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When the weather warms, Branzy finds himself standing on the edge of a forest wearing a mix of camouflage and black tactical gear. It’s too early to be too hot yet, thankfully, so he’s not yet sweating. When Ferre puts a semi-automatic gun in his arms and instructs him how to hold it, though, he knows he’ll be drenched by the time they go home.
Next to him, watching, Kab snickers, “It’s a paintball gun, not a rocket launcher.”
“What’s the difference?” Branzy quips back. He sticks his tongue out at her before trying to return his attention to Ferre’s instructions.
Keep the barrel pointed down until firing, stay aware of how much ammunition is in the magazine, dominant hand goes there, look down the scope to fire, and that kind of stuff. It’s two teams of three: Ash, Branzy, Clown and Ferre, Leo, Kab, and Branzy is the new guy — just because it makes sense doesn’t mean he has to like it — the only one who’s never actually used a gun before. Sure, he did fire that shotgun when he was a kid, that one time, but it hadn’t been loaded, so it hardly counted.
“Remind me again what to do if I get hurt?” Branzy asks when Ferre finishes his spiel.
“If you’re hurt, you keep going. If you’re injured, stay on the ground. Play dead,” Ferre says simply. “Make sense?”
Not really. “Yup!” He tugs at his vest, straightening it, and rocks back and forth on his feet. “Go easy on me, right?”
Ferre smiles as he shakes his head. “Never,” He replies with far too much amusement. Kab snickers again next to them.
Branzy pouts. “I’m starting to feel like this is a test, and not a bonding activity.” As if they don’t all know this is absolutely a test. A safe, controlled environment to see exactly what he knows, what he can do, how his mind works.
Ever cheeky, Kab sticks out her tongue. “What’s the difference?”
For the first round, Team Dragon — Ash chose their team name — is meant to siege a castle-adult sized-playground-structure guarded by Team Lion — Leo chose their team name. Win conditions are vague, in Branzy’s opinion, but he figures he can figure it out along the way. Before they start, when each team is in position, they make a game plan. Clown, unsurprisingly, is a force to be reckoned with, and is put on distraction duty; Ash is quick on his feet and a damn good shot too, so he’s going to provide backup and assist in the diversion; Branzy is going to be the infiltrator, sneaking around the back or side and coming up from their blindspot-
“Wait, what? Me?” Branzy interrupts. “I’ve never done this before, as I’ve said many times by now, there’s no way you guys missed that, I just- I dunno that I’m the best option to do the main attack!” His voice is pitching upwards, giving away his anxiety.
Clown puts a hand on Branzy’s back, his body language betraying everything the mask hides. “That’s exactly why you’re going to do it,” He says with finality. There’s something he’s not saying, something just below the surface of his words, that Branzy isn’t privy to, that’s asking Branzy to trust him on this. It’s not an order, per say, but there’s a similar confidence in his capabilities.
Ash makes a dramatically retching noise. They both ignore him.
Branzy gulps. “Yeah, obviously.” He tries very hard to bring his voice back down to normal. “Right, sorry, silly question.”
Clown doesn’t get to reply, because the starting whistle cuts through the air like a shockwave. A few birds fly away from their perch in a tree and the air goes still.
They each lock eyes with each other for a moment, silently nodding in agreement. They break away from their position and head towards the “castle.”
(Kab is the one who notices him, who’s making plenty of noise for someone trying his best to not get spotted. With Clown and Ash at the front, it seems inevitable that Branzy’s going to be up to something. She perches herself by the back door, perfectly positioned to shoot him the second he opens it. Above her, Ferre and Leo are having fun with their human target practice.
She is not, however, expecting Branzy to heave himself in through the window. Worse even, he does manage to be cool about it! For all of 6 seconds, but still!
The window about a meter and a half tall, so, not absurd to climb through, but that doesn’t mean she’s expecting the way he pulls himself up and onto the ledge with one leg hooked over and the other behind like it’s the fucking men’s gymnastics finals. Hell, she barely has time to process what happened in her periphery before there’s paint slamming into her ribs like, well, bullets.
Kab stumbles, breathless and shocked and impressed . And then Branzy tries to swing his other leg over the ledge to fully enter the room and promptly overbalances. The badass moment ends with his very manly yelp.)
After three L’s, Team Dragon manages to score their first W. No one blames Branzy for those losses, but they were definitely his fault. But that’s okay, he’s still learning. And learning fast too, since their win is also Branzy’s fault! Ferre even compliments his quick thinking, and he feels way too proud about it.
Even better, they win just as the sun hits its peak and the air becomes sweltering with the death of the morning breeze, just as their clothes start to become stiff and stuck with sweat. It’s the perfect time to call it quits for the day.
And, since it’s the early afternoon, and there’s 4 other people in the car, they successfully peer pressure Clown into stopping to get fast food.
Leo is the first one to get dropped off. Ferre is second. And then they loop around to Leo’s again because he forgot his earbuds in the backseat. Then it’s Ash and Kab — they live on the same street, but Kab insists Clown drive the extra 100 meters to drop her off “separately.”
Branzy’s apartment is the last stop before Clown goes home. At the stoplight right before, he invites Clown to join him. So, they pull into a parking spot instead — he still refuses to trust the valet — and go inside together.
Amusingly, the implications of Branzy suggesting they shower together goes over both of their heads until they’re actually standing in the shower naked together. They get a good, tired giggle out of that while they help pry dried paint from each other’s hair.
After the shower, when Branzy is sliding boxers on, there’s a twinge of pain on his back. A half second later, he registers Clown is behind him, poking him. He spins around, mouth open and ready to complain.
Clown beats him to it by lightly pressing his thumb into blossoming purple just to the left of his sternum. The sharp ache makes him lean away from the touch.
“Whatcha doin’?” Branzy asks, unsure what’s happening. His legs demand he sit down finally, but he’s glued to the spot.
“If it were a real fight, with real guns, each bruise would be a hole,” Clown says — rather, murmurs. There’s the slightest pinch between his brows, a disapproving quirk in his lips. There’s no mask here for him to hide behind.
“If it were a real fight,” Branzy counters, “Kab wouldn’t have shot me a gazillion times in each leg for fun.” When Clown doesn’t answer, his eyes drift away from his face but catch on the handful of splotches of color on Clown’s own body — less in quantity, sure, but still. “Besides… could say the same thing about you.” To make his point, he pokes the wine colored mark in the junction of his stomach and hip.
The quirk in his lips curls upward and the crease of his forehead lessen now into a facsimile of bashfulness. “You’re right, Branzycraft.” He sighs and cradles his hips. “You’re always right.”
He can’t be bothered to care about the goofy smile on his own face, even when it makes kissing somewhat difficult.
The test results arrive when plum bruises have faded into a barely noticeable tawny flaxen, in the form of Ferre whisking Branzy away on a lazy Sunday with the promise of fun and free food. He only agrees as long as the food comes first.
What he couldn’t have known when he climbed into the backseat of the armored car with Ferre, was that this would not be fun for long; it would be the start of his training — working out and practicing and learning all sorts of ways to maim someone; that this would become a regular thing — getting swept away to shooting ranges and gyms and dojos with Ferre for entire afternoons.
That being said, there is a special give and take to what Branzy can tolerate.
That first Sunday, when he’s dropped off, he declares that he’s never answering the door for Ferre again and doesn’t even glance back when he marches towards the front doors. He is left feeling like shit: sweaty in places he hasn’t been since middle school and fighting to stay awake long enough to at least feed himself. The next day, after he’s processed everything, he even rants to Clown when they get to eat lunch together. To Clowns credit, he is sympathetic, even though there’s no doubt he’s at least aware of what Ferre’s plans were.
Next Sunday, Branzy is tricked into opening the door and bribed away with cash. He doesn’t need the money, but it’s the principle of the matter! He’s not going through all that again without some kind of compensation. Still, at the end of the day, he feels like he deserves more than what he got. He put up with Ferre’s eagle-eyes watching him for hours , pointing out every discrepancy in his form and subsequent errors. Worse is that he’s right every time.
The following Sunday, Branzy is too tired, still somehow sore from the week before, to fight or argue or avoid. That being said, even if he did have more energy, this would still probably be his Plan B — Plan A having been just, not opening the door. Quite simply, he goes limp. Even when Ferre carries him to the car and buckles him in — swearing and grumbling the whole time, by the way — Branzy only moves his body enough to make snarky comments. They never make it inside the shooting range, getting into a loud argument right in the parking lot with Branzy his back on the warm blacktop. Hours are still wasted, but better like that than by working himself to the point of nausea.
After that, Ferre does not show up at his door when Sunday rolls around again. Instead, it’s Kaboodle.
(“Congrats, dude, heard you broke Branzy… How’d you even do that?”
“I think he broke me . If he wasn’t Clown’s pet, I’d have killed him.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a human shaped mule!”
“Heh, stubborn or an ass?”
“Both! Fucking, both!
“Jeez, Ferre, man… I get stubborn but if he was actually being a jackass, you had to have done something to cause that. Whether his reaction was warranted, something triggered that. Branzy’s not usually a jerk.”
“I was mentoring him. Teaching him how to fight. Exactly what I said.”
“Have you talked to Clown?”
“No. And he hasn’t either, because Clown would’ve said something to me, and he hasn’t.”
“Hmm, weird… Mind if I have a go? Maybe he’ll tell me what's up, if you’re not there.”
“Be my guest.”)
Kaboodle isn’t as good as Ferre, in any of the fighting skills they’re training Branzy in, but that’s okay. According to her, Branzy’s so shit that it doesn’t even matter. When that makes Branzy glare at her because, as if he’s not doing his goddamn best, she pats his arm and adds a few compliments about how he’s less shit than before. It does soothe the annoyance enough that it won’t fester for the rest of the day.
And, that’s the difference, Branzy realizes while tucking himself into bed that night.
Ferre’s simple “good” and “just like that” feel impersonal compared to Kab’s high fives and laughter.
Ferre’s sharp criticism and diligent corrections feel cold whereas Kab lets him fuck up until he gets it himself or asks for help.
Ferre’s bantering feels condescending, outmaneuvering Branzy and giving him the upper hand to outwit him too, whilst Kab’s words feel like normal conversations that happen to occur during practice.
On the fifth Sunday, Ferre is back. Branzy doesn’t try to hide his disappointment. “I don’t understand what the difference is between how Kaboodle and I treat you,” Ferre says, still standing in his front door, “Our methods are the same. But, you feel there is one anyway — and that’s okay. She suggested these, to make it easier. For us.” And he’s holding a kiddy sticker pad booklet in one hand — an elephant with a good job sign, smiley flowers, stars of assorted colors, a butterfly with A+ on its wings — and an unopened set of kids hand stamps in the other — a rainbow with a pot of gold, a whale blowing water from its blowhole, a dog sitting with a bone in its mouth, a lip print like a kiss.
It works. Stupidly, geniusly, it works , and when Branzy goes home at the end of the day, he’s laughing and covered in stamps on his skin, most of them smudged, and stickers on his clothes, half of them peeling off already.
Both fortunately and unfortunately, it isn’t until the eighth Sunday that Clown stops by for the first time. He walks into the dojo just in time to see Ferre flip Branzy over his shoulder onto his back. By the time he’s reached the edge of the mat, Ferre is kneeling down and stamping an inky lipstick-print onto his forearm. It isn’t until Clown is standing beside them, that he can see how Branzy’s face has no less than five childish pictures ink-printed on it.
“The lipstick means less shit than last time,” Branzy says before Clown can even formulate his question. “Ladybug means I landed a hit. Rainbow is no comment, which is a good thing, of course. Paw print is because I got run over by an invisible dog.”
“Uh-huh.” Clown’s clearly so very impressed. “An invisible dog?”
“Yup.” Branzy sits up in time to see Clown look at Ferre and Ferre nod seriously. A gold star sticker falls off of his sweat-slick leg.
“Right,” Clown says slowly. “You never give me stamps or stickers when we spar.”
“You’ve never asked,” Ferre replies easily. Clowns subsequent sputtering objections are semi-overshadowed by how Branzy cracks up laughing.
At the end of the fifteenth week, when summer is at its hottest, Branzy “graduates” from Ferre’s training program. His “diploma” is the biggest sticker they could find. His final grade is “good enough to fight off street thugs and not much more” followed by a grumbled “I mean, really, it’s almost impressive how unnatural you are at fighting, most people figure out some kind of rhythm or style that works for them, but not you, somehow.”
Branzy shakes his hand like it’s the highest honor. “Jack of all trades is master of none, though oftentimes better than master of one.”
“Just be ‘master of multiple trades.’”
“I am, fighting’s just not one of ‘em.”
“Skill issue.”
“Well, I think at least some of it is hereditary.”
“Skill issues and mommy issues and daddy issues.”
“Gee, thanks, Ferre buddy.”
Since learning what the sight of blood does to Branzy, Clown’s stopped rushing to clean himself up on the few, random days Branzy is already at his place when he gets back from doing some important, dirty work. Sometimes, it feels like he takes his sweet time, too, grabbing a snack from the cupboard with blood dried under his fingernails and along his hairline while Branzy watches from the couch with a growing hunger of his own.
Before, Clown would keep his coat on and beeline for the bathroom, saying something about feeling filthy and needing to shower at that exact moment, before he could even greet him properly.
Now, Clown hangs his coat up and pretends not to notice how Branzy ogles his viscera-ruined shirt before meandering over to kiss him once in greeting and then heading towards the bathroom. As if I wouldn’t be more than happy to lick him clean . Wait, what? Who said- or, thought that? Certainly not Branzy, that’d be gross ! His mouth waters anyway.
As the bathroom door closes, his mind wanders. He thinks about being able to watch the blood seep into fabric in real time, drip with his own eyes, splatter across both of their clothes. Clown’s let him watch before, sure, but only when the victim was already planned to be killed. And he’s never been allowed to participate. He knows days like this are meetings-turned-fights and information gathering via knife and sending messages.
Once, when he’d worked up the courage to ask him why, Clown had said, I’m the only one who gets to see you like that and live; anyone else is unworthy of you. And fuck, if that doesn’t make him lighthearted just thinking about. He’s still not sure how he didn’t get a spontaneous nosebleed when Clown said that to him.
When the sound of water hitting tile stops, Branzy goes into the bedroom. The bed glows with the evening sunlight from the windows, and he shucks off his shirt — wouldn’t wanna overheat anymore than he already is. He lies on the bed on his stomach, facing the bathroom door, with his feet kicked up and ankles crossed, and waits. It gives him the illusion of composure at a glance, though any keen eye would notice his blush and blown pupils and fidget-bitten lips. Still, he wants to make a good case.
That desire is exactly why he keeps his mouth shut for all of about 1.5 seconds from the moment the bathroom door swings open. Clown’s eyes have only just landed on him, haven't even gotten to process his presence yet, when he starts talking.
“I want to join you,” he blurts, ever the king of elegance. “Next time you go do whatever, I want to join you.”
Clown mulls the words over, shifting the angle of his body away from the wardrobe and towards him. “What?”
Branzy watches his eyes dart across his body, and he realizes he’s thrown him off. He wasn’t expecting this . Which, that’s fair, since Branzy usually is more of an act-first, talk-second kind of guy when it comes to things he wants. But he really wants this. “I asked if I can join you next time?” Branzy bites his lip on purpose this time, canine tooth catching on a particularly raw spot.
Dazed is probably the best way to describe how he looks at him. “I- right, I’m sure I can find out the next time there’s an execution needed, and bring you along.”
Branzy frowns. “I don’t wanna just watch, though,” he lets the words tumble out on the wave of a whine, “I want to join you, Clown.”
“I, I don’t know-”
“Please?” He looks up at him through his lashes, holds that eye contact even when he walks closer. Even when he’s so close that he has to crane his neck, lest he get distracted by a certain happy trail less than a foot away from his face. “It can be anyone, I’m not picky.”
“They’d have to die afterwards,” Clown says, low and a bit rough. He moves a hand to cup Branzy’s cheek, which he leans into with a soft exhale.
“Good.” He knows he’s won already purely based on the subtle ways Clown’s face shifts, but he’s not done! He’s still having fun! “Say, would they have to die if we plucked out their eyes first?”
Clown doesn’t reply verbally, just gives a little hum of consideration. He brushes his thumb over his bottom lip and just rests it there.
So, Branzy continues, “Or, oh, we could drip acid in their eyes. A few drops in each eye, just enough to dissolve all the squishy stuff. We could make out while they scream, either way.”
“Does that mean you would want them to live?” He says finally. Fuck, he’s using that danger-voice .
“I just like having options,” he says, trying to keep his body and voice completely still and steady and casual. Lying on his stomach was such a mistake.
“Options,” Clown echoes. He starts to say something else but Branzy chooses that moment to tilt his head the half-inch and take the tip of his thumb into his mouth. He releases their tense eye contact to let his eyes slide shut. Above him, Clown makes a small, strangled noise.
Branzy absolutely won that little game, and then did a victory lap just ‘cause. Now, it’s time for the celebratory parade and fireworks show.
(The night before the big day, he dreams of cobblestone, shotgun shells, and stains that won’t come out. It’s a good dream, nonetheless, and he wakes up refreshed and happy .)
Soon enough, Clown’s putting the car in park on a dusty road miles from civilization. They’re at “a discrete location, where no one will hear a thing.” This apparently translates to “the building won’t have AC,” which should be criminal. The saving grace is that it’s after sunset. Still, no AC in August? C’mon!
Branzy’s gripes with the temperature are pushed aside when he enters the building — it’s unclear if it was once a house or a barn or the remnants of some sort of store. It’s old enough to be a safety hazard come wintertime, though. Which, again, he doesn’t linger on those thoughts.
Because, in front of him, there is a person with a bag over their head tied to a table. A few feet to the right is a rolling table with a plethora of instruments. Everything is illuminated by faux-candlelight.
When he takes a step further into the room, something slides incrementally under his boot. He drags his eyes down to the floor, where there is a trail of flower petals that make a heart around their victim. It’s morbidly sweet. He pivots to kiss Clown, trying not to shake out of his arms with how he’s bouncing excitedly.
“You had so many interesting ideas, the other night,” Clown murmurs to him when they part. “Figured you must’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
Branzy giggles, high and nervous-excited. “Wanna know a secret?” He asks, tossing his shoulder bag by the wall. “When I caught you, y’know, removing that guy's fingers?” He purrs, “I was… disappointed, that you didn’t do more.”
Breathing the same air, embraced, Branzy can feel how Clown shivers. “Now's your chance, then,” he pauses to kiss where cheek meets jaw, “Show me exactly how to… please you.”
Electricity goes down his spine and he inhales sharply. Focus. He forces himself to lean back, pouting. “You’re distracting me.”
Clown laughs warmly. “I know, but you look so pretty when you blush like that.”
Branzy fans his face. “Save all this sweet talk for later, mister.” He swats his arm. “I have a new toy to play with!” A sweeping gesture towards the person on the table. Given they have yet to react to anything, Branzy assumes they were drugged. That’s fine, he can wake them up.
(As it turns out, acid to the eyes works great at waking someone up from a drugged sleep.)
Branzy tries to ease himself into violence, really. It doesn’t work well, but he does try. There’s that, at least. There’s still an irrational part of him that worries Clown will find this, find him unattractive after tonight, but that insecurity is pushed to the deepest recesses of his mind by the fact Clown looks almost hypnotized. There’s adoration and awe written across his face, so intense that the surgical masks they both wear isn’t remotely enough to contain it. And he only looks away when Branzy wants to show him something — such as pointing out how he carved a crude, little jester head into their thigh.
If he had to pinpoint the misstep that sent him sliding, it’d have to be the moment he opted for a larger blade. The scalpel was nice, good for detail work, but he thought he was ready for more. It is that more that has his rational mind falling back ass first, overtaken by the tsunami a decade and a half in the making.
He surfs that wave for as long as it’s there. Time becomes secondary, Clown becomes secondary. All he can hear is the garbled noises of pain of the person under him, all he can see is planes of ashen skin and red — slick and flowing, squirming and fleshy, soft and important — so much so that he finds himself actually surprised when he first glimpses white bone. It sends a bubble of laughter up and out of his mouth, at some point. Maybe multiple bubbles.
Branzy keeps the blade clear of arteries right up until the end. Right before their heart stops, he wants to cut as many as he can and fucking bathe in it. Wouldn’t that be fun!
Flesh caves to his touch like butter, and it’s euphoric to watch. He finds himself returning to legs multiple times just to cut smooth, parallel lines over and over, before returning back to the good stuff in the upper half of the body.
After another trip down to slice nicely over a calf, he returns to disappointment. The heart is twitching but not beating. He didn’t get to end it with a big hurrah. He got distracted making fucking lines. In some last ditch effort, he stabs straight through their radial artery. There’s a splatter, sure, but it could hardly be called a proper blood squirt.
Suddenly, Branzy wants to cry. It’s his first time doing something like this — something real and organized and meaningful and not just a quick fix in the forest — and he finished early. The disappointment makes his shoulders shake. A hand lands between his shoulders and he shrugs it off.
Just as fast, he sheds the sadness for frustration. The tears that fall are angry . It can’t be said that it’s Branzy’s fault they died too fast. That wouldn’t be fair to say at all. It takes two to tango- or, two to torture. For all he knows, they had a weak heart or were on blood-thinners or were a fucking hemophiliac. It’s not Branzy’s fault!
A hand grabs his wrist gently, which he tolerates. Patience goes to the wind, though, when another hand tries to remove the knife from him. He inhales sharply. Fuck it , it’s not his fault they died early, and even if it is, so what? He’s not fucking done. It’s not over until he says it is.
He twists out of the grip and clutches the knife handle with both hands, blade angled downwards. There’s a half second of consideration before he finds his target. Despite the lack of eyes and the lack of blood, the person on the table is looking at him. Mocking him, it feels like. Like they can fucking talk!
Branzy relishes in the crack that fills the room, fills his head, as he brings the knife down into their face. It’s not over, because he hasn’t said it is yet, so he keeps going. Skin caves and folds over as it's forced into cartilage and muscle over and over. Bits of bone rise to the surface like wood chips, shredded by the repeated burrowing of metal. The motion is similar to churning, the knife never going far up before he plunges it back down. Their face is just a cavity of pink butter and red buttermilk. Not that he cares.
What he does care about, is that the knife breaks. The front inch and a half stay embedded while the other 80% remain in his hand.
…Alright, message heard. It’s over now.
But only because the way his vision is spinning is a vibe-killer. Not because his toy finished early nor because the universe broke his instrument of choice. Those factors are relevant to his decision. Promise.
A cool hand is pressed to his cheek and another wraps around his waist. He’s guided backwards and down, down, down, until he can’t see what’s on the table anymore. He looks around for something else to focus on as the cool hand gently peels the mask from his mouth and nose. It’s thrown aside.
Instead of following that, his eyes lock onto the hand. He admires slender fingers and hand and wrist, lean forearm, bony elbow, lean bicep, broad shoulders, stubble-dotted Adam's apple, pretty pink lips- oh.
Branzy’s vision expands enough to process his boyfriend's face, and it’s enough of a shock to his system that it gives his rational mind just enough leeway to take back the driver’s seat.
He takes stock of his body. His chest jumps unevenly from the staccato of his lungs. His cheeks are wet and his eyes are so heavy they sting. His throat is uncomfortably dry. His shoulders ache like nothing else, his biceps burn like he pulled both muscles, and his hands are shaking.
Oh, and everything feels slippery. Which, yeah, that’s probably from the abundance of blood.
Branzy refocuses his eyes to Clown again. He doesn’t have the energy to decipher the look on his face so he commits the expression to memory for later. Raised eyebrows but a creased forehead. Wide eyes and blown pupils. Nostrils that flare with each slow breath — and his chest rises and falls in the same pattern. Pursed lips attempt to hide how his tongue sits between top and bottom incisors. He isn’t grinding his teeth but his jaw is still tense.
He kinda looks like a startled cartoon frog, and that pulls something like a giggle up from his sandpaper throat.
Eyebrows somehow go higher as his mouth parts and his tongue is freed. His forehead starts to smooth out, too. “Something funny?” He says, gentle and quiet in their little bubble.
“Lil bit,” Branzy croaks. Who’s the frog now? “Tired, mostly.”
Clown hums, “I’m gonna carry you to the car.” He shifts one arm to loop under Branzy’s knees. Branzy wraps his arms around his neck and holds on. He can’t help how he startles and squeaks when he actually rises to his feet.
Branzy opens his mouth to remind Clown of his bag by the door, but he’s already using his foot to bring it high enough for Branzy to grab. It’s an impressive display of strength and flexibility. He’ll swoon over it later.
After a slept-through car ride to Clown’s, a slow bath, being hand-fed grapes and cheese cubes, and a long night’s rest — in that order — Branzy will decode the look on Clown’s face.
Staring at the ceiling, Branzy will realize the reason the expression on Clown’s face looked so strange was because his emotions were conflicting, contradictory.
There was concern. Undoubtedly. Branzy had pushed himself to his absolute limit, overwhelmed by years of emotion and craving, so it really isn’t a surprise he was worried. Any sane person would be.
There was reverence. That’s the trickier one. It’s more than attraction or adoration or love or lust. He looked at him with awe, like he couldn’t believe his eyes, like Branzy was the brightest star in the sky. No ones ever looked at him like that before and he really doesn’t know how to feel about it, but his instincts scream to squirm away from the attention. No one is meant to see him lose control like that.
Any recognition of his misdeeds feels bad . It’s not that he feels bad, it’s that he feels bad that he doesn’t feel bad. The reality is, he feels amazing! It was great to get out so much pent up emotion. Already, he wants to do it again. But that’s wrong, too risky. At least if he felt bad, there could be some kind of repentance, some kind of forgiveness from some of the consequences. If there was regret, he could at least garner some pity.
All it takes is one person bearing witness and his life is over.
Well…
Branzy drags himself out of bed finally. His legs wobble from the suddenness of it, but he carries on with a single-minded focus. He stops in the threshold of the kitchen and stares.
Clown is wearing that stupid “make tender love to the cook” apron. His hair is frizzy from drying pressed into pillows. He’s cooking eggs on the stove top, spatula in one hand and the pan handle in the other. He’s got music playing faintly from a speaker — some video game ambience that makes the scene feel like a movie in a dead-wife-flashback way. That is to say, the pastoral instrumentals combined with the vision before him are painfully domestic, achingly cheesy, sentimental to the point of creating a core memory.
It gets worse when Clown flips an egg and looks over at him with unfiltered fondness. “Hungry?”
Branzy can only nod dumbly. The juxtaposition of the night before and this morning after are making him dizzy. Maybe that’s the lingering dehydration though.
While Clown plates the eggs, he gathers himself enough to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. Without a word or hesitation, Clown snatches it from him the second the fridge is shut and cracks the cap for him. And then hands it back and returns to the counter to pull warm bread from the toaster.
Branzy does not blush at such a simple gesture.
Two plates are assembled by Clown while Branzy takes baby-sips of the cold water. It feels amazing but he doesn’t want to risk making himself sick from chugging it.
It isn’t until the food is right in front of him does he realize what Clown actually made: a breakfast sandwich composed of fried egg and black forest ham and cheddar cheese in between two soft, warm slices of sourdough.
It isn’t until the food is right in front of him that he processes how fucking hungry he is. It’s nauseating. The kind of hunger that makes it feel like the stomach is already self-cannibalizing, that leads to arms wrapped around oneself and curled up in the fetal position, that makes food paradoxically unappetizing to even think about.
It isn’t until the food is right in front of him when the song ends and goes to the next one. Dramatic, operettic boss music fills the room, the medium-low volume being the only thing to spare their ears and glassware. Suddenly, the vibe in the room is thrown into a dungeon; they’ll have to fight their way out, face down some challenge — like somehow he’s meant to battle this sandwich. With how his stomach churns, it doesn’t feel far off. The final boss: Breakfast Sandwich.
Both of them burst into laughter at the violent tone shift, having conjured similar mental images.
“How do you feel, by the way?” Clown asks a couple hours later when Branzy is changing into proper clothes for the day. He’s on his side, braced on one elbow that’s connected the hand his head rests in the palm of. It creates a triangle window view to the sleep-rumpled pillows behind him.
“Good,” Branzy says innocently. Some part of him still recoils and twists, even though Clown already knows, has already seen.
Clown sighs ever so softly. “I’m gonna need more than that, Branzycraft.”
He doesn’t wanna, is the thing. “You’re acting like it was- like it’s- I dunno, like we tried out a new kink or something, rather than…” …Branzy enthusiastically butchering someone alive .
“Well, it kinda was, wasn’t it?” Clown says it slowly, the barest hint of confusion in his ever-steady voice.
That is enough to convince Branzy to look at him properly, not just through the pillow window. “No,” is what he says first, firm and instinctual. But then he wavers, eyes sliding to the side as his cheeks warm. “Well, not exactly? I dunno, it’s- it’s weird.”
Clown hums, unconvinced. Branzy fidgets with the button down in hand, keeping his eyes aimed on the wall as he tries not to melt. When it’s clear Branzy’s not going to elaborate on his own, Clown pushes to sit up properly. “My perspective…” He begins, scooting to sit more on the edge of the bed, “is that you definitely like it when I’m committing terrible, terrible crimes — you like how I look covered in someone else’s blood, you’ve told me that before.”
Branzy makes an aborted gesture, feeling like he’s melting a little. He hates this part, the part where they talk about shit. It’s the worst!
Undeterred by the silence, he continues, “I assumed it was some kind of kink or fetish, seeing as how you practically try to jump me afterwards. And last night, when the roles were reversed and I was watching, I didn’t care much about what you were doing, to be honest. But you-” a pause, “I don’t know how to describe how you looked. The entire time, my eyes were on you. I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.”
Nevermind, melting a lot!
“It was like a frenzy.” Branzy can’t even consider looking at him, confident he will see the reverence-concern written across his face again. He knows he can’t handle that. “And then when it died, you… seemed to lose it even more. You were shaking, Branzy, I don’t know if you remember, you seemed out of it.”
That much is true, at least. He was out of it, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Unfortunately, Clown seems to be done talking. Which means the bastard is perfectly content to let the ballooning silence grow until Branzy has to pop it.
“What do you want me to say.” It comes out high and harsh and wrong and- and he considers just fleeing the apartment. Pants be damned. But, he knows that by the time he gets to the elevator, Clown will have the entire building on lockdown. Still, it’s a tempting idea; he could hide under the stairwell, buy himself an hour at least.
“Ideally, you’d talk to me,” Clown says slowly. His calmness is almost painful, tone balanced and unaffected, as if he’s not asking Branzy to confess all of his sins, to flay himself to the bone.
He’s like a hare disguised as a rabbit. The differences are not obvious enough to anyone who doesn’t know better, assuming he’s just eccentric, unique. But the tiger has him cornered now, and he can run and hide, but he will be found. He is a hare amongst rabbits, and the tiger can smell the difference. If he dies here, the tiger will tell the rest of rabbit society how he’s a fraud, but if he lives, the tiger might tell everyone anyway out of spite or revenge. He can only delay the conversation, never avoid it. Not anymore. The tiger has caught his scent and it’s too late for him, he’s done for either way-
The tiger is standing in front of him now, gently prying linen from his white-knuckled paws. The tiger’s manicured claws are kept out of the way as he replaces the fabric with his own paw. The other paw wraps around his head and scratches his scalp soothingly. His face brushes the coarse fur of the tiger’s chest as he is guided to the crook of his neck.
“I got you, Branzy, it’s okay, breathe with me,” the tiger purrs in his ear.
Branzy has never smoked or had nicotine in his life, but he’s struck with the desire for a cigarette. That shit’s supposed to calm nerves right? He pushes that thought aside in favor of trying to match Clown’s breathing. Rhythmic inhales and exhales help slow his jackrabbit-heart. It soothes him better than a hypothetical cigarette could anyway.
Clown slides his hand down Branzy’s face until he’s cupping his cheek. It’s easy enough to guide his head up until they can press their foreheads together. Branzy squeezes his hand — a silent confirmation of his groundedness.
“We have to talk about this,” Clown whispers the words like they pain him. Branzy inhales sharply, but he continues before he can spiral again. “It doesn’t have to be right now… but, if you want to come to work with me, we have to talk about this at some point. That’s twice now you’ve sent yourself into a- a- uh, fucking, a tizzy , over something like this.”
Branzy snorts a little. Tizzy is an understatement.
Clown just wanted to see some hint of a smile on his face, and it worked. “Can we agree to that?”
Branzy meets his eyes finally, and manages the smallest, weakest of nods. Delay the conversation, never avoid it .
What’s worse: peeling the bandaid inch by painful inch, or ripping it and his skin off in one agonizing blow?
Dichotomies are nice and all, but binary limitations aren’t really Branzy’s style. He will let himself sweat the bandaid off. No intervention required. Fuck if it’s convenient.
Branzy lets natural order take its course. When he’s struck with the words to articulate how he’s feeling, how he’s felt , he says it. When the wave of emotions crashes back into his chest, he closes his mouth and forces himself to think about something else.
The first time it happens is less than an hour after Branzy’s “tizzy” in the bedroom. He’s resigned himself, by then, to staying at Clown’s longer than either of them intended, not that Clown seems to mind one bit. They’re on the couch, legs tangled together, flicking through one of their shows, trying to remember which episode they left off on. Usually, they’re at Branzy’s place, using Branzy’s account. Clown is trying to remind him what happened in episode 4 because, allegedly, they already watched it.
“No one knows,” Branzy says, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Clown pouts, not quite with the program yet. “I literally know, I’m explaining it to you right now. It’s not some mystery, what happens. I’m literally telling you, because we watched it.”
“No, I- that’s why I freaked out, because no one knows.” He doesn’t need to turn his head to know Clown’s posture and expression have shifted. “I lost control of myself, which I swore to never let happen again, and thinking too hard about it freaks me out. I know it sounds crazy but-”
“You’re not crazy,” Clown whispers and, fuck.
Branzy’s mouth goes dry and he wants to pull at his own hair until this feeling goes away. Instead, he swipes the remote. “Y’know what? I think you’re right; I do kinda remember this episode. We can start the next one.” He clicks play while Clown is still processing everything.
“Branzy,” He speaks softly, cupping his cheek so he can’t look away. “Branzy-”
“Play with my hair?” Branzy’s walls have already gone back up, the opportunity missed and moment passed.
Clown holds eye contact through the show’s intro before caving. Gazes return to the television and deft fingers snake into white hair.
The second time is the next day. It is much less tense but probably deals more psychological damage to Clown. Branzy’s on the phone with Rek, chatting about nothing in particular, while Clown is on a work call in the other room.
Rek says something — the specifics hardly matter — that compels Branzy to stand up and walk towards the office door. He hums along as his best friend continues.
“Hey, Rek? One second, okay?” He says with a smile. He lowers his phone to mute himself and knocks once. He pauses for a half second and then opens the door enough to poke his head in.
Clown is hunched over a folder, chewing on the end of a cheap ballpoint. He is glancing up, tilting the receiver away and cocking his head. A silent question.
It doesn’t even register in his mind what his expression is as Branzy says, softly as to not interrupt the very important call anymore than he has to, “I’ve never even told Rek, by the way, how I can get.”
Branzy watches Clown’s brain lag and stutter but doesn’t stick around for a reply or reaction. He slips back into the hall, closing the door behind him. He unmutes as he walks back towards the armchair.
“Sorry about that, I’m back,” He says, chipper as ever. “Last thing you said was, how the stray stole your bagel.”
Unbeknownst to Branzy — due to the fact he’s trying to think about the situation as little as possible — after the third time, Clown starts a journal to document what he knows. The gaps between being spoon-fed information are impossible to predict and he knows remembering everything will only become more difficult over time.
He buys the first notebook he sees at the corner store: it’s wide rule, dark blue, printed to look like sequins, and the size of an average paperback novel. On the second, third, fourth, and fifth pages, preserving the first to avoid any smearing of pencil or pen on the inside cover, he writes fake shopping lists. He dates the pages to within the last few weeks.
When he flips to the sixth page, he’s struck with how immensely silly he must look. Safety , he tells himself, it’s for safety. Few will think twice about a cheap notebook, and those who would will be deterred by the shopping lists. It’s precautions he hasn’t taken since middle school, back when he kept a diary. Back when he was first grasping the concept of a papertrail.
But, this is different. This is the kind of information that he’s not sure he can remember, that he knows he won't be able to reflect objectively on, that he doesn’t want to risk existing eternally digitally.
So, childish notebook it is.
When the real list, the important list, starts, Clown does a simple, hollow circle bullet before writing out the fragment of information he knows. When that’s written, he goes down a line and writes the approximate date that he was told that information indented from the line above.
Two lines down from that is where he writes any thoughts he has, if there are any, prefaced by simple dash bullets.
After that’s done, he flips to the second to last page — again, to prevent smudging on the inside cover — and creates a rudimentary timeline. It’s small things, like the time of year — “last day of summer in autumn” — and ages — “tween/teen, before high school?” It’s not much, but by the end, Clown feels like he has a modicum more control of the situation.
Because, that’s the biggest issue, isn’t it?
The situation is out of control. Out of anyone’s control, right now. Branzy drops factoids and shuts down emotionally seconds later, and Clown just has to sit with it, sit on what he knows and never bring it up, lest Branzy start to freak out. Again.
This isn’t what he meant when they said they need to talk about it.
Then again, Clown’s pretty sure articulating that sentiment will result in them not talking about it at all. At least microdosed he’s learning something .
It feels like taking care of an injured wild animal. Just when he gets him to figuratively eat from his hand, he’s running away and hiding. And then Clown has to help him unhook his protracted claws from the couch because he can’t bring himself to relax.
And he can’t even talk to anyone about it either. Can’t ask the metaphorical veterinarian, Rek, for advice or risk the figurative animal control officer, Ferre, deciding to dig into the issue. It’s just him and the skeletons in Branzy’s closet and claws that won’t retract on their own.
It occurs to Clown one night, sleep-delirious and alone in bed, that maybe all this stress Branzy’s swallowed for so long is why his hair went white so young. He pries himself from the comfy-cozy bed to add that to the bottom of the latest entry in the journal.
In the morning, he’ll snicker and strikethrough that ridiculous idea.
The “loss of self control” suddenly makes sense, Clown realizes on New Years Eve. Branzy had said it before, in so many ways — “frenzy” like a shark, “mania” like outdated psychology practices, or even the one time he likened it to a “berserker's rage.” But there’s something about New Years Eve, about dancing and drinking amongst Branzy’s friends at a strikingly normal house party, that it actually clicks.
Branzy is around Clown’s friends and those he considers family more than Clown’s around his, so he doesn’t really notice any subtleties of his behavior. He’s too used to any purposeful quirks to realize they’re purposeful at all.
Now that he’s noticed, he decides to commit himself to noticing as many of the differences as he can. All the small things Branzy chooses to do, wedged between Jay and Souli on the couch, that he wouldn’t do at home. The way he laughs is slightly different, which teasing remarks he chooses to try and rebuke, and the slight irregularities in his body language and posture.
Part of it is their company, Clown knows. The comfort amongst his own friends is different from the comfort of Clown’s, different history and different dynamics and different people.
Part of it is subconscious, the small ways he reflects the personalities of those around him to melt into the group best, taking on a familiar role without even noticing.
Part of it is calculated, too, how he plays up certain traits to get what he wants and all but buries other parts of himself. The longer the night stretches, the more sure of this Clown becomes. He had assumed Branzy’s invisible mask was reserved for unfamiliar environments, galas and formal dinners. Only now is he realizing his mistake, realizing that Branzy has a mask for every situation. That the idea of leaving a mask behind is what truly scares Branzy.
At some point in Branzy’s life, it was made clear to him that being himself, truly himself, would never be congruent with happiness. It hits Clown like a ton of bricks and he nearly drops the glass in his hand. He’s gotta fix that, as soon as possible.
To his own surprise, realizing he’s never seen the Real Branzy fully and willingly doesn’t scare him — he’s seen glimpses and watched him from behind and at distances, but never had the chance to catch his gaze, to admire the differences.
Perhaps it’s because he’d be a hypocrite to hate another person’s mask.
Perhaps it’s because the glances he has gotten only have only enticed him more.
Perhaps it’s because it’s Branzy.
Does the reason really matter?
(Seconds before midnight, when Branzy tugs him around the corner into a bubble of pseudo-privacy and knocks his porcelain mask off-kilter just enough to kiss him, Clown decides the answer to that is no .)
After welcoming the New Year in the best way possible, Clown can’t bring himself to look away from Branzy, to be apart from him longer than a minute. By that point in the waning party, Branzy’s friends have long since realized the way he leers silently is his way of swooning — which, it's nice they don’t think he’s a creep — and they’re not shy about teasing the pair.
It flusters Branzy, the way Skip calls out Clown’s “puppyish” behavior. It gets worse when Rek walks in and groans at the sight of them. He laments to the group that this is Clown on his best behavior, that the duo only gets worse from here, PDA-wise.
Branzy sputters and makes exactly one attempt to defend them, to defend Clown’s honor, but it’s cut short when Clown deliberately slides from his perch on the armrest straight into Branzy’s lap too quick to be stopped.
The clinginess lingers the whole drive home — Rek blatantly heckles them the whole time — and results in Clown staying the night at Branzy’s. Branzy accuses him of drinking too much as they change clothes.
While his tongue is too heavy to use, that had started the moment they entered the party, and was therefore not as a result of anything consumed. Even if that wasn’t the case, though, he isn’t sure how he’d explain that he feels more drunk on Branzy than anything else.
So, Clown pouts and tucks himself against his back, making sure he can feel the exaggerated, dissatisfied expression he’s contorted his face into. It must work because Branzy laughs.
(Long after Branzy starts drooling onto the pillows, Clown is still awake. Even with burning eyes, he can’t look away. His blinks have slowed steadily over the last however-long, but have yet to cease entirely. He’s too busy to sleep, frankly. He’s got the world’s most intricate art to look at, to decode and dissect.
If Clown steals one or two impulsive, little kisses against slightly chapped, parted lips, that’s hardly anyone’s business.)