Chapter Text
The air is electric with plumes of hot sand and the wild arms of a thousand cheering spectators. Rhythmic is the stomping of muddy boots and clinking of beer bottles. They form a livid circle swaddled around the arena, like a preying viper—stalking the gladiators’ every tense move.
Now.
Clownpierce grins at the people and waves, drinking in those cries. They want to see action. Didn’t come here for nothing, right? Turning back to tease his pitiful opponent, a small man in rags with a mouse-like mug, he kicks up a cloud of gravel with his shoe and spins his scythe in one fluid flick. This pit is his home. He was raised to brawl—to reign as the champion of these arid dunes.
A killing machine wrapped in black and red, that’s what he truly is.
Anybody who has at least a cent’s bounty over their head is tossed for him to dispose of. Anybody who gaslit themself into believing they can cheat death. Whatever situation, their knees meet the ground, their eyes meet Clown’s mask, and his scythe slices their heads clean off. With or without some dawdling at the crowd’s request.
To make the fight fair, both gladiators are allowed to take with them one weapon. Clown’s opponent chose a flail. It quivers through the swimming sky as he clumsily swings it. He appears to have pissed his pants in the process though. Clown can’t hold back a giggle.
The guy squeals shrilly, his bulbous eyes widening in fear, like a rodent’s, and he falls back onto the sand, shielding his face with an open palm. Pathetic. Why did they send Clown of all people for this? That bum isn’t even worth the effort of a slow death!
Clown drags his eyes through hundred anticipating men, and decides that he’d still put on a little show. Just for them. He blows a kiss to those blundering idiots. He steps idly toward his shivering opponent, and poises his beautiful, sun-kissed blade. The rat-man whimpers.
“Impressed with my stunning weapon?” Clown croons, leaning forward and pressing his foot onto the man’s arm. The crunch of bone snapping like a splinter consumes the pit. “Well,” Clown continues, “let me tell you a secret.” He kicks the flailing man and finally plows his scythe through that matted chest.
God, that scream. It’s like poison eating his nerves.
“It was crafted, quite lovingly by my loyal weaponsmith. Now do you know his name?” he asks, toying with the engravings on its ebony handle.
Sticky blood pools at his feet, mixing into foul sludge. His opponent is immobile on the ground. His eyes are glazed and his tongue is lolling comically from his toothless maw. Dead, and didn’t even bother to put up a fight. The crowd explodes over a coward.
“No?” Clown chuckles. “Well, you should. His name is Branzy, and mind you, he’s amazing.”
He slinks into the shadows of his room, away from the sight of spectators, and sets down his scythe. Sighing, he wipes the puddle of sweat pooling at his chest. He should change. It’s getting dark.
They say the clown entertains by ridiculing himself—by making others feel as if they lounge on a sparkling golden high horse while cackling at some clueless fool without any repercussions.
In the scorching heat, he slips off his pale mask and brushes a gloved hand through his damp curls. It stops at the two tiny horns jutting from his head.
Shower first, think later. He strips off his vest and leathers and gear, now clad only in his black undershirt and pants. His ankles are showing already—
A bubbly voice rings from behind him.
“Hey babe!”
Clown turns, only now noticing Branzy swinging his legs at the edge of his bed. Clown’s bed. In his room, which is locked. Well, it’s supposed to be. Branzy leans back and plops onto the mattress.
Tempting—
But he has a better question. “Why are you in my room? And how?” Deep in his frigid, lifeless heart, Clown suspects Branzy is a better lock-picker than he lets on.
“Oh!” Branzy tilts his head innocently, fidgeting with the strap of his toolbelt. “I uh…” Back and forth goes the buckle, clinking softly in the flickering amber candlelight. “Uh…I came here right after the battle, yes! I was waiting for you.”
“Sure…” Clown sits beside him, his gaze melting into Branzy’s wide, lavender purple eyes. “Y’know, Branzy, I think this scythe is overqualified for its job,” he admits.
“Oh?”
Clown shrugs. “I’ve not been using it to its full potential. Feels like a little waste of your hard work. It’s truly eye-catching.”
“Well,” Branzy hums, rouge splattering his cheeks, “you’ve really yet to face a worthy competitor, somebody who matches your deadliness! Even if they do, which they won’t, of course, you’ll still win. Also, about that, I—I worked really hard on this, and I’m so, so happy you love it! Don’t worry about my effort going to waste—”
All plans of showering leave Clown’s mind as he lowers his gaze to the scythe—its polished steel, perfect shape, tailored to his grip and height and style. He knows that Branzy, observant Branzy, learned over time the shape of Clown’s palm and the curves of his claws as they held hands. It is flawless. The pure black ebony and jagged swirls of silver embellishments climbing up the grip ground him to the battle. It even has tiny gems embedded in its sides, sending a wave of crimson sparkles whenever it hits the light. Bright and brutal. It can slice through flesh, through bone, through souls—an elegant agent of destruction. Branzy had truly thought of everything.
“It’s alright, Branzy.”
Clown looks back at the beaming man, who is obviously proud of his creation. His expression softens, and he carefully folds himself down to lay beside him, drinking the flowery smell of his clothes and the gleam of his heart-stopping purple irises. Clown’s chest constricts as warmth consumes his body. His weaponsmith—his best friend—his…lover. Clown has turned to him in defeat, in misery, in joy and confusion and utter helplessness. Branzy is constantly by his side, crafting him machines of destruction that he drags into the pit and uses to take countless lives.
Tonight, Clown can do more than take—
He nuzzles Branzy’s shoulder, steadying himself against the continuous rise and fall of his chest, and feels Branzy’s hands stroke the small of his back with his calloused pads. The sensation tickles and burns pleasantly—Clown relaxes and lets himself get carried away by the silence.
Are Clown’s hands still covered in crusted blood? No. He doused them with water earlier, and rubbed down the hilt and blade of his scythe as well as he possibly could. Then why are his hands so achingly drenched? Why has the metallic stench of blood found its home in his nose and the sound of their shrieks ricocheting in his brain? It’s a feeling he pushes away every night.
“Clown…you seem so tired lately,” Branzy whispers.
Clown huffs, a grin spreading on his face. “Forget about me. You, Branzy, seem so handsome, my precious weaponsmith.”
“Ugh…I sometimes forget you’re such a flirt.”
“Hmm.”