Chapter Text
A heavy sigh escaped the lips of a young entertainer (read: clown) in training. He carefully put the finishing touches of his cartoonish skull-themed makeup, as he was required to do for every mentoring session. He didn’t have the money for a real mentor, but as was true of most things, with clown mentors, you got what you paid for. And Caliborn was getting Gamzee Makara’s services for free, so he couldn’t really complain. Except he did complain, a lot. Semantics.
He ran a hand over his forehead, pushing his mess of forest green hair back to survey his work. He deemed it worthy, let his hair fall back over his forehead and shook it out, though that didn’t really affect the scruffiness. He donned his signature scowl, sulking out of the bathroom and his grungy apartment entirely. It was only a few blocks to Gamzee’s apartment, so usually Caliborn walked, but today he decided to grab his bike just to make it quicker.
It only took five minutes, maybe less, for Caliborn to arrive. He didn’t even get the chance to knock on the door before it was open and there was Gamzee, “face on” as the older clown would say, smiling down at Caliborn whimsically. And like an asshole. Always like a fucking asshole.
“I got some good motherfuckin’ news for my all up and coming brother.” The words came out smooth, carefree. It grated on Caliborn like shaving a carrot, but he had learned to pick his battles with the more experienced man. Instead of arguing, Caliborn simply raised one eyebrow in a questioning look. He didn’t dare open his mouth, knowing a long string of degrading profanities and insults was all that would spill out, and that would probably ruin his chances of getting this supposed “good motherfuckin’ news [sic]”. The young clown was learning to both entertain brats and hold his tongue when the situation called for it.
Gamzee’s shit-eating grin only widened at the implied question. Caliborn resisted the urge to sneer. “Your training is motherfuckin’ complete, bro! Ain’t that just the motherfuckin’ bitchtits?”
Caliborn narrowed his eyes, somewhat skeptical. If this was a trick, it certainly wouldn’t be the first one Gamzee had played on him, but it would definitely take the cake for the most cruel. Usually Gamzee’s “jokes” were light-hearted and in good fun. The much taller man seemed sincere, though, and Caliborn let the words sink in. He’d been going to mentoring sessions with Gamzee for nearly a year, and if the clown was serious, it was finally over. Finally. A sense of relief seemed to wash over Caliborn as he followed Gamzee into the familiar living room.
He sat down on the couch, an almost-smile twitching at the corner of his lips. Gamzee went to the kitchen to retrieve some form of celebratory brownies and “wicked elixir”, which was actually just a disgusting off-brand soda with weird flavors. His feeling of relief was short-lived, because the second Gamzee was out of the room, an overwhelming feeling of panic flooded Caliborn’s brain activity, shutting out all else. What was he going to do next? His training was complete. He no longer had to show up for mentoring sessions. He had learned how to be a clown, but exactly how was he supposed to go about performing his services? How did he use his newfound skills to make money? He had always thought that he would complete his training, start working as a clown, help pay for his sister’s leukemia treatment and buy whatever the fuck he wanted with what was left over… But he’d never considered the transition from “training” to “working”.
When Gamzee re-entered the room, Caliborn shot him a panicked look, though he didn’t necessarily intend to. The man smiled and placed the two bottles of grape Faygo along with a plate of brownies on the table. “You gotta get your relax on, li’l bro,” he said carelessly. “What’s all up and motherfuckin’ bothering you?” The question seemed innocent, genuine even, but Caliborn’s eyes narrowed. That fucker knew exactly what was wrong. He probably even planned it. He offered to train Caliborn as a clown instead of doing the smart thing and getting a minimum wage job, knowing that in the end Caliborn wouldn’t be able to actually find work. He knew. He wanted this to happen.
“You know exactly what’s fucking bothering me, you clowny fuck! Now that my training’s done, I won’t be able to get a job, and I won’t be able to find anyone who needs a goddamn clown! And I won’t be able to pay for my dumb bitch of a sister’s medical bills, and I’ll just be working that fucking minimum wage job I could have had a fucking year ago, you fucking asshole!”
The rant ended with a noise of simple frustration, followed by a few deep breaths. Gamzee put his hands up, as though in surrender, and laughed. That fucking douche had the gumption to laugh right now. Caliborn could barely believe it.
“Calm the motherfuck down, my brother,” Gamzee said in a very relaxed voice for the emergency situation. “Why do you think I still motherfuckin’ got you all up in my house? Me and you, we’re gonna make some motherfuckin’ miracles, just you wait and motherfuckin’ see my friend. Your training is over, but I still got some motherfuckin’ teacherly advice all up in this bitch. Be patient, bro.”
Caliborn relaxed a little at the statement, leaning his elbows on his knees. He sighed heavily, reaching out to take one of the brownies from the table. He didn’t know what it was about Gamzee’s brownies -- and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know -- but they always seemed to help him relax. He nibbled at it aimlessly, saying nothing for a few moments and staring off into space.
“If you say so,” was all he could muster. As much verbal abuse as he’d doled out to Gamzee, Caliborn had never apologized. Not once. The whimsical asshole didn’t deserve it. Sometimes Caliborn thought Gamzee purposefully pushed his buttons, just to see how far he could take it. Heaving another slightly annoyed sigh, the clown-no-longer-in-training took a bite of the brownie that amounted to over half of it.
The silence that followed was oddly comfortable and lasted until Caliborn had finished his brownie and gulped down half the 24oz bottle of grape Faygo. In that space of time, Gamzee hadn’t touched his Faygo or the brownies, but that was par for the course when the older was trying to appear “wise” or whatever. After an amount of time that felt appropriate, Caliborn looked up from the knot in the wooden table he’d been staring intently at. “Gamzee,” he said almost quietly -- except not really. Quiet wasn’t really a setting on Caliborn’s internal volume control.
“Yeah?” responded the clown quizzically.
“Are you going to fucking tell me what your teacherly advice is or not? Jesus fuck,” Caliborn spat. He wasn’t going to sit here eating potentially drugged brownies and drinking disgusting off-brand soda all day.
“Oh, right, a brother nearly motherfuckin’ forgot. Sorry bro, I spaced out on that one.” Gamzee smiled, standing up from his place on the bright purple recliner. He motioned for Caliborn to follow, leading him to a separate room with several giant bean bag chairs. The green-haired kid could only assume this was Gamzee’s room, but he’d never been in it before.
“Well motherfuckin’ sit down, yo,” Gamzee laughed, making a sweeping gesture at the several multicolored chairs.
Caliborn complied, choosing a bright red one and flopping onto it, not exactly happy with the way he sunk into it uncomfortably. But he supposed he could get used to it, should he ever have a bean bag chair of his own. If bean bag chairs weren’t fucking stupid. Gamzee was digging around behind the biggest of the chairs, and finally he found what he was looking for after several minutes.
His former teacher dragged a bright purple chair next to Caliborn, handing the found object -- a laptop, to be exact -- over to the younger boy. “Now all a motherfucker’s gotta do is send a motherfuckin’ ad all up into cyber space,” Gamzee mused.
Caliborn rolled his eyes, taking a moment to translate Gamzee’s stupid way of speaking, and opened the laptop. “Where the fuck am I supposed to post an ad?” he asked, shooting a glare Gamzee’s way.
It took three hours. There were several “debates”, and blood, tears and sweat went into the ad on both of their ends. But finally, finally the ad was done and posted. The pair of clowns looked it over, each with a stifled sense of pride. The final result read:
ENTERTAINER FOR ALL AGES.
BALLOON ANIMALS, JUGGLING, UNICYCLE RIDING, JOKES.
CONTACT CALIBORN.
(555) 555 0666
[email protected]