proprietor’s hand. Stepping back into the direct sun was painful, but slightly better than whatever he’d felt earlier, most likely because the sun was indeed starting its descent below the horizon.
The trek back to the bar was surprisingly short. Or, perhaps, it was just as long as it’d always been, and The Balladeer was too out of it to notice. All he knew was that one moment, he was dragging his feet along the dusty ground in silence, and the next, there were voices filling the hot air with overlapping words and phrases that were hard to make out. As they inched nearer to the back of the structure, he could make out Byck’s voice above the rest. “I want my prize-” It was then overtaken by Zangara’s yell, which almost drowned out Hinckley’s words, which Moore’s frantic rambling quickly covered up, and so on and so on.
The Balladeer turned to The Proprietor and raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is going on in there?” The Proprietor shrugged. “They’re angry. Have every right to be if you ask me. The country screwed ‘em over. You screwed ‘em over.” He eyed The Balladeer with that same strange look Booth had earlier. Somewhere between a smirk and a scowl.
“No. You screwed them over, Props.” As he took another step, he felt the air around him suddenly change. Once again a playful breeze ruffled his hair, and the temperature seemed to drop to a suddenly more pleasant one. He smiled in relief, turning back to The Proprietor and adding a touch of mischief to his voice. “Who promised them those prizes, pal?”
The Proprietor only scoffed and continued walking. “Guess you don’t need that drink after all.”
The shouting from the bar was only getting louder, and it was starting to stir something inside of him. The heat was gone, and though he didn’t feel amazing, he certainly felt better than he had all day. Clenching one hand around the strap to the banjo case, he sighed. “I’m gonna go in there and talk some sense into them.”
The Balladeer heard The Proprietor laugh loudly behind him. “Yeah, like that's worked before.”
“There’s a first time for everything, Props. You said it yourself.” The Balladeer laughed himself, hand lingering on the handle of the rickety bar door.
“First time for everything.” The Proprietor repeated, that same strange, strange look on his face.
“Wish me luck!” The Balladeer opened the door and entered the bar just as the shouting reached the loudest it has ever been. And suddenly there was quiet. Only one thought danced around in his head, echoing in both his voice and The Proprietor’s.
There’s a first time for everything.
He opened his mouth.
And the rest was history.