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Branzy sat underneath the tree, back to the twisted trunk. The void was chilly around him, but not still, the slightest breeze disturbing the branches. If he ignored the complete lack of stars in the darkness, he could almost fool himself into thinking he was looking up into the night sky between the leaves.
Forward, backwards, forwards, backwards they shifted, quiet.
It was late morning, he thought, though the ambient light of the End was unchanging. Late morning in the sense that it had been a stretch of hours since he and Clown had woken up, late morning in the sense that the relative clear headedness that came after sleep had departed him, leaving Branzy to sit and watch the tree aimlessly.
Before, he had spent his time in the End working on prototyping for the theme park he planned to build next season, blueprints and small models and concept sketches flooding his desk and every flat surface. His interest in the project had waned quickly, though, fading away into the miasma that had come to define his days as he simultaneously waited and dreaded the start of the next season.
Before, he had welcomed the break from Lifesteal the End offered. Branzy had needed to get away from the constant anxiety and fear that plagued the server, away from obsessing over the gaining and losing of hearts, away from its demanding nature. But the switch, the sudden, all consuming switch from danger to safety left him unmoored. Nothing felt important anymore.
There were little pink flowers in the leaves, flowers that never fully bloomed, never withered, stuck in stasis when the tree had entered the end. The leaves never fell, either. On the lowest branch, there were two hundred and fifty-four leaves and eighty-seven flowers. He’d counted dozens of times, with different methods, to come to such a precise number. The second-lowest branch he’d only counted a half-dozen times so far, and so he wasn’t yet sure of the exact number of leaves and flowers.
Clown would be concerned if he knew Branzy could accurately name the number of leaves on a branch, because it would show just how much Branzy was slipping, which is why he hadn’t shared his findings with Clown. Branzy had his books written by people from other servers, he had his redstone, he had his lover, he had so many things he could occupy his time with, and yet here he was, counting leaves.
The thought of Clown sent a pang through him. Being with Clown was the only thing out of his long list of possibilities that he ever bothered to do, because it was the only thing that held his attention and made him feel more real. Branzy knew he would feel somewhat better if he was inside, watching Clown train like the fighter always did in the mornings to keep himself sharp for next season. He didn’t know why he wasn’t inside. He should be inside, he knew being out here with only his mind and the tree and the void and the chill wasn’t good for him, but often he found himself sitting here.
He told Clown he was just taking the space to think, whenever he asked why Branzy was out here, he told Clown he was fine and he was happy. Branzy wasn’t happy, alone and drifting, but he wasn’t stressed or in agony like he would be if he was still in the overworld. He was just alive. Lifesteal hurt him but it also gave him the thrill he needed, thrived on, the success of a bloody trap or a subtle manipulation or a blatant coercion vital to him.
The crazy ones went to Lifesteal, said the people on the other servers. They were right, of course, but they didn’t seem to see how Lifesteal cut its players so much deeper than just their deaths. Branzy needed Lifesteal, but he needed a respite. He had his respite, now, and it was a relief, even as he felt a different kind of darkness seep into the void.
Branzy didn’t know how to tell Clown that he needed him just as much as the staticky air he was breathing. Clown seemed to be under the impression that they would drive each other crazy if they spent every minute together, and Branzy just didn’t know how to express how Clown was the only thing that held off the chill. He needed Clown to help him dig himself out of this hole, because Clown knew his mind better than Branzy at times, because Clown loved him and if he knew Branzy was spiraling he would find a way to halt the descent.
Branzy was too good of a liar, too good at pretending, too good at diverting. He hated it.
There was still a blankness in his eyes, he knew, when he heard footsteps on the outside of the castle. Clown must have finished his practice. Branzy could wipe the expression from his face, he could fake his usual energy and smile, he could keep Clown from the worry he didn’t want to cause him, because Branzy was a liar so good he could fool anyone.
But as those measured footsteps approached, he found himself so, so tired of it.
He moved his gaze down from the branches, looking at Clown as he crossed the bridge leading to the island with the tree. Clown was beautiful. His hair was wet from his habitual wash after his practice, and his face was bare, the mask long abandoned when they were the only two people in the dimension.
Branzy could see the exact moment when Clown got a good look at him, because his lover’s brow furrowed, his easy smile falling away. He was always so expressive without his mask.
“Branzy?”
He couldn’t manage a smile, even a fake one, now that the game was up. He knew his emotional exhaustion would show through his voice, but he didn’t care. “Hi, Clown.”
“Branzy—” his voice was urgent, and he was already scanning the void with his eyes, posture gone tense in the way that meant he was preparing to move quickly— “what’s wrong? What’s happened—”
Branzy waved aimlessly, cutting Clown off. He was so quick to jump to the idea of a threat, the need to resolve issues quickly or be killed beaten into them by the server. But there was no threat, just Branzy’s failure of a brain creating problems where there should be only a much-needed break from it all. The switch from his bubbly self he had been projecting to the real hollowness he felt must be disorientating to Clown, and he hated himself a little for doing this to the man he loved.
He held out his hands, and Clown took them, helping him up. Clown made a soft noise of surprise when Branzy swayed forwards, knowing Clown would catch him. Branzy embraced Clown tightly, hiding his face in his neck and breathing in the smell of soap and Clown instead of the void, ignoring for a while Clown’s continued questions.
“—an you talk to me, Branzy Craft—”
Fine, he was fine, except he wasn’t. Clown’s words washed over him, and he heard them without listening.
“I’m just… not okay, Clown, and I can’t bring myself to do the things that would make it easier,” he admitted into his collarbone.
Clown fell quiet. Emotions outside thrill and satisfaction and fear were hard for them both, and Branzy hated he was making Clown deal with the mess in his head, when Clown could barely keep track of his own. Branzy knew him well enough to know Clown would tell him he’d rather be aware, that he would rather help, and that made this that much worse.
“What would make it easier?” He asked, soft in the way of someone who wanted so desperately to be gentle but didn’t quite know how.
Branzy was selfish, and the answer was more of Clown, more of his time and more of his attention, because it made him breathe easier. If he could have more of Clown, maybe he could get back more of himself.
“Just don’t leave me alone.” The void was crushing in its emptiness. “I feel more, more real if you’re here. Like I actually exist.”
“Branzy,” Clown murmured, and there was heartbreak in his voice. Branzy knew he would be blaming himself, and Branzy clutched him tighter, because it wasn’t his fault Branzy was messed up; Clown just alleviated some of the symptoms.
“Don’t let me do nothing—” he laughed briefly, without humor— “I’ll drive myself crazy. I don’t want to do anything, it all feels pointless, but I need to, because everything gets more foggy when I don’t.”
Clown’s fingers, gloveless, threaded through his hair, and he was likely reevaluating all the times Branzy said he was just thinking when he sat alone doing nothing. His nails scraped against Branzy’s scalp, and he focused on the feeling.
“I’m sorry,” Branzy muttered.
Clown hushed him. “No, Branzy, I’m sorry, I should have seen, I should have, I should have helped.”
“At least I know I’m still a good liar,” he said, but it was empty. He knew that the words were only hurting Clown more, but he didn’t know what to say.
Silence stretched between them, both drenched in guilt. It’s not your fault, Branzy though, squeezing tight. I’m sorry.
Clown paused his soothing motions in his hair for a second, then resumed them. “Do you know how to dance, Branzy Craft?”
Branzy was struck once again with how much he loved this man. Clown knew Branzy had reached his limit for the conversation, and was offering him an out that would both allow him to remain close to Clown and keep him from inactivity.
“Not well,” he answered.
A few moments later Branzy squeezed Clown again before letting go. Clown’s hand fell from his hair, and he tried not to miss it too much as he laced their fingers together.
Clown pulled him by the hand across the bridge, and Branzy drifted behind him, looking at the tree.
“There are two hundred and fifty-four leaves and eighty-seven flowers on the lowest branch of the tree,” Branzy informed him.
Clown paused for a second, his teeth worrying at his lip and concern in his eyes, but he didn’t press the way Branzy knew he wanted to. After a moment he just kept walking, guiding them through the messy tower and into the second, slightly smaller one. This was where Clown trained, and it was significantly more organized. Swords and axes gleamed on the wall, netherite and diamond and wood, the latter for sparing matches that Branzy always lost. It had been a while since Branzy had the energy for that.
They moved to the open space in the middle of the tower, and Branzy put his free hand on Clown’s shoulder. Clown’s hand landed on his waist, warm and steady.
They had no music, but Clown lead them steadily to an imagined beat, slow and sure. It was a familiar dance, the most basic of the few slow dances Branzy had learned once for a ball, and Branzy could mostly keep up.
He had to focus for the first few repetitions to keep track of which steps came next, and it was a wonderful distraction, even if his blunders were embarrassing. Once he was sure he had the pattern in his mind, he let himself look up from their feet into Clown’s eyes, which were watching him carefully.
“Hi, Clown,” he said softly.
“Hi, Branzy.”
Clown spun him, and Branzy let the world blur around him as he twirled. Left next, he reminded himself as he returned to Clown, then backwards. The repetitions were soothing. He was up, he was moving, he was close to Clown’s warmth, and some of the chill in his chest eased.
He didn’t know how long they spent there, talking about nothing and everything.
“I don’t think I’ll be back after season five,” Branzy told Clown as they stepped in sync.
Emotions flitted across Clown’s face, so easy to read.
“I love Lifesteal,” Branzy said, “but you know what it’s like. I don’t think I can do more than one more season.”
Clown undoubtedly knew the way Lifesteal ground people down, he’d been playing since the very first season, watching people join and leave. The way it didn’t let its players switch servers during seasons, the way it demanded constant vigilance, the way betrayals were constant and true trust was rare all wore on people.
Branzy loved the stakes, the thrill, the outlet for his bloodthirst, but it was wearing down on him, too.
“I’ll stay,” Clown said, and of course he would, because if Lifesteal was for anyone, it was for its deadliest player. “Not forever.”
There was a promise in those two words, a promise that Clown would find him, one day. They could find some other server to terrorize, or somewhere to rest.
“Where will you go?” Clown asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe Echocraft, maybe somewhere new. Rek’s leaving, too.”
Clown hummed. A smile crinkled the edge of his eyes, and he asked, “Want to do something faster?”
Trying any dance more difficult than their current one sounded like it wouldn’t end well for Branzy’s dignity, but, “sure, yeah.”
It didn't end well for his dignity at all. Clown tried to explain the steps, guiding Branzy through them slowly before doing them at speed, but it was no use.
“Sorry, sorry,” Branzy said as he stepped on Clown’s foot for what must have been the tenth time. His general lack of grace was not ideal, especially when the dance was fast enough it had to be instinctive based on how Clown pulled him.
Clown chuckled as they got back into position, starting again.
“Don’t you laugh at me, this was your idea!” Branzy said, then missed yet another step, because that sounded like him, and it wasn’t faked. When had he last sounded like that without it being a lie?
He looked at Clown, and Clown smiled uncertainty back at him, as if checking if that was real. Something sharp twisted in his chest at the fact he’d given Clown grounds to distrust him, but he shoved it away, smiling back softly. I’m not faking.
Eventually, the dancing devolved into them swaying together, his head against Clown’s chest, their arms wrapped around each other. Branzy felt more settled, more real, breathing in the familiar smell of Clown and soaking in his warmth, such a contrast from the stale staticky smell of the void and its endless chill.
Forward, backwards, forwards, backwards they shifted, quiet.
Branzy wasn’t fixed, but he wasn’t breaking further. Clown would help, as best he could. As long as he and Clown kept him from drifting too far again, maybe eventually Branzy would be good, not just better, maybe eventually he would pick up a book or go back to his blueprints.
For now he just drank in Clown’s warmth.