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“Are you doing this to mess with me?” Foolish demands, dragging over a barstool and sitting himself down aggressively. Kindly, Bad doesn’t comment on his struggle to hop onto it.
“We haven’t spoken in fifteen years. You’re going to have to be more specific,” Bad says dryly, taking a pointed sip of a drink that looks like it’s been refilled too many times, if the lip smudges and fingerprints were of any indication. Still, his eyes are remarkably clear as he levels them at Foolish expectantly.
“And during those fifteen years, half of the country’s population has been wiped out.” Foolish raises an equally expectant eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that? Mister Death himself? Surely you’ve noticed all the ghost towns popping up lately.”
Bad weighs his words. "Half the country is an exaggeration."
Aha. Whether he wants to admit it or not, Bad is always ground zero for these types of situations.
"And yet, I've seen more people dead than alive on my way here." He raises his eyebrows.
Bad’s expression darkens as he puts down his glass. If Foolish narrows his eyes, he can almost see a hint of flush beginning to colour the tips of his ears. “Fine. First of all, I am not Mister Death, as you say. I am a servant to his cause. Nothing more and nothing less. Secondly, are you seriously chastising me for killing a few more people than usual in this mess? You of all people should understand wanting to-” he stops abruptly, eye beginning to twitch. “Well. You know. They’re all going to die anyway, so I don’t see what the problem is.”
Foolish stares at him for a moment before deftly plucking the wine glass from his hands and passing it to the bartender. “Okay, I think this conversation will go better without that for now. You’re seriously the reason those villages are gone? You singlehandedly killed all those people?”
Bad raises his hands placatingly and leans forward, a hint of desperation colouring his expression and pitching his voice. His gaze is insistent, as if he’s about to try convincing Foolish of something vital. Badboyhalo, of course, is known for his truthful tongue. “Foolish, you have to believe me when I say they were supposed to live. Well, obviously some of them were going to die suffering, but I didn’t mean for all of them to! I was so careful-”
“I don’t care how many people you’ve killed,” Foolish interrupts, ignoring Bad’s poor attempts to distance himself from the situation. “I have no idea what you’re trying to say, but we can talk about it later, alright? Just please tell me what’s going on. I kid you not, everyone I meet asks me to bless their villages with health and protection. But also, there's the ones who have somehow decided that killing me will give them good luck." He slaps his palms on the table. "And don't go acting all innocent. We both know you get a kick out of making my life miserable."
He takes a moment to catch his breath as Bad processes the information. Foolish can almost see the gears turning inside his head.
Finally, Bad tips his head back and laughs, clutching his chest. It’s a true laugh, high-pitched and breathless, with tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “That’s-” he gasps out, the words fading into a wheeze. Foolish pushes a glass of water towards him, which Bad promptly bats away.
If anyone asks him about it later, he will vehemently deny letting any sort of fond expression onto his face. He’ll especially deny accusations of enjoying Bad’s company. Foolish would never be so ridiculous.
“Okay. Yep, get it out.” He rolls his eyes. “It really isn’t that funny.”
“It really is. Sorry, I didn’t think about how you’d be affected by all of these experiments.” Bad uses one of his frilly sleeves to wipe his eyes.
Hold on. Experiments? Now it’s Foolish’s turn to stare.
“Are you messing with my eyes again? I thought you stopped that shit,” he demands. “I know you keep a stash of them somewhere. Is that why people keep attacking me? You’re handing out my eyeballs to random people on the road?” Bad’s expression turns sheepish. “That’s fucked up. I asked you not to go around giving those away.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Bad hastens to add. “I’ve been using your eyes to make totems. Mini totem statuettes with the residual magic they leave behind.”
“Mini gold statues with my eyes,” he says flatly.
Bad nods. “Exactly! I thought they’d help fight this plague that’s been-”
“Wait, hold up,” Foolish interrupts, waving Bad’s sentence away. “Plague? What plague? What are you talking about? Did you cause it?”
The expression he receives is so blank he can practically see the gears grind to a halt in Bad’s mind for a second. “Have you been living under a rock for fifteen years? Foolish, it’s the plague. The one on track to wipe out a third of the population? It got bad this year, but it’s been a problem for the last decade.”
Foolish stares at him, an image beginning to take shape in his mind. “Let me get this straight. Since I’ve been gone, a deadly plague has wiped out large parts of the population and you’re back to messing with resurrection energy. Seriously, do not tell me you’re trying to end a plague by stopping death.” Bad’s expression goes shifty. Foolish pinches his nose. “Your employer isn’t gonna like that.”
“My employer doesn’t like anything. Unless you’re planning on snitching on my activities, what they don’t know won’t hurt them,” he says flatly. “They’re too busy with the plague to keep tabs on me anyway.” He looks at Foolish disbelievingly. “You seriously didn’t know about that? I thought you came to chew me out for using it as an excuse to mess with your magic. You told me once that it jolts your heart whenever it’s used on someone else.”
“My life’s been complicated lately,” Foolish dismisses. “Since when does Death not notice resurrection magic going haywire? They crack down on anyone flaunting the rules like that. They’re not happy with me having it, let alone handing it out to other people.”
“You haven’t been around, Foolish.” Something in Bad’s expression shifts. Instead of elaborating, he nods to the wall behind Foolish and waits for him to look at it.
At first glance, it’s plain and unremarkable, just an old canvas of grease spots and water stains beneath a thin coating of dust. Although it hadn’t always been bare, if the patchwork of lighter squares and rectangles were of any indication. It might have once been cheerful and lively, a reflection of local culture. As it is, it’s nearly as dusty and abandoned as the bar itself.
Nearest to the counter, however, is a thick square blocked out with sky-blue paint. The edges are slapdash and the drawing within is little more than a sketch, but it outlines a collection of tombstones nestled in a narrow valley overgrown with flowing grass and little flowers. Dozens of names have been pencilled in the negative space. Some are hasty and scribbled, while others are neatly lettered and carefully positioned.
“That mural was never finished, but people use it to… remember their people.” Bad clears his throat. “Every light post in town has papers warning people to stay away. Should have guessed it wouldn’t work on you.” His brave smile is undercut by the ashy shade of grey overtaking his complexion. “If you saw everything go down, you would have tried to help them as well.”
Foolish thinks about the handful of dead villages he’d passed through on his way here. Most of them saw the bodies sequestered away in houses and shops, but others saw them strewn along the streets and sidewalks, crumpled on the ground as if they’d been fine one moment and gone the next.
Even for him, it was an eerie sight. It had seemed like another one of Bad’s old mind games, another ploy to get his attention. Then he’d gone to the next village, and the next, and the next after that. Foolish would be a hypocrite to pass judgement, but it was excessive.
Instead of a ploy, he’s found himself sitting across from Bad in an empty bar, drinking away his depression and accumulating a tab that Foolish will probably end up having to pay. From the state of his clothing, Bad certainly isn’t overflowing with money. In fact, the entire town seems like it’s been running itself to the ground for a long time. He’s surprised an edge-town like this is even standing, considering the apparent plague going around.
Bad probably has something to do with it, the stubborn bastard. He’s always had a bleeding heart and a tendency to get attached far too quickly. If Foolish knows him at all, it’s why he’s so cut up about the outcome of this disease in particular. Mass death events are nothing new to either of them; more complicated is when you take down your walls for people who end up dead because of them.
“Okay,” he says quietly, fishing in his pockets for his coin purse. “I’m taking you back to yours, alright? It’s getting late. We’ll talk more in the morning. Do you have a place to stay?”
Bad puts his head in his hands and shakes it no. “I’m not drunk, Foolish. You’re not taking me home.” Still, he makes no indication he intends to move, and Foolish doesn’t have the patience to deal with petulance right now. He slips down from the stool and grabs Bad’s shoulders, ignoring the startled yelp as he hauls him down. “Wait, stop- Foolish, you’re not paying my tab and I’m not going home! You’re acting like we’re-”
“Bad, your tab is probably three times the amount you have in your purse, and I really don’t feel like dealing with the authorities right now,” Foolish interrupts, nudging Bad’s purse away and counting out a hefty handful of gold coins. He adds in a few more coppers than strictly necessary as a tip. Despite Bad’s claims, Foolish has no idea how long Bad’s been gracing that stool. Knowing him, he could have been taking up space there all day. His gait, while not completely unbalanced, doesn’t scream sober, either.
He places a firm hand on Bad’s shoulder and corrals him out the door. He huffs and rolls his eyes, but goes along with it.
They walk without speaking. Now that Foolish isn’t tearing through the village searching for Bad, signs of sickness jump out at him everywhere he looks. Although it’s early in the evening, the streets are empty and the storefronts are closed. Notices hang on nearly every lamp post, warning villagers to stay inside and visitors to get the hell away. He had mistaken them for posters earlier, advertisements for some music festival or theatre production.
The once peaceful silence now feels sick and suffocating.
“Mine is the last house on the street going east,” Bad says after a minute, reluctance dragging out his words. “The next left, if you’re wondering.”
“I wasn’t. There’s only one street going that way from here.” Foolish frowns when they round the bend, bringing the line of houses into view. He’d walked down this street coming into town. The houses were quaint and cozy, but smaller than what Bad usually went for. “Does it have a basement?”
“Nope, just two bedrooms,” he says after a moment. “It’s not technically mine, but the people who own it let me stay there. They aren’t here right now, so you’ll have to take my word for it.” The tremble in his voice betrays him. Foolish looks over with mild concern as Bad deflates into his side. It wasn’t enough to fall if Foolish moved away, but enough to make him look smaller. It takes Foolish a moment to realize when Bad begins to sniffle, and then gasp, periodically holding his breath to hold back the ugly sobs.
He looks away. They aren’t usually vulnerable like this, least of all with each other. He doesn’t want to examine why he knows what grief looks like on Badboyhalo. He’d recognized it as soon as he walked in that bar and seen him sitting alone, twisting a glass of wine, trying desperately to look like he wasn’t breaking down.
The feeling in his chest is complicated as he places his arm around Bad’s shoulders, letting them leaning against each other as they walk. Somehow, he doesn’t mind the warm tears soaking through his shirt and sticking to his skin.