Chapter Text
Clown’s first thought is this is a mistake.
His second thought is but I think it might be worth it.
Branzy’s hand is warm in his, their palms barely separated by Clown’s thin gloves. He meets Clown’s eyes with something that isn’t quite fear. Dried rivulets of blood trace his throat, the only evidence of a wound already sealed over. Nevertheless, it makes his heart jump, and he promises silently to kill Subz the next time he sees him.
“Well,” Branzy says quietly, “what do you say we get out of here? Before they come find us, and, uh–” He winces.
“Yeah,” he agrees, making no move to let go. Branzy eyes their hands for a moment, glancing up to flash Clown a dazzling smile that is so painfully real it makes his breath catch.
A moment later, he’s being tugged along, out of the ashes of their success, tugged along by the only man he thinks he’d ever die for.
It’s terrifying, that thought. I would die for him. Trust isn’t something given easily here, especially someone with a reputation like his. In all honesty, he has no idea how Branzy managed to sneak his way into Clown’s heart. In the beginning, he had stepped lightly, always aware for hidden tripwires and cleverly concealed pressure plates. Much to his surprise, there had never been any; just Branzy. And maybe he’s the trap in himself. Maybe this is a long con– make the server monster fall in love with you, skip away with his heart (and hearts) in hand. Maybe Clown is a fool.
Because he has fallen in love with Branzy; that much is clear. He is horribly, desperately infatuated with a traitor that refuses to betray him. It’s dangerous. It’s addicting. Clown doesn’t think he wants it any other way.
The thin wood of his mask slips as they come to a jolting stop, and he automatically raises a hand to push it back into place. He blinks.
“Branzy.”
“Yeah?” Leaves rustle around them.
“Branzy, why are we in the middle of a forest?”
“Oh, well,” Branzy flushes, the moonlight turning him washed-out silver, “I figured it’s not safe to go home just yet–”
Home. The word rattles in Clown’s head.
“--so, uh, I have an old base out here? It’s not much, just a hole in the ground, really, but it might work, right?” Branzy stops abruptly, peering at him through the bright moonlight.
Clown assumes he wants an answer. “Yeah, that’ll be fine for hiding out for a bit–”
“Clown.” He stops, tilting his head at Branzy.
“Clown, you’re hurt.” The concern in the other’s voice startles him, and he pauses for a moment, before glancing down.
There is a black patch on his already-black sleeve, slowly spreading. It’s painful, yes, but nothing he can’t handle. Branzy is already taking his hand, though, pulling him far more gently, while Clown concentrates on anything but their nearness.
The base Branzy leads him to really is just a hole in the ground, but it has food and resources and a bed (only one, but that’s a problem for later.) As Branzy lights the torches scattered on the walls, Clown seats himself on a stray chest. He can’t help but feel a little useless as Branzy rummages around, opening chests at random, but it’s not his place, so he stays quiet.
Finally, Branzy emerges from a chest with a roll of off-white bandages and a strip of spare cloth.
“I don’t have any antiseptic, so we’ll just have to make do,” he explains, like it makes perfect sense. Clown just blinks at him, though he knows Branzy can’t see his face behind the mask.
“What?” he says for his benefit.
“Your arm.” Branzy says simply. Clown inhales, imagining poison, a splash potion, a sword at his throat before he can blink–
And then he thinks of Branzy, armorless, back turned, so openly trusting it made his heart break a little–
Trust for trust.
“Okay,” he murmurs, and is proud that his voice doesn’t tremble. Branzy sits on another chest in front of him, and Clown busies himself rolling up his sleeve.
The wound is straight, but deep, and he worries for a moment the slash might have hit an artery, but the blood flow is slow and steady, rolling down his arm and beading at his elbow. Branzy hisses in sympathy, pressing a wadded bit of cloth to the arm to stem the bleeding.
Clown allows Branzy to work, silent and still. He just watches as Branzy cleans the cut out as best he can with a wet piece of fabric, and distantly reminds himself to find antiseptic as soon as possible. Soon enough, the wound is wrapped in a neat layer of bandages, and Clown slowly eases his sleeve back over it.
“Thanks,” he says, strangely breathless.
“No problem.” Branzy replies on rote, before he sits up, as if he’s just remembered something.
“You lost a heart, didn’t you?”
“You lost some too,” Clown tells him, but Branzy waves him off dismissively.
“I got them back. Anyways, I–” he cuts himself off, swallows, “I feel bad.”
Why? Clown wants to ask. He knew what he was getting into. He doesn’t get the chance before Branzy rolls up his own sleeve, pressing two fingers to the freshly-inked outline of a heart.
“Branzy, wait–” he tries to say, before Branzy’s fingers glow with an otherworldly light, life itself encapsulated. He presses those fingers to Clown’s sleeve, and he can feel the searing heat of a new heart, painful for only a moment.
He processes for a moment, before laughing softly. Leave it to Branzy to give him a heart without him even realizing until it was already done. Branzy laughs too, the sound echoing around the cramped stone cavern.
Thank you, Clown wants to say, and I love you, did you know that?
He doesn’t. He’s smarter than that.