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Sometimes, in the dream he doesn't dare breathe aloud, Clown thinks he fell in love.
To the earth embracing him and the stars' sense of direction, a weighted comfort, he'll close his eyes and settle and rest. At peace. Memories of the times before, before all the wars and the betrayals. Before the bloodshed and his lust for power. When death is all in good fun and camaraderie won't be used against him.
To the push and pull, the glimmer in one's eyes, the trust laid bare. Of white hair, amethyst eyes, and the back of another player. His hopes and dreams all harnessed into one person, weak in all the ways that truly matter.
Love, like trust, is heavy.
A burden. A liability that his treacherous heart knows better than to freely give.
(He was never built for it, even then, even before everything. It'll never settle over his shoulders neatly, the buzz under his skin reminds him near constantly. Tension lines his entire body, always cautious, poised to hurt and scrutinize and doubt— to love, to trust, will mean to break him whole.)
A weakness that will surely get him killed, in Lifesteal.
But beneath the stars, in the relative safety of their shared casino, he's allowed this momentary relief.
(It won't last forever, he knows with a certainty, to have the luxury to close his eyes and truly dream. But when he turns and sees Branzy taking guard, watching over him, he thinks he's allowed just this once to trust.)
In a dream Clown doesn't tell anyone, he lays his head over Branzy's lap. He doesn't tell anyone this small, good moment he wished for. Because he's embarrassed.
Clown is embarrassed by its tenderness and impossibility.
In a position of weakness, he surrenders his fate entirely to Branzy. Trust exchanged between the player most of the server wants dead and the server's famous traitor.
He bares his throat. (It'll be so easy to slice, to take his heart and run.)
He closes his eyes. (He'll be at a disadvantage, he's never practiced fighting without his sight—)
He slows his breathing, deliberately and meticulously, lulling Branzy (himself?) into a false sense of comfort, security.
The thick air in their base is heavier than usual.
Clown measures his breaths, makes sure the pace is normal enough.
(Like Clownpierce willingly laying down akin to a mutt to be put down, at a disadvantage and holding said position, is an everyday occurence.)
He breathes in, four beats. Holds, four beats. Out,
Branzy leans over — not with a knife to his bare throat, not with tipped arrows centered on his uncovered eyes, not with hands that strangle him — and brushes the hair out of his eyes, gentle with a calloused hand that is intimately aware of bloodshed.
Clown's eyes open in an instant, bright reds fluttering around and searching for anything on Branzy's face, anything to paint him disingenuous.
(He pretends his heart isn't jack-hammering under his ribcage, reaching out for Branzy. Pretends that his excuse wasn't flawed and half-hearted.)
His purple eyes soften, his smile curls. "Go to sleep, Clown. We'll be fine, " Branzy assures him. As if his word is fact. As if this momentary lapse of judgement won't get them both killed. As if he's sure he can protect the both of them against players leagues ahead of him in terms of PvP skills.
'I love you.'
The words get stuck in his throat. Clown must look stupid, he's sure. The deadliest player: wide-eyed, gaping, turning into mush by some words.
'I love you, Branzycraft,' he wants to say. The words burn his throat worse than lava. There's a sting in his eyes, his throat closes up, he's still not breathing. He still hasn't responded.
Branzy laughs, and everything's alright in the world.
(Maybe not, Clown guesses, but for a moment it feels like the world had grinded to a halt; yearning to hear his bell chime giggles, light as the wind and tinged with syrup-like fondness.)
Clown isn't built for trust. But maybe, just maybe, he'll let it break him whole if it's Branzy that'll pick up the leftover pieces of him and rebuild him whole.
In a dream-like reality he shares with another, Clown puts his head on Branzy's lap and warmth blooms beneath his skin. He doesn't tell anyone about this small, good moment; holding it close to his chest like a heart.
Under the blanket of peace surrounding them, gifted by the moonlit night, Clown knows he fell in love.