Chapter Text
Overall, it’s been a month since Clown’s started living with Branzy. He’s semi-upgraded from his makeshift bed on the couch to being housed in the small office room that’d been used for storage for quite a long time. Branzy has blessed him with a twin bed (He also contributed with the payment, he is not a moocher) and moved the majority of his personal belongings inside said room. It’s roomy enough for him alone, which he’s incredibly grateful for. A couple days ago, he went out by himself, not in costume, for the first time in a few weeks. Generally just decoration shopping, seeing as a plain grey room wouldn’t exactly match his vibes, nor does he want the itchy bedsheets that came with the twin bed.
Presently, his bedroom is a nice color palette consisting of red, black, and white. He has tarot card posters, ones that Branzy has personally complimented. He has a few more jester themed pieces of decor, scattered across a few shelves, and his bedside table. Comfortably enough, he has more than one blanket. Branzy comes and hangs out in his room every now and then, quietly chatting with him, occasionally laughing.
The daylight streams in from shudders that he installed. In some time, he’ll be going out with Branzy, get lunch. As friends, he reminds himself. Branzy had suggested the proposal late last night, while they were watching a cooking show. Branzy hasn’t exactly expanded on where they were gonna be going, but Clown shrugs on a crimson and black varsity jacket. He pulls on the same colored face mask he’d worn when they first bumped into each other, donning converse he’d spied on a few weeks ago while he was at the garage sale with Branzy. Layering a few necklaces. He may be living in his friend’s apartment rent free, but that doesn’t mean he can’t afford a nice outfit.
A knock on his door, which he can only assume is Branzy. He messes with his hair for a second before opening up his door, greeting the man himself. Branzy’s gone for a rather casual outfit, the same colors as his except he’s switched red out for purple. Unironically, they match.
“Branzy.” Clown addresses him, tilting his head as he leans on the doorframe he almost has to duck to get under. Branzy grins, looks him over, then starts tugging him around like a ragdoll.
“Let’s get going!” He pulls him along, barely giving him enough time to close his door before dragging him out the flat, pausing only to shut the door and lock it properly, rushing him to the elevator before it shuts. Branzy pats his pockets, making sure to check if he’d brought his belongings; keys, phone, wallet.
Clown last-minute braids his hair into one big braid, letting curtain bangs frame his face while the elevator dings. He follows after Branzy, like one big game of cat and mouse, except in a very open area, as Branzy dashes across the sidewalk (exaggerated), weaving through ill-fated person after person. Clown almost has sympathy for the people Branzy’s gonna end up accidentally wacking. The only time he gets the privilege of tranquility is when his hasty friend waits for him at the front of the cafe he supposes they’ll be eating at.
He lets Branzy enter the doors first, the chimes jingling as they cross the threshold, letting Clown finally get a breath in while he’s hit by a wave of air conditioning and the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Branzy slides into the small queue leading up to the counter while Clown ends up left finding a booth for the two of them. He slips through a few stray tables before seeing a booth right by the window, immediately taking his seat there. He drums the knuckles of his fingers across the sticky surface, nodding his head to the beat of the song that plays, some sort of alternative rock he’s heard a few times before. He finds himself humming slightly to the lyrics, eyes drifting from the posters on the tiled walls to the wall mounted television. It’s displaying the most recent headlines that’ve taken place in the villain’s district, a drama here and there, some minor crimes.
By the time Branzy gets back to him, the song has changed to some random Mariah Carey song. It almost paints Branzy as an angel descending to bless him with the news of what he’d ordered. He slithers into the seat in front of him, going on to list off the food he’d gotten for the two of them as Clown lays back. The music is dulled in his ears as Branzy continues on yapping. He registers as it switches to a song he recognizes. My Kind of Woman, by Mac Demarco. Beneath the face mask, he smiles as he watches. Branzy knows he’s barely listening, and yet he continues rambling, the topic switching every few minutes as he goes on a babbling spree.
He faintly hears Branzy’s name being called on as his eyes snap to the order counter, smiling at Clown before skedaddling over to grab their orders. Clown takes this time to spy on the news channel playing, watching as heroes gather and do interviews with the reporter. He wonders if Branzy would’ve been there, had he not been transferred to redstone.
The man he’s thinking about comes back, a tray of food and drinks in hand. Just from looking at it, he starts salivating. It’s not like the food at home isn’t good or yummy, it’s just refreshing to have a taste of things out there. He jumps up from his seat, helping Branzy put down the tray to avoid spillage, momentarily brushing their fingers together as he sets down their respective food items. Branzy looks up, though he doesn’t reciprocate his gaze. Clown sits back down with him in sync, picking up his fork.
He starts eating, picking at his food while he chews. “What’ve you been up to the past few weeks, Clown?” Branzy asks, speaking with his mouth full while he gestures with his spoon. Clown hums at the question, tilting his head as he thinks about it.
“I’ve made a deal with someone.” He swallows before speaking, unlike someone. Branzy perks up at this, raising his eyebrows. He cuts a piece of meat, eating it before explaining it more thoroughly. “With one of the bigger villains.” He nods.
Branzy hums, intrigued. “Who?” He questions, taking a sip of his cucumber smoothie. Clown moves his food around with his fork, debating whether it was worth it to tell a, quite frankly, big secret while in public.
He downs his iced water before answering. “The Glitch.” He observes as Branzy goes through the 5 stages of grief, face contorting from shock, intrigue, and back to disbelief. He takes another sip of his cucumber smoothie, nodding like an auntie at a family reunion who’s just caught the latest family gossip.
“How?” He whisper-shouts, swirling the smoothie around with his straw. “That’s a mafia leader.” Branzy looks around cautiously, but for his own and Clown’s sake, the other tables didn’t seem to be paying much attention to their conversation in particular. He looks at Clown with wide eyes, that makes Clown almost wanna giggle at his near well blind faith.
“Well, he came up to me first.” Clown grins, fixing his plate and making sure to clean up after himself. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, watching Branzy’s face contort into incredulity. “I simply accepted the deal.” He crumples the napkin, dropping it onto his finished plate.
“What was the deal even about?” Branzy slurps his smoothie loudly, hopefully drawing less attention to the discussion at hand.
Clown puts his face mask on, that had previously been discarded to actually eat. “Something about becoming an assassin for the mafia. Nothing big.” He murmurs nonchalantly. “He’ll be paying me handsomely. Isn’t that great?” He adds, gesticulating on the table. Branzy’s jaw drops even further, if that were even possible.
Branzy shuts his mouth thoughtfully, hesitating slightly as he asks. “What about the people you’ll be killing? Will there be a chance he’ll ask you to assassinate someone.. Important to you? Or important to me, at least?” He whispers concernedly, eyebrows furrowed.
“Don’t worry.” Clown dismisses, sighing quietly. “If he ever tries.. I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t kill someone without a good reason.” He allows, watching as tension melts from Branzy’s body with a heavy exhale of relief(?). Clown drums his fingers against the table, waiting as Branzy wraps up drinking his smoothie.
They pack up, and the moment they step foot out the premises, Clown’s face scrunches up at the stench of city air. Branzy chuckles quietly, and they walk side by side. Hero and villain, masks set aside for the time being. Branzy’s hand finds his, and he looks up from the ground, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t wanna get lost.” Branzy excuses, and Clown decides that’s a good enough justification.
Besides, it’s not inherently unpleasant.
On their walk home — which completely contrasts their journey to the cafe — Clown takes this time to recall his thoughts. He realizes in the moment that hand-holding might not be… friend behavior. Especially since he doesn’t believe the explanation Branzy gave to him for it. As much as he is skeptical, the action is somewhat comforting. It’s like he’s scratched an itch he never knew or really acknowledged he had. He doesn’t often have any intimate, per se, interactions in his lifetime. Not that this in particular was intimate. Just.. Unlike anything he’s ever felt before.
The sidewalks are all astir, the two weaving their ways through the crowds of people. Passing by the hero HQ, Branzy stops, telling him that he had something to leave in the post box. “May I come?” Clown’s mouth moves before he can stop it. Branzy thinks for a moment, before nodding and tugging him along with him, pulling him through the automatic sliding doors and grabbing an envelope from his jacket’s pocket.
A few heroes spot Branzy, waving at him or greeting him before eyeing Clown awkwardly. Without his jester attire, he feels a bit bare. Despite this, he doodles a small jester icon on the receipt Branzy gave him, folding it up and tearing off the extra bits of paper before ‘accidentally’ dropping it on the floor as they leave. Subtly, he feels pity for the poor janitor who’s gonna end up picking it up. “What’d you drop off?” Clown asks, hand back in his. Branzy explains a way too complex redstone contraption to him in excruciating detail, and Clown tunes out half way. He listens to Branzy ramble for the second time today, only paying attention to the way his voice shifts and how his free hand gestures at invisible objects.
Branzy notices how oddly quiet Clown’s gotten, deciding to question him. “What’cha gonna do when we get home?” He queries, rubbing the back of his hand to get his attention back on him. Clown purses his lips for a moment thoughtfully.
“Gotta meet Glitch again.” Clown supplies, squeezing Branzy’s hand back. Branzy hums, and the situation feels oddly domestic. Clown can’t say he’s thoroughly enjoying it, that would be embarrassing, but at the very least, he isn’t actively trying to pull away from the grasp. It’s a quiet buzz in his mind, like the bite of an ant except much, much more favorable. The thought crosses his mind for the nth time today, that they weren’t supposed to be this close. Friends weren’t supposed to hold each other’s hands.
At least, that’s what he’s heard.
For all he knows, it could be normal. It just feels wrong and right all at the same time, to have such an ‘intimate’ bond with someone who distinctly isn’t in his family tree, nor someone of the same sex. In his old household, his mother had told him, at the ripe age of eight, that there were no other genders that were ‘valid’ — in her words — nor were same sex relationships. Being enrolled into such firm and hateful beliefs at such a young age left him conflicted upon finding out that they were, in fact, as valid as any heterosexual couple or cisgender person.
He’s expressed this concern to his younger sister in the past, in the dark of their shared bedroom while their parents were off doing anything but parenting, and learning that she’d had the same beliefs as his own. Despite it being almost 2 years after the interaction, the memory lingers sometimes. He never truly knew if he were a boy, or a girl, or anything in between or outside of the box. He catches himself thinking about marriage, drifting between the lines of liking both men and women.
Clown snaps himself out of his stupor as Branzy pulls the door to their building, letting him enter first before following right after. He sighs, tilting his head as they enter the elevator. Branzy taps the button of their floor, tapping his shoe against the floor as they ascend floor after floor, finally dinging when they’ve reached their floor.
Clown follows slightly behind Branzy, entering their apartment after him and closing the door behind him. He watches as Branzy stretches, bee-lining for his room while Clown leisurely strides back to his own, pulling off his face mask with an exhale as he shrugs off the varsity jacket. He takes his hair out the braid he’d put it in, stealing a brush from his bedside table, then brushing his hair out.
He pulls off his shirt, grimacing as the small mirror on the wall shows off his scars. Clown huffs, hauling it off the wall and placing it face down as he dons his clown-ish garb.
Clipping on his mask, he peeks out his shudders, out into the open streets, bustling with the afternoon commuters. He tugs on his gloves before leaving the apartment, shutting his door as Branzy salutes him goodbye from his place on his desk, working on his laptop. He tilts his head in acknowledgement, smiling under the mask despite Branzy being unable to see it as he closes the front door. He breathes a sigh of relief at the empty corridor, before trekking up the stairs, running his hands along the railing as he scales the few floors it takes to reach the rooftop.
Clownpierce spies the rooftops for an unmistakable person; The Glitch. The wind rustles his fabrics as he summons his scythe from his shadow. Mentally, he laughs at Glitch, as he catches him standing almost obliviously, in his shadow. Though, presently, he snorts, then dashes from his building’s rooftop.
He lands on the building Glitch is on, twirling around his scythe as he approaches, like a predator stalking its prey. Slowly, Glitch turns around, hands clasped together like some kind of movie villain. Clownpierce tilts his head, raising his blade slightly before Glitch pushes it back down with his finger. “Why have you called me here?” Clown huffs, scrutinizing The Glitch.
“What? Can I not just speak with my new favorite hire?” The Glitch laughs, and Clownpierce spins his scythe out of his loose grasp, pointing it at his neck. Glitch has an amused smile on his face, almost daring him to do it. He grunts, dissolving his scythe back into the shadows. “Well,” Glitch starts. “Really, if you must know..”
“This will be your first mission.” He pulls out a folder, on the front, is the image of a man — well, villain. Clownpierce runs his finger across the name below the picture.
“He,” Glitch points at the picture. “Is the ‘emperor’ so to say, of the wealthiest district in all of Leven Stelen.” He explains. “Countless deaths he’s staged, and however many bodyguards he may have. Are you truly up for the challenge, Clownpierce?”
He glares down at the picture of the man, Monarch.
“A cakewalk.” He murmurs, taking the folder.