Chapter Text
Branzy crashed on a dark oak working table in panic, harshly swiping everything away and grabbing only what's needed. He stared point blank at the gathered stuff for a second, questioning his life choices and calculating his survival probabilities. ClownPierce was going to kill him.
Well, of course he was, he’d been threatening to do so since the day they met, but now it wasn’t a warning. It was a well-managed time bomb with its clock swiftly running down.
It all started quite simply, really. The casino business had been really on, the newcomers losing more and more of their precious resources to The House and running away in fear after trying to fight for them. Branzy was giggling as he was watching some of the drunkards arguing over the rigged slot machine until he felt something heavy on his shoulder.
“Nice work, BranzyCraft,” a voice menacing enough to kill with just its presence rang just above his ear. There was no doubt who it belonged to.
“Couldn’t have done it without you, eh?” Branzy cracked a shaky chuckle, feeling his shoulder flinch slightly under the sudden weight. Clown’s hand was double the size of his, not to mention the outlines of sharp claws slightly peeking through white gloves. And the strength just his palm held was enough to crush a skull. Probably. Branzy didn’t want to find out.
“I want you to know what role you have in all of this,” the claws dug slightly in the purple fabric, squeezing the shoulder tight enough to rip it out. At least that's how it felt after hours of checking redstone connections and pulling levers, adding the pain to the already dreadful fatigue.
That was threatening. That was Clown’s usual behavior: playing the ring around the rosie until all dead bodies fell to the ground with a knife in the back. Or something worse than just a knife.
“Sure,” Branzy managed to mutter, feeling everything inside him freeze as the cold voice of his partner crawled further into his head.
“Know your place,” Clown finally released the shoulder from a vice grip and headed back to the roulette room, probably to lure another stranger there.
Branzy let out a sharp breath, gasping for air as if he’d just run a marathon. Of course he received threats before, but all of them brought nothing but thrill and a nice feeling of anticipation of what will come next — the kind of threats Clown used for fun or for a reminder that he, in fact, will kill you any second you decide to turn on him — but that sudden particular one felt like a warning. A warning for something worse to come.
And it did, bright as daylight, as Branzy was organizing some stuff in his room and heard familiar heavy steps behind.
“Are you busy right now?” Clown walked into the room, hands folded behind his back, and tilted his head slightly as he always did while asking a question.
“Not really,” Branzy ran a hand through silver locks and turned away from the chests. “Something’s wrong?”
“No. I just wanted to ask you if you had any wishes. Or something you’d always wanted to do,” Clown tapped his fingers on the edge of the door, looking at the room’s surroundings. “You know, before you die.”
Branzy’s face went pale. Here his loyal partner was, in his room, straight up asking him about his last will. This couldn’t have been any worse.
“I-I’ve never thought about it,” the voice was nothing but a nervous chuckle, close enough to a hysterical laughter if it had any strength in it.
“Well, think,” it sounded more like a demand than a proposition. A fragment of a porcelain mask blinked in the dim light. “What do you want in life?”
“Not to die?..” Branzy stretched out the collar of his shirt, feeling the blood rising to his face.
“Besides that.”
“Not to worry that I might die?..”
Clown hummed, observing every bit of his servant’s frame. Even behind eye-like dark crosses, Branzy could feel his piercing gaze with every cell of his body.
After what seemed like an hour, Clown nodded and turned to the hall entrance.
“That had been acknowledged, BranzyCraft.”
Something an executioner would tell his condemned victim. But it couldn’t have been that bad, right? Branzy hoped so. Unfortunately, every single bit of his already pitiful amount of hope vanished the very next day.
“What do you think about swords, Branzy?” Clown traced the sharp blade with his slender fingers, entranced by the way its steel gleamed in the redstone lights. “Or perhaps you prefer axes, hm?”
“I prefer not to fight,” Branzy tossed the comparator away, not putting much thought into the question, and was immediately punished for doing so, as a swift swing flew right above his head.
“Bows then? Or maybe tridents?” Clown lashed his sword forward, tilting his head down. He always did that when he was slightly irritated, even if his voice stayed as cold as ever. Branzy gulped.
“Why do you ask?”
“Something you’d end a life with?” the question remained ignored. “Choose one.”
Letting a poor soul choose a weapon to be executed with, how generous of him! Branzy’d choose a guillotine if their casino had one.
“A sword?..” he muttered, not even sure what he was getting himself into. “It’s not like I'm good with anything else…”
Clown seemed satisfied with this answer and finally lowered his weapon, leaving his dearest engineer alone with pistons and clock timers. That was really, really strange. Branzy tried his best not to overthink the situation, but the picture he accidentally saw a few hours later almost made his jaw drop.
ClownPierce was talking to Leowook. Outside of the casino. Without a scythe in hand, not threatening to cut his head off.
It was over. Couldn’t Clown all of a sudden start acting all nice and sweet without a reason, sure. He was definitely plotting something that included Branzy’s death, and now with Leowook’s — and who knows how many deadly fighters — help it wasn’t a problem to turn everybody against him. Maybe it was the time to run away. Maybe it was the time to hide. Maybe it was the time to fall onto knees and beg for forgiveness. Maybe all of the above. Simultaneously.
Before he knew it, Branzy was rushing to Rekrap’s house, desperate for any kind of support, panic room, or stacks of resources to start a new life across the ocean, but only found his best friend laughing at his overexaggerated reaction and sending him back to the casino. Well, at least Rek’s usual careless behavior was a little grounding. Branzy still was keen on the idea of throwing everything away and running as far as he could, though.
One armor set, one weapon set, one redstone set… A pinch of this, a bit of that, just a little of something here and there, and the quick escape kit was ready! No regrets, just quickly exit from the casino via the back entrance, and-
“Branzy.”
Everything that tried to fit in the hands had fallen to the ground, scattering across the room.
“Oh-h-hi, C-clown!” Branzy nearly got himself knocked over as he accidentally stepped on a random book on the floor, his voice forming nothing but a squeak. He still tried to play it cool, putting on one of his most precious smiles. It came out as just pathetic. “W-what brings you here?”
“Branzy.”
ClownPierce took a step forward, staring directly at his partner. He sounded cool, although something about the jester's usual demeanor seemed off. There was something behind his back. Heavy, out of line of sight.
“Y-yeah?”
“There’s something I wanted to do for a long time now,” another step, little nod, a clear smile behind the mask. “To reward you. For everything you’ve done for me.”
And then ClownPierce pulled out a sword in one swift motion, slashing through the air before pointing right at Branzy’s throat. All of the room surroundings disappeared. That was it. That was his last moment.
“PLEASE!” Branzy fell to his knees, pleading desperately, almost shaking as desperation filled his cries. “Please! Don’t kill me! I beg you!”
Clown froze, simply staring, and didn't answer for a while. Perhaps, for the first time in life, he looked confused, bewildered, not knowing what to do at all. Strange. He should’ve been used to people pleading for a chance to live a longer life, if anything. Why wasn’t he angry, cocky, or at least a little threatening?
“Uhm, Branzy…” Clown rubbed his forehead through the mask, sounding as puzzled as ever. “Why would I kill you?”
“You wouldn’t?” Branzy squeaked, staring at the jester, who was still towering over him, now less menacingly.
“No, no, why would I?” instead, Clown knelt next to him, putting the sword aside. His cold, stoic voice suddenly came out hoarse and almost embarrassed. “What’s… What’s all this about?”
Branzy had to bite back a hysterical laugh.
“You tell me what’s this all about! You’ve been threatening to kill me all week!”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean???” Branzy almost lost it. He couldn’t hold a long, wretched whine as he grabbed his head, looking like no one but a madman. “You told me to know my place! You asked me about my last will! You even got yourself a brand-new sword to kill me!”
Clown flinched a little and reached a hand out as if trying to do something but stopped halfway, shyly tucking it back. Wait, shyly? During a preparation for an execution? It almost felt like the person sitting here wasn’t ClownPierce at all. Lost, ashamed even. A heavy sigh lingered in the air.
“I’m bad at this, aren't I?”
“At what?” Branzy blinked.
“At being kind.”
Kindness. Something that never came to mind in any thought featuring ClownPierce. And if it did, it was only there as a joke, probably a very cruel one. That wasn't making any sense. Branzy took a deep breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“You… You wanted to show me… kindness?” he whispered, not believing his own words.
“Yes! Yes, exactly!” Clown lightened up a bit, relieved at being understood and not instantly judged, and sighed again. “I… I was actually trying to get you a present.” He tossed the gleaming sword forward, offering. “As a way of showing my gratitude.”
“Gratitude?” Branzy muttered, shaking his head. Everything inside sank, and this time not because of fear. No, he must’ve been getting this all wrong, there should be a catch. “Why did you ask me about my last wishes then?”
“The present must’ve been important.”
Oh. Not only was all of this meant to be a present but also an important one. The picture was slowly coming together.
“That’s why you were interrogating me about weapons?”
“Yes.”
“And Leowook?”
“He helped me with crafting.”
Branzy finally calmed himself enough to take a closer look at the weapon. The blade was much smaller, thinner, and seemed sharper in a kind of way. The hilt had a nice amethyst ornament to it, emphasizing its shorter size, almost as if this sword was made specifically for someone short and very delicate- Well, he was really getting it now.
“I don’t understand,” Branzy cracked a smile, finally relaxed after that never-ending nightmare. “What about the shoulder thing?”
Clown rubbed his nape, avoiding the gaze, an action very new to his unshakable confidence.
“I’ve seen Rekrap do this every time he greets you.”
Branzy straight up laughed at that, all tension from his shattered mind gone. Was this man silently observing his partner’s life all along just to understand him better? Was this unstoppable human-killing machine really doing that?
“You mean this?”
Branzy reached out, carefully placing a hand on Clown’s shoulder, patting it gently. He heard a slightly confused “oh”, which slowly turned into an understanding “oh” and finally to a very sad “oh…”.
“Branzy,” Clown rasped, struggling to form words. It was unexpected seeing him so open and vulnerable like this, almost uncanny. But not unwelcome. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to turn out this way.”
“It’s okay,” Branzy murmured, feeling bold enough to give him more shoulder pats to comfort. “Did Rek also give you the idea?”
“Yes,” Clown exhaled, finding himself strangely leaning into the touch. He decided not to put up with it. At least for now. “But he said I should ask you about what you want.”
Branzy smiled and slowly took the sword in his hands, balancing it, and gasped in adoration, admiring the masterful handiwork. It matched his eyes. It matched his style. Everything about it screamed “Branzy” and he loved it.
“That is very nice of you, Clown,” Branzy hummed, mesmerized by the weapon so deadly and graceful at the same time. “Very... human.”
“I want to learn from you too.”
It was a quiet, intimate confession that rang in the room, carrying something much more than simple respect and gratitude. Something that Clown wouldn’t admit on the verge of death or ever say again. Branzy didn’t need to hear any reasoning or explanations: finally, perhaps for the first time, he really saw it — a living person behind the killer mask.
“I’ll be the best teacher you could ever ask for,” he said with a smile, feeling his heart beaming with trepidation.